by Leisa Rayven
“This is what you were feeling last night, isn’t it? The rush of hormones. The lightheadedness. The craving for my hands and mouth on every inch of skin. The way your blood rushes so hard and fast, you think you might pass out.” I can see the pulse in his neck thrumming double time. “I hate to break it to you, Miss Tate, but the so-called drug you’re so strung out on is me.”
He leans back just enough to look into my eyes. “Go ahead. Tell me I’m wrong.”
My head is spinning, and I blink too fast as I try to resist pushing him away so I can think. “You’re ...”
When I don’t continue, he says, “Finish your sentence. I’m ... what?”
Infuriating. Arousing. Not the type of male pushover I’m used to or comfortable with.
“You’re wrong.”
He keeps staring. “Am I?”
Now, I have no choice but to put my hand on his chest and push. I’m certain the frantic rush of blood I’m experiencing isn’t healthy, and it’s not going to calm down with him so close. He steps back but continues staring at me.
I try to match him. “Do you know that your constant eye contact is uncomfortable to endure?”
His expression softens, but he continues focusing on my eyes. “In my opinion, people don’t look at each other enough. Eyes speak truths mouths refuse to, and liars always find a reason to glance away.” He looks from one of my eyes to the other. “So, tell me – why does it distress you so much to be this attracted to me?”
Before I can come up with anything resembling an acceptable response, I become aware of another presence at my side.
“Is this guy bothering you, sweetheart?” I turn to see Brick there, puffed up like a lizard in a suit, glaring at Max. “Just say the word, and I’ll save you.”
I bristle at his noxious sexism, but I can’t think too badly of him. He did save me from having to answer Max’s minefield of a question.
When I turn back to Max, I see him give Brick an openly disdainful head-to-toe assessment, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Uh ... Brick, hey. This is my ... uh ...” I take a breath. “This is Max. Max, Brick.”
To my surprise, Max holds out his hand. He doesn’t go so far as to smile, but he acts friendly enough. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
Brick isn’t quite as evolved and grab’s Max’s hand way too hard to be considered anything but a dick move. “Yeah. Cool shirt, bro.” He’s heavy on the sarcasm, and I bristle on Max’s behalf. That shirt is hella cool.
For several long moments, Max and Brick just stare each other down, and I have no doubt they’re doing that stupid macho thing where they squeeze each other’s hands and see who bails first. I’m not surprised to see it’s Brick. One thing I know for sure is that Max didn’t get biceps the size of grapefruits from stroking kittens.
Brick subtly massages his hand as he turns back to me with a questioning look. “So, babe, are we going to dance or what?”
I grind my teeth. One of my least favorite things in the world is to be called babe by a guy I hardly know. “Uh ... actually, Brick, Max and I were just talking, so–”
Max draws up to his full height, which is about six inches taller than Brick. “No, we’re done, Miss Tate, so by all means don’t let me keep you from dancing with ... Brick.”
“Uh ... well, I...”
Brick holds out his hands. “Hey, Clash-boy says we’re cool, so let’s go.”
I flash Max a dirty look as Brick leads me out to the dance floor. I don’t feel like dancing anymore, but what am I going to do? Admit to Max I’d rather keep talking to him? Just the idea of that makes me break out in a cold sweat.
I shake off the heaviness in my limbs and try to dance. Elvis is blaring from the jukebox, and Brick must be a fan, because he knows all the moves.
As we continue dancing, I can see Max watching us from the bar. His expression is unreadable, which means I’m passionately compelled to figure out what he’s thinking. God, why are even his facial expressions fascinating?
I’m hoping that when I get more information on his background, I’ll find him way less attractive. I’m aware that part of his appeal right now is his air of mystery. If I can find a way to pull back the curtain, I have no doubt I’ll discover that the Mighty and Powerful Oz is just an ordinary man after all.
In all honestly, that day can’t come soon enough.
I’m one of those people who hates going to see illusionists, because I can’t stand the feeling of ignorant wonder. Max may believe in magic, but I don’t. I believe in clever people using smoke and mirrors to fool the masses, and Max may be clever, but he’s still just a fraud wrapped in misdirection, and one day soon I’m going to prove it.
* * *
By the time ‘Viva Las Vegas’ ends, I’m almost danced out. Brick is sweating profusely but still insists on hugging me, and in the process his hands get way more acquainted with my ass than I’d like. That’s when I feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck. After we pull apart, I find Max right beside us.
“Miss Tate? A word.”
Brick doesn’t look happy about it, but I think his hand is still suffering from earlier, so he knows better than to push his luck.
“Go for it, babe,” he says to me. “I need to refuel the old tequila tank, anyway. Be right back.”
As Brick leaves the dance floor, Max steps toward me. The heat of his gaze is scorching, and when the next song is slow and sexy, he looks at me for a few seconds before saying, “I’d like to walk you home. I have something I need to say.”
“Dancing isn’t your thing?” I ask as the other couples on the dance floor get close and grind to the sensuous beat. Not that I’m angling for him to press that rock-hard bod of his against mine or anything. It’s just that the music is there. It’s kind of rude not to take advantage of it.
His posture is stiff, like he’s a soldier standing at attention. “Not tonight.”
I dislike how disappointed I am by his response.
“You know,” I say. “If we were on one of your romance-novel dates, you would have laid out Brick for daring to touch my ass.”
He shoves his hand in his pockets. “I considered it. Would you have liked that?”
“I don’t know. I guess there’s something sexy about an alpha willing to fight off the attentions of the other males.”
“Uh huh. There’s also something unhinged about a man who resorts to violence with minimal provocation. Besides, Brick is a lightweight. Me fighting him would be like swatting a fly with a bazooka.”
My phone buzzes, and I check the screen.
It’s from my friend at the lab. My blood test came back negative.
Shit.
It’s official; there are no drugs in my system except my insane attraction to Max.
I drop my head and sigh. That knowledge should make me feel better, but it does the opposite. There’s a chill in the air without my cozy, convenient denial to protect me.
When I look up, Max is staring, and it seems he caught a glimpse of the text, because he crosses his arms over his chest and looks at me expectantly.
“So,” I say with a weak laugh. “Good news. You didn’t drug me last night.”
He continues to stare, unimpressed. “I already knew that. Do you have something you’d like to say to me?”
Apologizing isn’t something with which I have a lot of experience, but I can’t deny I was in the wrong. Sucking up my embarrassment, I shove my phone back into my pocket and mumble, “I’m sorry I accused you of something you didn’t do.”
He holds his hand up to his ear. “What was that? It’s pretty loud in here. You’ll have to speak up.”
I take a breath and talk louder. “I said, I was wrong about you. I’m sorry.”
There’s still a look of disappointment on his face, but at least he’s not glaring anymore. “You’re forgiven. For now.” He nods toward the exit. “I still have my own apology to make, but not here. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
I
cross my arms. My purpose in coming here tonight was to try and get him out of my system, and judging by the way I’m still fighting tooth and nail to keep my hands off him, my objective has yet to be achieved.
“I’m not ready to go home. And I’m definitely not ready to go home alone.”
“You wouldn’t be. I’d be with you.”
“Yes, but unless you intend on giving me orgasms, you’re not the kind of company I was thinking of.” I raise my eyebrows. “Were you planning on giving me orgasms, Max?”
Please let him say no. If he doesn’t, I’m well and truly screwed, and not in a good way.
He tenses his jaw. “They aren’t one of my regular services, no.” He looks over his shoulder at where Brick and his buddies are doing shots like it’s a competitive sport. “Are you honestly going to let that swamp dweller touch you? If his brain were dynamite, it wouldn’t blow a part in his hair.”
The mental image makes me smile. “I’m not looking for a life-partner, Max. Just sex.” With a man who doesn’t dominate my thoughts and hijack all my fantasies.
He jabs his finger in Brick’s direction. “I would bet you a million dollars that man has never made a woman come in his life. But if you’re determined to confirm he’s a lousy lay firsthand, be my guest. I’ll be at the bar when you’re done with him.”
He goes back to perch on a stool as Brick rejoins me, smelling like he’s been on a week-long bender in Tijuana.
“Ready to show everyone else how it’s done, sweetheart?”
I fake a smile as I admit to myself that if Max weren’t here, I would have left this loser in my wake an hour ago. But something small and vicious in me gets satisfaction in making Max believe I’d still consider taking Brick home.
Despite my souring mood, Brick keeps me occupied for a few more songs, and when Hound Dog comes on, he forces me into the world’s most awkward jive. He dances like a drunk guy trying to appear sober, and his terrible technique makes me laugh when he spins me out before pulling me back. It’s a wonder I stay upright, considering how tipsy I am.
“Jump,” he says to me, as he grips my waist.
“Oh, no, don’t think that’s –”
“Come on, babe! The song’s almost over. Jump!”
He hoists me off the floor, and I don’t have much choice but to place my legs on either side of his hips as he dips me down then pushes me up into the air. I feel something go in my back and make a noise.
“Shit.” I grip his shoulders as I start my descent. “Brick, don’t –”
“I got you, babe. Chill!” The words are barely out of his mouth when he overbalances, and before I know it, the dance floor is rushing up to meet me.
“Miss Tate!”
I’m vaguely aware of Max’s concerned voice as I land heavily on my back, and a sharp pain makes me say several words that would make my Nan blush.
“Oh, shit, babe. You okay?” I wince and roll onto my side as Brick hovers over me, the stench of tequila on him making it hard for me to breathe.
“Move, asshole!” Brick is hauled backwards as Max appears. Strong hands that just shoved Brick halfway across the room are gentle as they touch my shoulder. “Where does it hurt?”
“My back. Not from the fall. I think I pulled a muscle when he dipped me.”
“Can you move everything?”
“Yes.”
“I should call an ambulance.”
“No, really, I’m fine.” I let out a breath and glance up at him.
Whoa.
Never in my life have I seen a man look at me like that. As if the pain I’m feeling is being felt twice over by him.
“Miss Tate, you shouldn’t move.”
I wave him off and sit up. “I’m not paralyzed, Max. I just have an owie. I need some aspirin and an ice pack.”
He helps me to my feet before wrapping his arm around my waist to support me as we move off the dance floor.
“I’ll take you home.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Brick steps in front of us. “That’s my job, pal. I haven’t been hanging around this smoking-hot ginger all night just to lose her at the last minute. If anyone’s taking her home, it’s going to be me.
Max’s body tightens like razor wire, and even though he doesn’t raise his voice, the intensity he radiates through his glare makes Brick take a step back. “She’s not a toy you get to buy with your time, pal. Have some fucking respect. You injured her, and if you don’t get the fuck out of my way this second, I’m going to injure you. Understand?”
I don’t know if I’ve heard Max use the “F” word before, but even with my back pain, my body reacts positively.
By now, Brick has had enough booze to forget how Max crushed his hand earlier, and when he belligerently grabs my arm, Max gives him a look that’s truly terrifying before grabbing his wrist and squeezing. Brick sinks to the floor with a strangled cry.
“Brick, I know you’re not an intelligent man, so I’m going to use small words. If I ever see you lay your hands on Miss Tate, or any woman, ever again without permission, I’m going to shatter your arm in three places.”
Having been on the receiving end of Max’s brutal sincerity, I know Brick believes every word. That would explain why he looks like he’s about to pee himself as Max towers over him. When Max releases him, he skulks back to his frat-boy brat-pack, red faced and not willing to even look back at me.
Max doesn’t spare him another glance. He just scoops me into his arms and heads toward the exit.
“What was thing you said earlier about resorting to violence at the slightest provocation?” I say, struggling to deal with both the pain in my back and the vicious arousal that comes from being in his arms.
His face still looks like thunder. “That wasn’t violence. It was restraint. And there was definite provocation. Brick was an asshole who needed to be taught that women aren’t vending machines that trade attention for sex. I hope the little shit bruises easily.”
I notice how everyone stares and smiles as he carries me down the street toward my apartment. “I feel like you should be wearing a white Navy uniform right now.”
“I have one of those. If you play your cards right, I’ll bust it out someday.” He shoots me a look, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch as he begins to hum, Up Where We Belong.
TWELVE
Shirtless Houseboy
Twenty minutes and two muscle relaxants later, and I’m feeling nooooo pain. Max has set me up on my couch with an ice pack nestled on my lower back, and now he’s in my kitchen making tea. I told him I don’t drink tea, but he didn’t listen. He’s opening and closing cupboards as he searches for stuff, and I’m pretending that he’s my sexy houseboy. I’ve always wanted one of those. It would be so useful to have one around in case I needed to ... well ... you know, get stuff off high shelves. Or ... I don’t know ... open jars. His only real job would be to walk around without a shirt and occasionally flex. Oh, and provide orgasms on request.
“Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever just take off your shirt and flex in front of a mirror? You know, to perv on your own hotness?”
“No. Do you ever take off your shirt and caress your breasts, just for the hell of it?”
I shrug. “Sometimes. When I get stressed, I cup my boobs and give them a reassuring squeeze.”
“Good information. Next time you’re stressing I’ll have to try that.”
I flop back into the cushions. My boobs are now tingling. Great.
More doors open and close, and I hear him mutter. “Jesus.”
“Everything okay?”
“There’s zero logic to your cupboard contents. I’ve now found tea in three separate places.”
“Yeah, if only I had a decent shirtless houseboy to take care of me and rearrange everything.”
He walks over and stands above me, all tall and broad-shouldered, with those long legs and a butt I’d like to sink my teeth into. “Are you suggesting I should take off m
y shirt?”
I blink up at him. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s pretty warm in here. You can if you want. Okay, fine, stop hassling me. I won’t stop you.”
He stares me down as he grabs the bottom of his T-shirt. “You want this?”
He pulls up his shirt to reveal a crazy-impressive six-pack, but as I try to sit up to get a better look, my wince of pain makes him drop to his knees in concern.
“Relax,” he says, pushing me back down and readjusting my ice pack. “If you behave yourself and stay still, I’ll take off my shirt later.”
“Really?”
“No. But stay still anyway. How are you feeling?”
“Awesome. The drugs have kicked in, and I’m fiiiiine.” I touch his face, because ... well, why not? It’s there, and it’s pretty, and wow ... his mouth is so pretty. And so annoying. It’s annoying how symmetrical he is. And how piercing his eyes are. And don’t even get me started on the eyebrows, eyelashes, and cheek bones, not to mention the mouth. “You’re handsome.”
His lips quirk. “And you’re stoned. Is your back still spasming?”
“Nope, it’s loosey-goosey, salmon-moosey.” I giggle as I graze my hand down his neck and onto his chest, because he’s so fracking attractive, it’s hilarious.
Max doesn’t giggle, however. He presses his lips together as I investigate the muscles of his chest. He shouldn’t look perturbed. After all, I’m an investigative journalist. This is a natural extension of my craft.
He must not appreciate my technique, because everywhere I touch, tenses.
“What are you doing?” His voice is doing that dark, sexy thing.
“Research.”
“Miss Tate –”
“Stop calling me that. My name’s Eden.”
“I call you Miss Tate because it helps me try to keep things more formal between us.”
“Uh huh.” His eyelids flutter as I graze his nipple through his T-shirt. “How’s that working out for you?”
He puts his hand over mine to stop my exploration. “Well, it’s freaking pointless when you touch me like that. Do you realize you’re a handsy drunk?”
