Overnight Service (Always Satisfied Book 4)

by Lauren Blakely

  “I know you do. And that’s how you’re going to get it.”

  I hold nothing back as I take her the way she wants. Because she wants to be taken. Threading a hand in her hair, I curl the lush strands around my fist and tug.

  She cries out, a long, needy yes, chased by an again.

  The lady gets what the lady wants, so I yank hard once more, and I’m rewarded again.

  I drive deeper into her, lust and desire slamming into me from every corner. This is our new pace.

  Pull, tug, yelp.

  Fuck, screw, grind.

  We both go crazy, as my hips punch into her, my hand sliding around her waist, my fingers dipping between her legs.

  I rub her clit, and she scrabbles at the sheets, her voice rising, her need escalating. “Going to come again,” she cries.

  “Love it when you come, Haven. Love it so goddamn much,” I say as I drive into her.

  She’s quiet for a second, maybe more. Her body seems to go still, then she calls out, and it’s glorious.

  My name has never sounded as hot as it does when it’s the soundtrack of her orgasm as I’m deep inside her. Her pleasure loosens my own. The world blurs, vanishing into nothing but neon ecstasy as I come inside the woman I thought I hated.

  But as I curl my arm tighter around her and bury my face in her hair, I know I was wrong. Inhaling her scent reminds me that I don’t despise this at all.

  Not one bit.

  Especially when we both slump onto the bed, spent and exhausted, possibly sated for now. Then she turns to me. She twists around, meets my gaze, and puts a hand on my cheek.

  12

  Josh

  Her touch is surprisingly gentle.

  But even more surprising is how she brings me close, dragging me in for a kiss.

  She’s tender and sweet, so damn sweet as she kisses me like she’s mine, like we do this every night, like this is how we are.

  How we were.

  We were rough and hard, and then we were this—lingering, gentle, and more tender than I’d ever have expected.

  Her fingers rope through my hair as she sweeps her lips over mine. I’m sinking, sliding into an alternate reality where my fiercest competition, my toughest rival, my enemy, is drugging me with delicious, addictive kisses. Each touch is like another shot of endorphins, and each one sends me higher.

  I moan into her mouth, my mind unraveling. This is the kiss that comes after, when we’re sated, blissed out, and so damn happy.

  She sighs against my mouth, a sensual sound, and for several, intoxicating seconds, I forget everything.

  I forget the bet.

  I forget the last year.

  I forget the shit we’ve pulled.

  The clients of mine she’s nabbed. The clients of hers I’ve grabbed.

  The fights, the jabs, the pokes, the prods.

  The way it ended.

  I forget it all.

  Until I remember.

  I remember we fight for every deal. We spar for every client. We are locked in the middle of a bet to win the hottest athlete up for grabs.

  I need to win Jackson. I have to get him for the firm.

  And she wants him for hers.

  He doesn’t get split in half. He isn’t a pie or a slice of cake. One of us will win, and one of us will lose.

  And that’s why today played out the way it did.

  Hell, this woman cut me down in public ten hours ago. I did the same to her.

  For all I know, this—tonight, the bed, the sex—could be part of her plan. Seduce me, lure me in. She’s a siren, and I’m so easy with her. All she has to do is sing for me, look at me, and I’m in thrall to her.

  I yank away, narrowing my gaze. “Is this part of your strategy?”

  She blinks, her eyes hazy. “What?”

  “To make me forget.”

  “Forget what? Your name? Are you insane?”

  Am I? Maybe I am. That doesn’t feel like such a wrong assessment. I feel a little crazy like this. Lying in her bed, tangled up in the sheets, kissing like we are—

  I stop the train of thought, shovel a hand through my hair, braking hard.

  What the hell is wrong with me? This woman is under my skin, in my head. I can’t think straight around her. Can’t compile rational thoughts. “No. Nothing. Forget it.”

  She rolls away, finds her shirt, and tugs it on. In seconds, she’s standing, searching for her panties, then pulling them on. She points at me. “You came to my room. Did you forget that, Summers?” I’ve been relegated to last name only again. “You wanted to fuck it out. And we did. So, tell me. What’s my strategy for you showing up at my door uninvited?”

  I sit, sighing, scrambling for answers I don’t have. “Haven, I didn’t mean—”

  “Didn’t mean what? Didn’t mean to suspect me of subterfuge after you stuck your dick in me?”

  “Look, I just . . .” I search for words. I search to understand why I’m here, why I’m so drawn to her when I don’t even trust her. Or maybe it’s that she doesn’t trust me. Maybe that’s the problem. But whatever it is, I need to find a way to fix it, because I’m pretty damn sure I caused it. “I didn’t mean anything.”

  She parks her hands on her hips and arches one distrustful brow. “Maybe you should start meaning what you say, then.”

  I can’t do this again. I can’t keep funneling all this frustration, all this energy into my obsession with her. It’s messing with my focus, and focus is literally everything when it comes to my job.

  My job—the thing that matters.

  I have clients, responsibilities, and a boss.

  Pulling on my clothes, I try to sort out what the hell happens when I’m near her, this dangerous beauty. When I have my jeans on, I walk over to her, wanting to clasp my hands on her shoulders. But she crosses her arms over her chest.

  I get it. I have to fight my way back to not-hate. I deserve that.

  And maybe the only way over this—the frustration, the anger—is through it.

  Maybe this is part of the talking it out.

  I scrub a hand over my jaw and try again. “I lose my head when I’m with you,” I say, admitting the bare truth.

  That seems to strike a chord in her. “You do?”

  I shrug in admission. “I do. You drive me utterly crazy.”

  She fires back with “You drive me crazy.”

  “I guess we’re even,” I say, a small smirk tugging at my lips.

  “Are we? Even? Was tonight about getting even?”

  We lock eyes, and I half wish I could find it in me to sling a zinger. That would be comfortably familiar; that’s what we do. But when she looks at me like that, with those deep brown eyes that seem to crave trust and honesty, eyes that tell me she remembers how we were for those few weeks a year ago, nights when we curled up together, when we shared, when we talked—I can’t fire arrows. “No. It wasn’t about getting even,” I say. “It wasn’t about anything except needing to get my hands all over you.” I clench my fists. “I still want you too much.”

  She takes a breath, swallows, and closes her eyes. When she opens them, she says in a soft voice, “I want you too, Josh.”

  There it is. My name. Not a peace offering, but an admission. The confession she only gives me in bed when she’s hovering on the edge of bliss. Now I’ve been given it after, but I don’t know what it means. Or if it means anything.

  “That’s the trouble,” she adds, her voice trembling. During moments like this, she’s not the ballbuster. She’s not the woman who wants to eat me alive. She’s simply the woman I want, the woman who wants me too. Except . . . we can’t have what we want. “I can’t want you like this.”

  “I know. I can’t either,” I second her.

  “It’s dangerous and stupid. It’s so stupid.”

  “It’s ridiculously dumb.”

  She twists her hands in front of her, wringing them. “We can’t fall into bed again. We have too much . . . important stuff to deal with.”<
br />
  “Exactly.”

  She lifts her chin. “So why are we doing this? Did we really just need to fuck it out?”

  “Well, you said you were horny,” I say, my lips curving up.

  That wins a tiny grin from her. “I was,” she says, blushing. “I told you it had been a while.”

  “Yeah, same.” But that’s all too close to home. I swallow and continue, gesturing to the bed. “This was just about the frustration from the panel. Annoyance. It all bubbled over into sex, right? We’re over it. The things that were said. I’m over it. Are you over it?”

  She juts up a no-big-deal shoulder. “So over it. Who cares? I mean, look,” she says, softening, “your degree helps. You’re a good . . . lawyer.”

  It sounds like it costs her something to say that. Understandably.

  “And obviously, you being a world-class athlete can only be an asset.” It’s true, even if I’m showing my hand, admitting she has something I’ll never have. I might pretend my college days equate, but that’s not even close. She was the top of her field and has the bling to prove it. I was just one of a few thousand guys good enough to play college ball, but not good enough to go pro. “We both bring something to the table.”

  There. A truce. The real peace offering.

  “Exactly. We’re not the same.” She gestures to me. “You have your skill set; I have mine. The world is big enough for both of us.”

  “Definitely. We just needed to clear the air. And we cleared it.” I offer a smile that feels nearly legit.

  She exhales deeply. “It’s all clear.”

  I wave toward the foyer, where the great midnight fuck-it-out all began when I banged on her door. “Tonight was about getting it out of our systems. That’s all.”

  “That’s all it can be. It was pent-up, unfinished business.” She laughs. “I mean, a year. Mon dieu. That’s a helluva long time.”

  That French again. That accent. But I shake it off. I can’t let it unravel me, whisper through me, affect me. “Mais oui,” I say. “And now that unfinished business is all finished.”

  She swipes one hand across the other. “So, we move on.”

  I nod. Vigorously. “Right. Because it can’t happen again.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “We’re chasing the same clients. We’re always chasing the same clients. Obviously, we can’t be screwing.”

  “Obviously,” she echoes. “And that’s all that was. Screwing.”

  “That was definitely all it was.” I make a big show of taking a deep breath, then I fasten on a smile. “Now we move forward and go back to business.”

  She stretches her arms over her head, like she’s exhausted. “And sleep. Nothing like a good O to get me to the land of nod.”

  I smile, remembering how she slept like a cat after multiple Os. Post sex, the woman would sack out, practically purring. “You love your post-orgasmic sleep,” I say.

  “I definitely love a solid eight after a couple solid Os.” She flashes me a smile too.

  Look at us, getting along like a couple of pals. I pat myself on the back for having navigated this new minefield with her and made it to the other side, then glance toward the door. I should go. I should.

  But I can’t quite bring my feet to move.

  “And a soak in the tub in the morning,” I say. “You loved that too.”

  “Bubble bath. The whole nine yards.”

  “I can picture it perfectly.” The trouble is, I can picture it too perfectly, because I’ve been there, done that, run the tub for her. I can see her luxuriating in it, slipping a seashell bar of lilac soap over those toned calves, her pink toenails wiggling at me as she pokes them out of the water.

  Toes. Fucking toes. I’m remembering her toes fondly.

  Get a grip, man.

  I need to go.

  I need to get out of her zone.

  But I remember the asshole levels, and if I leave now, I’m a ten. I can’t be the guy who shows up, fucks, and just jets.

  Something—I need to do something.

  I walk to the side of the bed, adjust the covers, fluff the pillow, and then fold the comforter like I’m from housekeeping. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. I’m no longer a ten. “No chocolate for the pillow, sadly, but voilà.”

  “And merci. Your maid services are much appreciated.”

  I gesture grandly to the bed. “Sleep well.” I pause, take a beat, then add, “Haven.”

  “I will, Josh.” Her soft tone has a hint of sadness that doesn’t quite compute.

  All the more reason to make myself scarce. I pull on my shirt and head for the door, then stop with my hand on the knob. “Do you still want that contrite cake? I can have some delivered.”

  Her eyes twinkle. She smiles at me from the foot of the bed then shakes her head. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m more of a cake-for-breakfast gal.”

  “Another time.”

  I leave, the door snicking shut behind me. As I return to my room, I’m not sure I’ve resolved anything.

  I’m entirely sure I’ve complicated matters a whole lot more.

  Matters inside my head.

  Because when I finally get to sleep, it’s not insomnia I’m wrestling with. It’s dreams.

  Dreams of her.

  The next morning, I’m up before the sun rises, showering off the night before I grab my bag, snag a cup of coffee, and head to the airport to catch an early flight to New York.

  Along the way, I call the Bellagio and ask to be connected to room service.

  “Good morning from the Bellagio. How can we make your day better?”

  “I checked out already but I’d like to place an order of chocolate cake for room 1122.”

  “Aww, that’s sweet to send a cake for breakfast. You’re a doll,” the woman says.

  “That’s me.”

  “Want me to include a note too?”

  I cycle through all the things I could say to Haven.

  Last night was out of this world.

  I’m sorry for doubting you.

  Let’s do it again. Say, tonight at eight?

  But I can’t say any of those things. And that last thing shouldn’t happen.

  “Nah, just the cake.”

  “No worries. Sometimes cake says it all.”

  “And sometimes cake simply says . . . hope you slept well.”

  “Would you like to add a glass of cold milk too? It’s the perfect pair, and as I always like to say, cake is the best way to make sure I have my daily calcium—with the milk.”

  “Gotta keep the bones strong.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  I finish the order, end the call, and board my flight a little later.

  As we’re taxiing for takeoff, a note from Lucas pops into my notifications, a reminder that there are bigger things at stake than misplaced lust for someone I once had and definitely, absolutely can’t have again.

  13

  Haven

  Why did it have to be cake? Especially this decadent, delicious chocolate cake. With a glass of cold milk, this is simply the most indulgent breakfast ever. Cake like this, you can only have after the best sex ever. Like that time I ate it with him that one morning a year ago. When our stomachs rumbled in unison, and he laughed, grabbed the phone, and ordered everything. Eggs, toast, potatoes, cake.

  I eat the cake, because it’s the perfect meal, then I shower, washing away last night.

  When I get out, I don’t even stop to check for whisker burn. Except, wait. Is that a new record for whisker burn? I rub a hand over my jaw. And it activates the memories.

  His hands sliding through my hair.

  His lips crushing mine.

  His roughness.

  His softness.

  His hardness.

  The way he toys, the way he teases, and the way he takes.

  Stop analyzing every detail and everything he said! That ought to go in your rule book.

  Except, I’d like t
o analyze and dissect and study that one comment.

  It’s been a whole year. A year and a month and a couple days.

  What does that mean?

  I stare at myself, eyes steely. “It means nothing,” I say to my reflection.

  Besides, consider the evidence.

  He fucks me like he hates me. Well, not entirely. In all honesty, he fucks me like he hates me and wants me and needs me at the same time. Riddle on that.

  But I won’t spend time riddling on it. I shake it off, and work out hard on the treadmill in the hotel gym, the sweat, and the zone, erasing anything else.

  Time to get dressed, go home, and win that rising star like my career depends on it.

  There is no silver medal when it comes to winning clients. Besides, silver sucks.

  When I land, I find a note from Alicia. A request to meet. This is what I need—not that man, not a distraction. A chance to crush it.

  I call my mom.

  Then, I add one rule to my rulebook: Always call your mom. It’s so good to hear her voice.

  14

  Josh

  The day after I get back from Vegas, Amy waits for me in the new fiction section of An Open Book. With her glasses on and her nose in a hardback, she looks every bit the book editor she is.

  Or the disgruntled book editor she is, I should say.

  I stride over to my youngest sister, wondering when she’ll notice me. Since we were kids, she’s always been oblivious to the world when she is lost in a story. The classic bookworm.

  But this time, she snaps the book closed with a huff then meets my gaze when I’m a step away. “Ugh.”

  “What’s the ‘ugh’ for?” I give her the requisite noogie, digging my knuckles into her scalp.

  She jumps away. “Ouch. That hurts.”

  “Thirty-five years of noogies ought to have toughened you up by now.”

  She peers at me over her red frames, her green eyes incredulous. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously, what?”

  Standing on tiptoes, she bonks my head. “How were you valedictorian at law school? It’s not thirty-five years. You’re thirty-five. I’m twenty-eight. It’s twenty-eight years.”