Don't Break This Kiss (Top Shelf Romance Book 5)

by Jessica Hawkins

  The reporter pouted, touching Beau’s forearm. “Oh, dear. Hearts are breaking around the nation. Does this mean the chance to snag the handsome Beau Olivier has passed?”

  Something flared in Lola seeing the woman’s long red fingernails on him. Beau had chosen Lola tonight, not whoever was under the putrid cloud of hairspray and perfume in front of them. “That’s exactly what it means,” Lola said. “So kindly remove your claw from my man.”

  The reporter finally looked at Lola with such lit-up indignation, Lola had to suck in her cheeks to keep from laughing.

  “Lola,” Beau said.

  She swallowed her laugh. She’d had no right to say it. Beau didn’t belong to her. It shouldn’t bother Lola that the woman looked and acted cheap, thinking that did anything for Beau. Maybe it did do something for him.

  Lola was appropriately sheepish as she looked up and met his glinting eyes. When he spoke, it was for her and no one else. “Patience has never been my strong suit,” he said, drawing her front flush against his, “but I do take credit for resisting this long.”

  He caught her mouth with his. Their lips pressed together hard, the way his hand pressed the nape of her neck. Her palm went automatically to his chest. He was solid under her hand, just as his arm was solid around her. Camera flashes exploded like fireworks. When his fingers coiled into her neck and her hip, her body stirred, prickling with warmth, as if waking up from a long sleep. She was acutely aware of being so tightly against the hard length of him. She angled her head up to deepen the kiss right before he pulled back.

  His expression almost seemed to ask permission, overdue though it was. People shouted at them, but it quickly became white noise.

  “Your lips are red,” she said.

  “So are yours.”

  Deliriously, she laughed at the thought that they wore the same lipstick. She placed her hands on his cheeks and wiped the red away with her thumbs.

  “I have a handkerchief,” he said.

  “We don’t use handkerchiefs where I come from.”

  “That’s okay. I think I like your way better.”

  She ended up smearing it over her hands and his face. “I’m making it worse.”

  He laughed. “Not for me. How about we clean up and get a drink?”

  The reporter studiously avoided them by trying to get someone else’s attention. “You read my mind,” Lola said.

  Getting anywhere proved difficult. People stopped Beau every few steps. They each patted their mouths with Beau’s handkerchief as a temporary fix. He held her hand. She let him. What choice did she have? Her hand, and all her other parts, belonged to him in that moment. When Beau turned away from her, Lola touched her fingertips to her lips. She doubted a single camera had missed their display. Johnny might see it.

  “You okay?” Beau looked at her hand at her mouth.

  “Your scruff tingles,” she said. “You’d think someone going on a million-dollar date would have the decency to shave.”

  “I’ll shave tonight if you want. Before bed.”

  Before bed. As if they were an old married couple who never spent a night apart. The tingling became stronger as she thought about the fact that his mouth would be on her again and soon—before bed. “I didn’t say I minded,” she said softly, her face upturned to him.

  He grunted or something, a deep noise of approval as his eyes jumped between her lips and eyes. “You know just the right things to say, don’t you? I have unfairly high expectations of people, yet somehow you continue to exceed them.”

  “And here I was trying to be less than expected,” she said, but she was teasing him. The gap she’d insisted on keeping between them was closing the more comfortable she became. “You do put on a pretty good show.”

  He shook his head slowly. “What show?”

  “Holding my hand, kissing me for the cameras? You’re sending a message all right.”

  “If I am, that doesn’t have to mean it’s a show. I believe you’re mine and no one else’s. I meant what I said to that reporter—tonight, it’s very serious.”

  Lola wanted to stay skeptical. It was easier that way. Beau didn’t have her completely convinced there was good somewhere underneath his suit, but she was beginning to doubt it was all bad.

  “What are you having tonight?” he asked.

  Well vodka with club soda was her go-to drink, but she stopped her automatic response just in time. She wasn’t that girl tonight. “Dirty martini,” she said. “Grey Goose, please.”

  Beau ordered for them. She no sooner took the drink than Beau was approached once again, this time by a sturdy, red-cheeked man just as tall as Beau but many years older. “Evening, Olivier,” he said, shaking Beau’s hand. “Nice to see you.”

  “You as well, sir.” Beau turned slightly. “This is Lola, my date for the evening—”

  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I haven’t seen you at one of these things with anyone lately.”

  “I wish I could say your concern with my personal life is flattering.”

  “Oh, you know I’m messing with you,” he said, slapping Beau on the back. “You can’t expect an old, married guy like me not to want to live vicariously. You always have a beautiful woman on your arm.”

  Lola hadn’t been ignored by any man this much since she’d grown breasts. Even Beau had turned away from her. “I prefer you don’t talk about me as if I’m not standing right here,” she said.

  Beau smiled a little and shook his head, but the man turned to face her completely. “Well, shoot. I’m sorry, darling. Where are my manners?”

  “I was wondering the same thing about everyone here,” Lola said.

  His laugh was more of a guffaw. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air from Beau’s usual type?”

  Beau frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “She’s the first—” He stopped to address Lola. “You might be the first of Beau’s dates I’ve ever heard speak.”

  “Perhaps you should be thankful for that,” she said.

  More merry laughing—the man was quickly becoming besotted with her. “I am. I certainly am.”

  Beau, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes. “Come on, now. What’d those girls ever do to you two?”

  “They had something that was mine,” Lola practically cooed, batting her lashes with exaggeration. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m very possessive of my things.”

  Beau smoothed his hand down his tuxedo shirt. “I hadn’t, actually.”

  Lola raised one eyebrow, waiting for Beau’s bantering response, but nothing came.

  “Lola,” the man said, calling her attention away, “are you as good at keeping Olivier in line as you are me?”

  She turned away from Beau and winked. “Better.”

  He nodded high with his chin in the air. “I’m impressed.”

  “Does this mean you’ll take the meeting?” Beau asked, his wits seemingly recovered.

  “Let’s not worry about business right now. Listen, a spot opened up at my table—why don’t you two join me there tonight?”

  “We’d be honored, Mayor Churchill,” Beau said. “Table one, is it?”

  “That’s right. See you there.”

  “Mayor?” Lola asked, gaping as he walked away.

  Beau smiled. “Did I not mention that?”

  “Oh, God. I didn’t recognize him.” Lola covered her face. “I was just incredibly rude to the mayor of Los Angeles.”

  Beau laughed, pulling her hands away. “He was incredibly rude to you, but that’s my fault. I bring it out in him.”

  She shook her head. “I need to learn to keep my big mouth shut.”

  “Please don’t,” he said. “I love not knowing what will come out of it next. Such as the charming way you called me a thing after the fit you threw over my buffet comment.”

  “I said what?” Lola asked.

  “Just now you said you were very possessive of your things.”

  “That’s hardly the same. You referred to
women as something you can pick up next to a tub of fried chicken,” Lola said. “I was just playing nice for your friend like you wanted. Has he ever invited you to his table before?”

  Beau pursed his lips. “No.”

  “Then I must’ve done something right.”

  “You did something to me, at least.” He scanned her face. “I like you being possessive over me.”

  “I’m not. I was just doing what you asked.”

  He sipped something dark from his glass and surveyed the room. “I’m not sure why you continue to fight this. The deal’s been made, but truth be told, I think you want to be here. You just won’t admit it.”

  She studied his profile. There was a disconnect in his eyes, as if not looking at her meant she wasn’t there. It made him darker. It occurred to her just how much power he had tonight. He’d treated her like glass so far, but he could still shatter her with a flick of his wrist. “Beau? What if I decide not to go through with this?”

  He blinked once and turned his head to her. When he raised his hand, she flinched. He touched his thumb to the corner of her lips. “You know what our arrangement is,” he said. His voice dropped. “And on one point I’ve been very clear. Until sunrise, you’re mine.”

  His thumb was still pressed against her skin, distracting her. “I know self-defense,” she said.

  “You won’t need it.” He shook his head. “Trust me.”

  Had she met Beau another time, a time when Johnny wasn’t part of her life, she would’ve been attracted to him. He wasn’t her type—Johnny was, with his unsmoothable edges and no-bullshit attitude. His faded hair, faded tattoos, faded black T-shirts. Beau’s dark-brown hair was just enough for her to grab a handful and no more. Lola had an eye for expensive things even if she didn’t own any, and nothing on Beau’s body came cheap. He just beat Johnny in height, but where Johnny’s T-shirts stretched across his torso, Beau’s terse suits—and tuxedos—perfectly complemented his broad shoulders and muscular, lean frame.

  “My eyes are up here,” Beau teased.

  She blinked up from his chest. “Sorry.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  She just shook her head.

  “Look,” Beau said, sighing, “we have an agreement, yes, but I’m not resting on that. I’m obviously attracted to you or you wouldn’t be here.” He paused. “Maybe I don’t need that reciprocated, but I want it. And I’m willing to work for it.”

  “I love my boyfriend,” Lola said. “You can’t expect me to enjoy sleeping with you.”

  “I do expect it,” Beau said. “When I make love to you tonight, it’ll be in a way that demands everything from you.”

  Lola’s throat tightened. Nowhere in their arrangement had they said they’d be making love. This was just supposed to be sex—straight up sex. No romance. No fantasy. Definitely no lovemaking.

  “I wouldn’t pay a million pennies for any other woman,” Beau continued. “This is about you, not me. Tonight, you’re my queen.” He made sure she was looking him in the eye when he added, “And that makes me your king. If you’re worried about making love, don’t be. I’m going to fuck you too.”

  Lola covered her mouth but couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. “Beau,” she said behind her hand.

  “I don’t want any misconceptions. I’m going to make you uncomfortable. I’m going to worship you. I’m going to dominate you. Any man who just has sex with a woman like you is a fool. I want to make art with you—dirty, impossible, fucked-up, beautiful art.”

  Lola’s mind reeled. The image he’d painted was too vivid to shut out. There were people all around them, but inside she was tightly wound and aching for him to untwist her. One hand twitched with the urge to slap him while the other wanted to fist his lapel and bring him closer.

  “Now you’re giving me something,” Beau said, watching her with intensity. “Something I can work with.”

  Lola didn’t even know the skin she was in. “I need to fix my lipstick. I can meet you at the table.”

  He straightened up. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

  Lola rushed to the nearest bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. Only the slight flush of her cheeks gave her away. The reality of the situation hit her. She would be having sex with this man—this stranger. It was no longer about money, but about two people spending the night together. Her heart pounded from Beau’s words. She could feel blood circulating through her for the first time ever.

  It wasn’t Beau’s promise of things to come that scared her anymore. Nor was it his threat that it was too late to change her mind. What scared her was wanting this, and at the idea of being fucked by him, she had.

  She took out the lipstick the makeup artist had given her. She didn’t leave the bathroom until it was applied perfectly.

  Beau noticed. “You look composed again,” he said when she returned.

  Lola hated that word. Only people with something to hide composed themselves. But he was right—she was struggling to be herself in an environment so obviously meant for someone else.

  They were the last ones to the dining table. After introductions had been made, Beau put his mouth to Lola’s ear and said, “Mayor Churchill is one of those who equates my inability to commit to one woman with the way I do business. An invitation to his table is an opportunity.”

  His warm breath pebbled her skin. She nodded to show she understood, but with him so close, her mind was back on their kiss. It’d been so convincing that even she’d believed it. There had been need and desire in the way his hands had gripped her, but something gentler and almost reverent in his lips.

  Beau conversed easily with the table, but Lola wasn’t listening. She watched. He had an unnerving way of focusing on whoever was speaking. It was similar to how he’d approached Lola and Johnny with his proposition. Where did business end with him? Would it carry over into the bedroom?

  “So, Lola,” Mayor Churchill said between dishes, “are you from Los Angeles?”

  Beau took her hand under the table.

  “Not too far from here, Mayor Churchill,” she said. “East Hollywood.”

  “Same here,” he said proudly. “In fact, the only thing Beau and I have in common is pulling ourselves up by the bootstraps. And call me Glenn.”

  “We have more in common than that,” Beau said.

  “Do we?” Glenn asked, smiling as he cut his chicken.

  “We both love the city we grew up in and want to do right by it.” Beau nodded at Lola. “We both appreciate beautiful women.”

  Glenn waved his fork in their direction. “Okay, you got me there.”

  “Did Beau mention how we met?” Lola asked.

  “Why don’t you tell me,” Glenn invited.

  Beau went tense beside her, his hand tightening around hers.

  “First you have to suspend disbelief long enough to picture Beau in a dive bar,” she said.

  “A dive bar?” Glenn laughed. “What, in his Prada suit and tie?”

  “Exactly,” Lola said. “We met under some neon signs on the Sunset Strip.”

  Glenn sat back in his seat. “I haven’t been out on the Strip at night in years. In high school, we’d volunteer to post flyers for shows all over Hollywood so the bars would let us in to watch.”

  Lola grinned. Her instinct that Glenn would get the story looked right. “Have you been to Hey Joe?”

  “Have I been there? I passed out in my own vomit on Hey Joe’s bathroom floor before you kids were even born.” He sighed heartily. “Those were the days,” he muttered before glancing quickly around the table. “Don’t repeat that.”

  “That part of the Strip might not be much these days,” Lola said, “but Beau and I met there over Scotch and a show.” She reasoned the night had been such a spectacle, it counted as a kind of show.

  “I almost can’t picture it,” Glenn said. “Is it true, Olivier?”

  “The place is legendary,” Beau said warily.

  Lola leaned over and kissed Beau’s che
ek. “For more reasons than one, now,” she said loud enough for Glenn to hear.

  “Ever see any good bands there?” someone asked the mayor.

  “That was risky,” Beau whispered as the conversation steered away from them.

  “What, the kiss?” Lola asked, knowing perfectly well what he meant.

  He shook his head slowly. “The kiss I didn’t mind. It was a nice touch.” He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles and pulled her hand from her lap to his. That simple movement gave her a rush of adrenaline. Her hand was so close to him and still not nearly as close as it would be soon.

  “What are you thinking about?” Beau asked.

  It was written all over his face that he knew exactly what she was thinking. Churchill still talked about his days on the Sunset Strip, so she took his cue. “I was thinking about all the shows I’ve seen.”

  “I’ll bet you’ve seen a lot.”

  She nodded. “In high school, I snuck into bars all the time for live music, usually with a bad boy whose life’s mission was to get me drunk.” Her eyes drifted over Beau. “That’s always been my type. I never dated anyone who wore a suit.”

  “You’re mistaken if you think only good boys wear suits.”

  Lola nearly lost her heart to her stomach. Bad boys had always been her thing, but since meeting Beau, she was more and more drawn to the suit. She hated to think how she’d fare faced with a combination of the two. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Maybe.” He grinned. “Maybe not.”

  “I don’t exactly think you were an angel, but I can’t picture you as rebellious.”

  “I was in the chess club.”

  Lola laughed loudly. She didn’t care that people looked over at them—she was too delighted by the news. “So you were a geek.”

  “Chess isn’t geeky. It taught me the importance of strategy, and,” he paused and pulled her hand even farther into his lap, “how to manipulate the pawns in my favor.”

  She ignored his insinuation. “Were you any good?”

  “No, thankfully.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What? Why thankfully?”