Grayson (The Kings of Brighton Book 3)

by Megyn Ward

  What gets them talked about.

  Creates the most buzz.

  In nothing more than a few scraps of lace, the bane of my existence wraps her hands around the pole and in an impressive show of upper body strength, begins to pull herself up the length of it, her legs scissoring slowly, timed perfectly with every inch she climbs. Nearly at the top, she wraps them around the pole, trapping it between her thighs. Letting go of it with her hands, she arches her back and does a slow spin around the pole, her long fall of pale blonde hair, catching the light as it tumbles and cascades to the floor.

  As soon as her slow spin brings us face to face a mischievous light clicks on in her sky-blue eyes and an impish grin lifts the corner of her mouth. “Hi, Gray…” She lifts her hands to run them slowly up the length of her thighs and torso to cup the generous swell of her breasts. “What took you so long?”

  I regret telling her my name. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve done what everyone else who works the club scene does—adopt a fake persona. A club name. I tell myself I wasn’t thinking. That it was a slip-up. One I regret but the truth is, I told her my name because I wanted to hear the way it sounded coming out of her mouth.

  She’s nineteen.

  Just a kid, pendejo.

  A spoiled, messed-up kid who thoroughly enjoys messing with your head so stop staring and do your fucking job.

  “Believe it or not, Ms. Fiorella, keeping you in line isn’t my only job duty,” I tell her, nailing my gaze to her face. “Get down.”

  “Not until you tell me your name.”

  “You know my name.” She knows I won’t put my hands on her. That the last thing I need is a video of me manhandling some spoiled celebutante hitting TMZ. Instead of pulling her off the pole, I bend down and snatch the flimsy scrap of silk she calls a dress off the floor. “You just said it,” I tell her while I jam the wad of silk into my back pocket.

  “You know what I mean…” She rolls her eyes at me, her hands squeezing her lace-covered breasts. “Your last name.”

  Yeah, I know what she means. She asks me, every time I see her, which lately is nearly every damn night but there’s no fucking way I’m telling her.

  I don’t care how naked she gets.

  “My name—first, last and middle—is irrelevant.” Reaching up, I press my mic again. “Call Ms. Fiorella’s driver—”

  “River’s didn’t drive me here,” she tells me, the corner of her mouth ticking up a little when my eyebrows flatten into a scowl. Because now I’m wondering who she came here with.

  “—and have him meet us at the VIP entrance.” Regardless, my guys have her driver on speed dial. No matter how she got here, he’ll be here inside of 30 minutes for a pickup. Without waiting for confirmation, I hold my hand out to her. “Now, please.”

  “What if I don’t?” One of the hands she has cupped around her breasts loosens to do a slow slide down the length of her stomach, toward the juncture of her thighs, to tease the waistband of her panties. “Are you going to spank me, Gray?”

  People are staring. Everyone is watching and whispering, which is par for the course with her. Four nights out of six, Delilah Fiorella is here, giving me a headache and wherever she goes, a circus is sure to follow.

  You sure that’s all she’s givin’ you, pendejo? How about the massive case of blueballs you’ve been rocking since you started working here because I’m pretty sure she’s the cause of that too.

  Like she can read my mind, Delilah’s laughs, the sound of it telling me she knows exactly the effect she has on me. What watching her touch herself in nothing but a few scraps of imported French lace does to me. The sound of it and knowing that it’s at my expense tightens the skin stretched across the back of my neck. “I’m not playing.” I growl at her, taking a step in her direction. “Get down, Delilah. Right. Fucking. Now.”

  Like her name is a magic word, her grip on the pole loosens and she drops herself into my arms, giving me no choice but to catch her.

  Put her down.

  Yank her dress over her head and drag her to the nearest exit.

  Shove her into the back of her limo and send her spoiled, troublemaking ass home.

  But then she slips her arm around my neck and buries her face in the crook of it and my plans and the best of my intentions go out the window.

  THREE

  Delilah

  IT STARTED THE WAY A LOT OF MY NIGHTS DO.

  With the best of intentions.

  It’s Silver’s birthday—her twenty-first—and there was no way I was going allow her to spend it sitting on her couch, eating frozen burritos in sweatpants, while watching sappy 90s rom-coms.

  No way.

  Not on my watch.

  So I grabbed her bestie, showed up on her doorstep, black-mailed her into a killer dress and dragged her to one of New York’s hottest nightclub.

  Level.

  I tell myself I brought her here because I like the atmosphere. Because they always book the hottest DJs. Because they keep a tight lid on paparazzi and I can have fun without worrying about ending up in the tabloids.

  But that’s not the reason.

  The reason is currently carrying me through the club in my underwear, a scowl dug deep into his ridiculously hot face.

  Gray.

  Lifting my head, I look up at him as he carries me though the club toward the back of it. Strong, lean jawline clenched tight beneath a dark, neatly trimmed beard. Full, generous mouth that’s pushed into a flat, grim line by frustration.

  I made him angry.

  Again.

  Which makes me angry.

  “I can walk, you know?” I hiss at him. My sister left with some guy she found in the VIP and Jane, her best friend begged off almost immediately after, claiming she had an early morning class which left me to my own devices. Never a good thing. “You don’t have to carry me like a child.” When he doesn’t answer me or slow down to drop me on my feet, I feel my face go up in flames. “If you don’t put me down, I’m going to—”

  “What?” He looks down at me when he says it, his stride long and confident. Thick, straight brows dropped low over the most intense, dark drown gaze I’ve ever seen in my life. “What are you going to do, exactly?” He laughs at me while he uses his hip to push his way through the heavy door that leads to the VIP entrance. As soon as it slams shut behind us the hyperactive pulse of club noise is muted to a dull buzz.

  Incensed, I twist myself in his grip in response, wiggling against the hold he has on me. Instead of dropping me, Gray simply shifts his hold, lifting and swinging me up until I’m draped over his shoulder, ass up in the air while he continues to stride down the deserted corridor.

  “Who do you think you are?” I sputter, pounding my fists against his broad, muscular back. Still squirming and twisting against the hold he has on me without any real hope of breaking free. “You can’t just throw me around like a—”

  Gray drops me unceremoniously onto my feet, the only thing stopping me from tipping over on the ridiculous pair of six-inch designer spikes I’m wearing on my feet is the firm grip he has on my shoulders. “I should spank you,” he growls, standing over me, chest pumping hard and fast like he just ran a six-minute mile. “You deserve it and you sure as hell need it because it’s obvious no one’s ever told you no before.”

  He’s right.

  No one tells me no.

  I’ve never been denied what I want.

  No one has ever set a single boundary to keep me in line.

  Until Gray.

  “If you so much as breathe on me,” I seethe up at him, lifting a finger to drill one of my perfectly polished nails into his rock-hard chest. “I’ll scream bloody murder.”

  He drops his gaze to the finger I have shoved between his pecs before aiming a dangerous look at me through his lashes. “Go ahead.” He smirks at me. “No one will hear you.”

  The long stretch of dimly lit hallway between the club’s main floor and the VIP entrance is deserted. I should
be scared. I should be terrified of the fact that we’re alone. That he’s twice my size and could easily make good on his threat and there would be no way for me to stop him.

  Instead, I’m trying to remember what I did to make him so angry so I can do it again. Because he said my name, a few minutes ago, in the club. He didn’t call me Ms. Fiorella like he usually does. He called me Delilah and I really like the way it sounded, and I really want him to do it again.

  “Gray—”

  Before I can say something that will undoubtedly embarrass me, he saves me. “Rivers’ll be here soon,” he tells me and I watch quietly as he pulls something out of his back pocket and shakes it out. “Get dressed,” he tells me, his voice rough as he shoves a scrap of fabric in my direction.

  It’s a dress. Expensive. Thin, champagne-colored, high-shine silk. Designed to catch the club lights. Draw attention.

  Club couture. Kinda trashy.

  I can see why he’d think it’s mine.

  “I’m not putting that thing on,” I tell him, leaning forward to push it back at him.

  He looks at the scrap of fabric in his hand like he has no idea what it is. “It’s your dress.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “Then where are your clothes?” He looks at me, gaze stuck to my face, jaw flexing and pulsing like he’s grinding his teeth.

  “I don’t know.” I’m being difficult. I know I am but it’s my default setting. My defense mechanism. How I keep people away. Protect myself. “Probably on eBay by now.”

  “Put it on anyway.” He shoves it back at me.

  “No way,” I scoff and shake my head. “I have no idea where that thing has been.”

  “It’s brand new,” he tells me. “There still a price tag…” Lifting the dress closer for inspection like he expects to find my name written in the back of it like a pair of summer camp underwear, his eyes widen slightly when he gets a look at the number of zeros on the tag. “Jesus—does that say five grand?” He looks at me and scoffs. “Five thousand dollars for a sink hanky with straps?”

  It’s an old club girl trick—max out your credit card on an expensive dress. Maybe some Jimmy Choos or Louboutins to go with it if your card can take the beating. Get your hair and nails done and hit the clubs, playing the part of trashy little rich girl—all with the intention of returning it in a few days for a full refund. Whoever lost that dress is most likely freaking out right now and if I wear it home, she’ll have to eat the cost of her little fantasy roleplay. Instead of explaining it all to him, I just flip my hair over my shoulder and shrug. “That’s all? Must’ve got it on sale.”

  “Whatever.” Mouth set at a harsh angle, he throws it at me again. “Put it on.”

  “No.” I throw it back at him.

  He looks like he’s seconds away from making good on his threat to spank me. “There’s nothing wrong with this dress.”

  “Great—then maybe you should put it on.”

  “I don’t think you’re understanding me,” he growls, closing the gap between us. “You’re going to put this dress on.”

  “No, you’re the one who seems to be misunderstanding,” I laugh in his face. “Because I’m not putting that thing on—period.”

  “Look…” He sighs, his jaw tight with frustration. “I can control who and what happens to you in this club but once you’re out there—” He lifts the hand with the dress in it and jabs it at the heavy fire door between us and the alley. “I can’t stop the army of paparazzi waiting to take a hundred half-naked picture of you.”

  “Who cares?” I quip with another shrug, pretending it doesn’t bother me. “Everyone and their brother have seen me half naked before—probably full naked too if they bothered to do a Google search.”

  Hurricane Delilah.

  That’s what the tabloids call me.

  My antics are legendary.

  The path of bad decisions and destruction I leave in my wake is epic. Not a week goes by that a picture of me in a compromising position isn’t splashed across the front cover of some tabloid rag.

  Gray is not impressed.

  Matter of fact, he looks kind of disgusted by the thought.

  He takes another step, this one pushing me back until I’m pressed against the wall again and my head is tipped back on my neck so I can keep looking at him. “I care.” He growls it at me, his mouth held in a thin, grim line. “Now, you’re either gonna put this fucking dress on by yourself or I’m going—”

  “Give me your shirt.”

  He gives me that frown again—the one that says we’re from different planets. That I’m strange and foreign and mostly likely dangerous. “Excuse me.”

  “You heard me.” I cock my hip, stacking my hands on top of them. “You want me out of your hair? You want to shove me into the back of my limo and be done with me—give me your shirt.” When he hesitates, I give him my best Delilah Fiorella sigh—the one that says I’m aggrieved and put upon and sick of him. “You won’t let me leave like this and I’m not putting that on—” I tip my chin at the dress he’s clenching like it’s a talisman he can use to ward off evil. “so give me your shirt.”

  “Let me get this straight—” He swipes a rough hand over his face and shakes his head. “you’d rather put on my smelly, cheap cotton T-shirt, than this brand-new, designer dress.”

  When all I do is give him another insolent shrug, he glares at me, his fingers flexing and working around the dress he’s trying to get me into like he’s still thinking about wrestling me into it against my will. Or maybe strangling me with it. Just when I think he’s going to make a grab for me, he shoves the dress back into his pocket and takes a step back before snagging the hem of his T-shirt and dragging it up over his head.

  I lost my virginity in a hotel elevator to some boy on my brother’s lacrosse team when I was fifteen and I never looked back. I’ve seen plenty of hot, naked guys and have never been affected by them.

  Not like this.

  Because holy shit.

  Gray is next-level.

  He’s not a guy.

  He’s not a boy.

  Gray is a man.

  Every last inch of him.

  “Here.” He growls it, yanking my attention away from his perfectly sculpted torso and back up to his face while he wads his shirt up like he’s about to fast pitch it at my face. “Just take it and—”

  It’s his tone that does it. What snaps me out of whatever trance his six-pack has put me in and I slowly raise my arms over my head with an insolent grin, my expectations obvious. As obvious as they are, he gives me that alien planet stare again. “You can’t be serious,” he says when he finally figures it out. “You want me to dress you?”

  I drop my arms and sigh. “You were just threatening to do it not more than a minute ago,” I remind him with a small smile. “I mean, if you really want to get rid of me then…”

  “Of course, Ms. Fiorella.” He pushes it through clenched teeth, turning my name into a curse as he closes the gap between us. “Whatever you want,” he says while he works the shirt open to gather it up from the bottom. “Whatever gets you covered up and out of my club.”

  Stung, I raise my arms again when he gives me a rough chin jerk. I expect him to be rough. Grab me. Shove me into his shirt and hustle me toward the door. Push me out of it and into the alley before slamming it closed behind me.

  He doesn’t.

  He isn’t.

  He’s gentle.

  Careful, even though his jaw is set at a hard angle that makes his anger obvious because he’s the head of security at one of the hottest clubs in New York, important and respected, and this is what it’s come down to—dressing a demanding, walking disaster because she too spoiled to do it on her own. Because she’s an overindulged brat who’s never been told no. Because no matter what he likes to pretend, we both know who really has the power here.

  I’m trying really hard to care about that. I’m trying really hard to be that Delilah Fiorella but I can’t because h
e’s suddenly standing over me again and this time he’s nearly as naked as I am and the shirt he just dropped over my head isn’t smelly. It smells like him—like spice and clean sweat—and I suddenly can’t breathe.

  “Rivers is here,” he tells me, gaze averted as he pulls the shirt down over my breasts. “So you’re going to walk out those doors on your best goddamned behavior or I’m going to—”

  Head tilted, I sway into him, cutting off his ultimatum by brushing my mouth against his. He goes still in an instant, his hands still gripped around the hem of the shirt he’s putting on me, his entire body stiff and humming with something that feels like apprehension.

  Maybe its anticipation.

  “Ms. ...” It comes out on a harsh expel of breath. Sounds like a warning, whatever he was going to say getting buried under another growl, this one just as frustrated when I do it again, this time running the tip of my tongue along the full, lush line of his lower lip. He tightens his grip on the shirt hem in his hands, pulling me back. Trying to keep me from advancing. Put distance between us but’s too late. I’ve already slipped past his defenses. I’m already inside and he knows it. “I need you to—”

  I lean forward, into the grip he has on me, pushing myself against him. “Delilah.” I whisper it, my lips brushing against his, a shiver running down my spine when I say my own name. “Say it…”

  “What are you doing?” The hold he has on the shirt tightens but he doesn’t pull me back. He sounds slightly panicked. Like he finally realized just how unpredictable I really am.

  How dangerous.

  “I’m kissing you…” Reaching up, I slip my hand around his neck. Gripping my fingers around the back of it, I tighten them in an effort to pull him closer while my free hand runs up the length of his thigh. “Say my name, Gray…” I whisper it against his mouth, breath caught in my lungs when my fingers slide over the rock-hard erection trapped inside his jeans. “Say my name.”

  “Christ…” He sounds angry. Broken. Like my name has power. The kind of power he knows he’ll regret giving me. Like as soon as he says it, he’ll be lost.

  Willing to give me anything.

  Everything.