Wrong Bed, Right Girl

by Rebecca Brooks

  “He must think you can do it if he gave you the role,” he said.

  “I guess. But I bombed the audition for the show last year—an audition I know he and I both thought I’d do better at. I can tell he hasn’t forgotten.”

  Talia choking under pressure? Now that was unexpected.

  “What, did you fall off the stage?” he asked.

  She laughed. “No, that came later.”

  He put the spatula down. “I was kidding.”

  She curtseyed. Which didn’t look like the easiest thing to do in that clinging red dress, but she pulled it off anyway. Seeing her with her hair perfectly done and draping over her shoulder, her eyes glittery with the wine, her curves in that dress—

  Don’t burn the fucking salmon, dude. Although he knew she caught the quirk of his lips into a smile before he turned away.

  Talia put down her glass. “There was this guy.”

  He turned back, eyebrow raised. Go on.

  “I’m the first to admit it was stupid. But he’d gotten some bad news—professionally. Not a medical disaster or anything. Not even that bad, but at the time he was devastated. So I blew off other stuff I should have been doing to prepare for the audition, I barely got any sleep, and I just…” She shrugged ruefully. “I knew the steps. But knowing the steps isn’t enough, you know? I knew even then that something was missing. I’ve been trying to get it back ever since.”

  “Hang on.” He waved the spatula at her. “Did you bomb it, or did you just not nail it?”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “One sucks a lot worse than the other.”

  Talia shrugged. “They both end with me as the understudy. But it was the right casting call, Reed. Stacey was gorgeous in this role. I’m playing catch-up, and how do I know I’m not going to have the same problem again? Not because of a guy,” she added quickly. “But the other stuff.”

  Reed let his head rock from side to side, thinking through all this new information. “What happened to him?”

  “Do you see a boyfriend stepping in to give me a place to stay when my apartment turns out to be the target of some freaky drug gang who’s bad enough to make Stacey give up everything she had?”

  “Point taken.”

  “We broke up a week after the audition of doom.”

  “Ouch.” He winced.

  “Yeah, ouch.”

  There was a pause.

  “How long had you two been dating?” he asked. “The end of a long relationship can really mess with your head.” He knew more than he wanted to about that.

  She mumbled something into her glass.

  “I didn’t catch that,” he said.

  “I said, three weeks.”

  Talia managed to knock back what looked like about four gulps of wine in one swallow.

  Rice. He definitely needed to check the rice. He had plenty of practice keeping a poker face, but he didn’t think he could look at her right now. He’d break it.

  “I know,” Talia said. “It’s—”

  “None of my business,” he said evenly.

  “Stupid,” she said over him. “It was stupid. He brought me flowers weeks later, but I hate getting flowers.”

  “And you think I’m the asshole? Who the hell hates getting flowers?”

  She bit her bottom lip, which temporarily shut his brain off for a moment. “I get them all the time. Which sounds so snooty, but it starts to feel like a default thing. Anyone who knows me would know that after a big performance, my dream is for someone to bring me a slice of chocolate cake. I don’t have to find a vase for cake, or try to keep it alive for more than an hour. And it’s not the kind of thing I can have whenever I want when I’m rehearsing, so I really, really miss it.”

  He laughed. “I’ll remember that for your show.” He turned the heat off under the rice, fluffed it, and let it sit. “Anyway, we all do stupid stuff like that sometimes,” he added quickly, to cover for the fact that he’d just basically offered to bring her flowers. Or cake. Or whatever.

  “Then tell me your story about being a dumbass for what turned out to definitely not be love,” she said.

  Great, he’d walked into that one. Now he needed to walk the fuck back.

  “I’m never a dumbass,” he said. “And I never give anyone flowers.”

  Talia laughed in his face. Then her expression softened. “You know,” she said thoughtfully. “I actually believe that. Both those things,” she added, in case he’d missed her point.

  Naturally, he was lying through his teeth. He’d done plenty of stupid things in his day. He wasn’t sure whether watching helplessly as Lisa walked out on him was the big one. Or whether the truly stupid move came from letting her stay with him for so long when he knew she expected him to move up enough to take a desk job, management, something with more prestige, better pay. And none of the risk.

  He just hadn’t known it was coming so soon. Or that when push came to shove, he’d be able to look into her tear-stained eyes and not choose her.

  “I’m no chef, but are you sure you want the green beans to look like that?”

  Reed snapped back to attention. It had to be bad if even Talia noticed he was threatening to overcook them. He turned off the heat, drained them, shocked them in ice water, and put them back in the pan. Olive oil, lemon, salt, pepper—he looked at Talia and decided from her look that she approved of his efforts to, if not wow her, then at least present something other than the NYC special: mediocre delivery.

  “Don’t think you can weasel out of answering my question just because you haven’t set off the smoke alarm yet,” she said.

  “Yet?” He stopped squeezing a lemon and dared her to continue.

  “I haven’t been here that long. Anything is possible.”

  “It hasn’t been that long? Funny, it feels like forever.” But he grinned when he said it, and she stuck her tongue out between those lush red lips and wrinkled her nose at him.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. “The man of stone can actually smile.”

  He rolled his eyes. “The fish is done. Let’s eat.”

  She set the table and he brought over the food. But something was missing. Did they need more wine? Different music?

  He went to a drawer in the kitchen. Did he have—yup. He couldn’t believe he owned candlesticks, let alone a box of candles. But there was all sorts of shit stuffed into drawers that he never bothered to use. No time like the present, right?

  It was just so they didn’t have to stare at their food in the harsh overhead lighting while he failed to come up with anything else to talk about. It wasn’t a thing.

  He turned off the lights in the apartment and lit the candles at the table. “There,” he said as he shook out the match. “Now we’re ready.”

  “Eric just got seriously beat,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “The guy from Tinder.”

  “Oh. That guy.” He made a face. “Tell me this isn’t way better than a date.”

  “And I don’t have to wear shoes.” Talia extended her legs as she took a seat. Reed almost dropped the serving spoon on the floor. Now that was unnecessary. He didn’t need to see those endless inches of her bare skin disappearing under the slinky red dress that had hitched up as she sat down. She might have been trying to cover up her toes in the heels she’d been wearing. But her bandages only reminded him of the things her body could do.

  He focused on serving the food and not falling over. The view from across the table wasn’t much safer. There was still the cling of the fabric to her breasts, the straps over her shoulders, her bare arms.

  And the problem of the candlelight. It was better than having to look at his apartment, which he only didn’t call a shithole because he’d been to Stacey’s place, and that was a shithole.

  But that didn’t take into account what it was like to sit across from her and watch the candlelight flicker over her face, lighting up her eyes, turning the waves she’d put into her hair into some
thing softer, fuller, more touchable than he could have imagined.

  “How’s the case going?”

  Talia’s question jolted him back to the present. Here he was in fantasy land wondering how it would feel to find out for certain if she was wearing a bra under that dress. Meanwhile, she was going straight for the jugular, because of course the candles weren’t turning her into a tongue-tied, incoherent mess.

  He debated for a minute, then answered honestly. “Shitty,” he said, spearing a piece of fish.

  “Because?” she asked.

  Where to begin?

  “We have no leads, we have no informant. We can get to people, but only in West’s outer circle. We don’t have a way to penetrate the inner group and touch West himself. Stacey was the one who knew him, because she’d bought directly from him in the past. We’re in the dark about what West knows about Stacey or the case we’re building.”

  “So Jonnie still keeps his hands clean,” Talia said, picking up everything he wasn’t saying. “And you? What happens to you if you can’t take him down directly?”

  “Lock up the little guys, watch them get back on the streets within a year, sit back while the whole cycle continues and I stay an agent for the rest of my life.”

  Damn. He hadn’t meant to say that last part, or at least not so bluntly. He blamed the wine, the music. He blamed the way Talia talked and talked, making him think it was okay to do the same.

  “An agent as opposed to…?” she prodded.

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure yet.”

  “I don’t believe you for a second.”

  The look she gave him made his head swim. There were so many ways she barely knew him. And so many ways she already did.

  “A lieutenant,” he admitted. “Which is what my dad was. I’ve always imagined following in his footsteps, you know? He died in the line of duty—” Talia opened her mouth, but he held up a hand to stop whatever sympathies she was about to say. “It was a long time ago. My point is, I want to do it for him. But if all I can catch is the smallest bait, and nothing changes, then how am I supposed to do even that?”

  Talia was quiet. He hadn’t known she could be quiet. Then she said, “Your dad would be proud of what you’re doing. I don’t have to have known him to know that.”

  Reed reached for his wineglass. It was empty, but he had to give his hands something to do, his eyes somewhere to look besides at her.

  He fiddled with the wine stem between his forefinger and thumb. The next thing he knew, her hand was on his, quieting the movement.

  Not that she was still. Her foot tapped under the table, and her thumb stroked his knuckles in time with the music. He didn’t know what to do. Whether to kiss her, or run.

  And then, somehow, he knew. He didn’t have to say, “Dance with me.” He took her hand and lifted it, and she rose from her seat and followed.

  The music was slow and as smooth as her skin. He held one of her hands in his and let his other hand slide around her waist as she rested her palm on his shoulder. Not too close. There was still space between them.

  But close enough.

  Enough to know how beautifully she moved with every step.

  She swayed where he led, fitting her body against his. Her in her dress and bare feet, him in his jeans. He could smell the lavender in her hair, the peach of her skin. It was heady. Intoxicating.

  Her hair brushed his cheek. Her breasts grazed his chest. His hand hovered between holding her and giving her room. Between resting on her back and resting…lower.

  He could feel the line where her ass began to curve beneath his fingers, but he couldn’t cross it. This was enough. It had to be enough. He had to be content with dancing, just dancing, and keeping those inches between them.

  The next thing he knew, she was closer. Her breasts weren’t just grazing his chest but pressing against him. He could feel the shape of them, the touch of her nipples, the thinness of the dress between them. Her body was as taut as a string pulled tight. He wanted to run his hands over every inch and make it hum.

  “Reed?” she murmured into his shoulder.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re still not on a date…are we?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He felt her shuffle closer. Or maybe that was him stepping in, drawing her to him, sliding his hand dangerously down.

  “Okay,” she said. “Just checking.”

  “What would make it a date?” he asked.

  “With my track record, you’d have to insult my career, assert your superior taste in wine, and stick me with the tab.”

  “No offense, but you have terrible taste in men.”

  She tilted her head up and laughed. The sound alone shouldn’t have made him so hard against her. It was just a noise, it was just his ear. But it was impossible to keep her from knowing what she did to him.

  “I clearly have a type,” she said. “And my type sucks.”

  “Then it’s not a date if I do this.” Reed took the hand that had been holding hers and used it to brush her hair over her shoulder.

  She shook her head ever so slightly. “No.”

  “Or if I do this.” He used his finger to raise her chin.

  Her eyes looked up at him, full and liquid in the whispering light. Again, that small flick of her head: no.

  “And it’s definitely not a date if I do this.”

  He kissed her.

  He knew it was a bad idea as he was doing it. He didn’t have room in his life for a woman. An agent with his kind of job and his kind of hours had to be alone. He’d learned that the hard way, and he wasn’t going to put another woman through that again.

  But then she kissed him back, her mouth soft and warm and inviting him in.

  And instead of pulling away like he should have, blaming the wine, stammering his excuses, his hands were in her hair, sliding down her back, and he knew he was going to devour her whole.

  Chapter Eight

  Talia felt Reed’s arms wrap tightly around her as she closed her eyes and kissed him. And kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

  There was a voice in the back of her head saying Whew, that was fun. Time to stop now!

  But there was a louder voice ringing in her ears, and it turned out to be her own. Her lips parted and she moaned out loud as he cupped her ass through her dress. She could feel his hard-on, thick and demanding, pressing through his jeans.

  She was supposed to have willpower. Discipline. All her good intentions. Talia Responsible Lassiter, brand new and totally unprepared principal dancer in the New York City Ballet, no man-size distractions exhausting her body, taking up valuable real estate in her brain.

  But it was too late. It was too much. It was too damn good to stop.

  In the moment, as his tongue searched hers and she, in turn, melted into his touch, none of her so-called good intentions seemed to matter.

  She kissed him harder, deeper, letting him know she wanted it. She wanted this. She wanted his hands running over her body. His tongue moving with hers. His cock pressing hard through his jeans.

  She wanted the straps of her dress pulled off her shoulders, the yank of her zipper tugged down, the shock of his fingers on her nipples, hard and exposed.

  She wanted her dress falling to the floor.

  She stepped out of it, still kissing him, her hands running up his chest, his pecs, over his shoulders. She was naked except for her underwear, even though he was fully clothed. But she didn’t care. She liked it that way. She was open, giving herself to him. While he was taking everything she had.

  He ran his fingers over her panties. His fingers played with the bridge of fabric across her hips, thumb hooked through the band. She pressed her body closer, grinding against him, feeling his cock notch between her legs.

  Yes.

  She stroked him through his jeans. The noise he let out was low and choked, like he was trying to hold himself back.

  But she’d be damned if she was going to let Reed hold ba
ck with her. She was going to make this uptight man lose control if it was the last thing she did.

  She unzipped his jeans and pulled his cock free. “Fuck,” he growled as she began stroking. She couldn’t believe how much the sound of that word in his mouth made her knees weak. She couldn’t believe how thick he was, how full. That outline in his sweatpants hadn’t done him justice at all.

  His fingers tightened in her hair. She felt him pushing her down, and fuck, yes. She wasn’t supposed to be doing this. She was supposed to spend her Saturday night being good and virtuous and practicing for the ballet. If she did go on a date, it wasn’t supposed to involve sex. Especially not with someone whose apartment she needed to keep living in, no matter what happened between them.

  But she got down on her knees, nearly naked in his living room, and kissed the silky tip of his cock. Then she tongued him from his balls straight up the length of the shaft, up and down as he moaned. She brought his whole head into her mouth and he thrust his hips forward, pushing farther in.

  He was big. Big enough that she couldn’t deep-throat him. But his moans said she was doing just fine, taking him in and swirling her tongue up, down, and around as she worked her hand around the base of his now-slippery shaft.

  “That’s it,” he groaned. She looked up and saw the pleasure tight across his face, the way he was trying—and failing—to hold on. God, she loved the sound of a man coming apart on her tongue.

  When he pulled her up, the spark in his eyes was enough to ignite her, his look alone making her wetter than she already was. “Goddammit, you’re dangerous,” he growled, and then pressed his lips to hers.

  She tore off his shirt and was tugging at his pants still half on, but he had other ideas. He picked her up, fast and without warning, so that all she could do was hold on and let herself be carried. She did plenty of lifts in the ballet, but this was different. She wasn’t used to being tossed around so easily.

  But Reed was strong. His arms didn’t waver.

  She felt his cock against her stomach, his hands gripping her ass as he carried her back to the bedroom. He dropped her on the bed, his body covering hers. It was like they both knew that if they were going to cross this line, they had to blow it all the way. There were times for thinking, but then there were times to let go and feel.