by Salsbury, JB
Blake sits patiently. His body language is tense, but his expression soft.
“I can’t have an orgasm.” Dipping my chin, I hide behind the protective barrier of my hair. “I know it sounds stupid, and I’m sure it says a million different things about how fucked up I am.”
“Impossible. Everyone can have an orgasm.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Not me. He’d try, and when I wouldn’t he’d take it personally. I’d get punished.” I huff out a laugh. “Ridiculous, right? I mean, even with the threat of his punishment, I still couldn’t do it. And trust me, I tried.” I peek through my hair to gage his reaction.
“What punishment?” His eyes blaze, and his expression morphs from soft to terrifying.
“You don’t—”
“I do. Now fucking tell me.” Because of the way he says it, as if his life depends on my next words, I decide to give him all of me.
“He’d take me. However he wanted.” I take a long sobering breath. “Hard.” My ribs squeeze the air from my lungs, and my vision blurs. “I thought it’d be different now. I mean, everything’s so different with you. It’s just…” My eyes swing to the window-wall, the view of the twinkling lights in the distance a break from his the smoldering fury I see in his eyes. “He ruined me.”
Blake storms from his seat with such force that I feel the wind from his departure. He stalks to the kitchen, where he slams drawers. I take the opportunity to put on my pants and shoes. No doubt he’s ready to take me home. Can’t imagine a guy like him has the time or the patience to deal with a nutcase. Not when he’s got so many loyal admirers waiting in the wings.
Ugh. I need to get out of here. “Look, um, you can call me a cab if you want.” I’m searching the dimly lit room for my purse. “I’m sure you’ve got to—”
“Here.”
I squeak and jump at his one fierce word spoken from right behind me. “Jeez, Blake. What do you have, like, kitten feet?” I hold my hand over my heart, feeling it pound away beneath my palm.
He shoves a pad of paper and a pen toward me. “Here. Take it.”
“Okay?” I take the items from his hands.
“Write it down. Address, phone number, social security number, whatever you’ve got.” He taps the pad of paper. “I want it all.”
I glare at the paper and pen then swing my eyes to him. “I don’t understand.”
“Write it fucking down, Layla. I’m not kidding. I want his address, phone number, blood type, fuckin’ coffee preference. Write it.”
“Blake—”
In one stride, he’s in my face. He hooks his fingers beneath my chin, holding my stare. “Don’t want to scare you, sweetheart, but this shit’s ending now. Some guys need to be taught a lesson. Your ex is one of those guys. And I’m the man to teach it. Write it down.”
He’s a fighter, born and bred to defend, to settle wrongs with punches. To submit the enemy until they give up. This is him, strong and caring, poetic in a way that cramps my chest. I place my hand against his hard jaw. “Snake, you—”
“No.” He flinches, his face screwed into a grimace. “You don’t get to call me that when I’m pissed. Makes my dick hard, and when that happens I forget to be pissed.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Almost.”
“Wait, so… you’re not giving up on me?”
“Giving up?” His expression sours. “Mouse, you’re insane if you think something like that would chase me away.” He shoves the paper and pen at me again. “Here, take it.”
“You’d be with a girl who can’t, I mean, who’s never…”
His mouth goes soft. He cups my neck and drags his thumb beneath my ear. “I like the challenge, sweetheart. You’re capable, you just haven’t had the right partner. What I saw tonight? Fuck, you light up like that, baby, I know you can. In time, if you’d let me, it’d be a damn privilege to show you.”
My mouth battles a smile. A warm and comforting feeling fills my chest as relief washes over me. I bob my head. “Sure. Er… yes, please.” I sound like an idiot, but the mental images his words have painted have scrambled my thoughts.
“Good. Now, write down the douchebag’s info.”
“I don’t want you getting into it with Stewart. He’s a jerk. He fights dirty.”
An evil smile cuts through his handsome face. “The dirtier the better.”
“I’m not writing it down.”
“I’ll find out anyway.”
“How?”
“Got sources.” His fingers trace my collarbone, sending a shiver down my spine. “If I told you, I’d have to kiss you.”
Sources? This is Las Vegas, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a guy like Blake had some mafia connections. That’s all I need.
I lick my lips and push up to my tiptoes. He leans down to meet me halfway. Our mouths come together in a feather-light touch, a simple, slow caress. “There. Now talk.”
“The Internet.”
We smile against each other’s lips. Apparently, I need to lay off the Soprano re-runs.
“Despite what happened tonight”—our faces are so close I can feel the breath of his words—“that was hot. I know we’re going to be working through some shit. But you should never hold back with me. You’re always safe when you’re in my arms.”
I nod into his hold. “I believe that. I do. It’s just old habits die hard.” And slow. And painful.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He looks over his shoulder then back to me. “Now, let me get you home to Axelle before you get grounded for being late.”
I groan and drop my forehead to his chest.
“I’ll pick you up in the morning. We’ll ride to Flesh together,” he says into my hair.
I breathe his scent in deeply one last time and straighten from his hold. “That’d be great. Then Elle will have the car.”
“Did you and Raven touch base?” He doesn’t need to explain. I know what he’s talking about.
“Yeah.”
“Good girl.” He runs his hand from my shoulder down my arm and interlaces our fingers.
My body tingles all over at his touch. All that the innocent act of holding hands conveys spins in my mind. Security. Loyalty. Hope.
It goes against everything I know about his kind of male. Egos so big it’s impossible to see anyone else. And the worst is the guys who have the looks and the talent to justify the pride. Just like Blake.
Could I be reading him all wrong? As much as I try to convince myself of that, I can’t. I tried to fight all the feelings, to force myself to believe the worst about him even when he’s proved otherwise time and time again.
Blake Daniels is a good guy. A really good guy. And this exceptional man wrapped up in a delicious bad-boy package likes me.
Is it possible that my luck has changed?
Heck yeah, it is.
Seventeen
Blake
Blue-balls are a bitch. Last night with Layla, my body was a live wire of carnal energy waiting to be unleashed. And although I relieved most of the tension in the room, pounding away until I was too exhausted to stand, my nuts still ache.
But the pain in my pants is nothing compared to the cramp I felt in my chest when she crumpled on my couch and exposed another piece of her past. It almost killed me to sit there and watch her duck her chin, her cheeks flaming, as she told me how he broke her. Like she’s some piece of equipment that’s been rendered useless because it doesn’t perform. It’s sickening. And impossible.
Not with the evidence I saw last night. She wasn’t at all like I thought she’d be. Not timid or reserved, but initiating and confident, asking for what she wanted. She writhed on my lap, moaning and begging for more when my fingers were already drenched inside her. Making out with her was hot, and even with her inability to let go, it was still one of the sexiest experiences of my life. If I hadn’t been so worried about pushing her too far, I probably would have detonated and embarrassed myself.
But when she tensed in my arms like she did, whimpering into
my neck like she was struggling between intense pleasure and horrific pain… Fuck. How something can be so beautiful and so damn heartbreaking is a mystery. I vowed in that moment that if I—when I—come face to face with Stew Moorehead, he’s a fucking dead man.
I’m already hopped up on hatred for the prick, and now I get to spend the day at Flesh. No doubt dudes will be checking her out. And my patience is running thin.
Pulling into the parking lot at Layla’s apartment, I push back my vengeful thoughts. I’ve been preparing myself all morning, telling myself that she’s only doing her job. But all my pep talks are pointless as I park my car and groan at what I see. “Oh, shit. Today’s gonna suck ass.”
Shaking my head, I hop down and walk toward the gorgeous blonde leaning against the wall. Layla’s wearing a net-like sweater that hangs off one shoulder. The loose, open stitches make it so I can see through it to the white triangle-top bikini underneath. Her straight-leg pants hang low on her hips, accentuating her tiny frame. The style is a mix of pure class and straight-up sex.
“What’re you doing out here?” I move close and push her hair behind her bare shoulder, making sure my fingertips linger against her warm skin. “I’d have come up to get you.”
Her dark eyes meet mine, and a bright smile is aimed at me. “Hey.” She reaches up to hook her hands behind my neck and pulls me to her lips.
Our mouths meet in a soft kiss, once, twice, and then I run my tongue along her lower lip. She opens for me, and my senses are flooded with peppermint and vanilla. Reaching down, I cup her ass and pull her in close. Hot and sweet and all fucking mine.
I break the kiss and nip at her mouth. “Good morning, Mouse.” Tracing her hairline, I run her silky long hair through my fingers. “You look hot. Guess you couldn’t find any baggy sweatpants and a pea-green turtleneck to wear, huh?”
She scrunches up her gorgeous face. “I don’t think they let girls into Flesh dressed like that.” She laughs and moves her hands to my chest. Her smile falls. “I’m a little nervous.”
Unable to resist the temptation of her skin inches from my lips, I kiss her shoulder. She tilts her head for me to drop kisses up her neck. “Nothing to be nervous about, sweetheart. Not with me there.”
She nods through a shiver. “This is my first opportunity to prove to Taylor that I can handle more responsibility. I really don’t want to screw it up.”
“You won’t. These things run themselves.” I pull her hands from my chest and kiss each one. “Come on, you’ll see.”
I’m so ready to get this day over with. My blood’s already burning to get Layla home and in my arms. My balls were aching before, but they’re throbbing now. And my woman looking like she jumped from a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition isn’t making my situation any easier.
If Layla wasn’t so set on proving herself to Taylor, I’d seduce her into calling in sick and staying with me all day. There’s no reason why Jonah couldn’t handle the party. But fuck, I’ve got to promote my fight. Fine, we’ll go to the stupid party, and then it’s back to my house for dinner… topless.
~*~
One hour and seventeen minutes until this shit is over, and then I’m throwing Layla over my shoulder and getting her the fuck out of here. I knew being at Flesh would be torture, but this is outright agony.
The narrow pool, lined with waterfalls, is packed with topless girls and guys. A female DJ dressed in a bikini and stiletto heels spins records, and the pounding music energizes the atmosphere. The outdoor heaters make it a perfect eighty degrees as women of every shape, and only the small size, strut around mostly naked. The smell of booze, chlorine, and suntan lotion hangs heavy in the air. Guys with their chests puffed out drop their life savings on thirty-dollar drinks to entice women out of their tops.
Even with the abundance of bare-breasted women to gawk at, my eyes are fixed firmly on Layla, where they’ve been for the past two hours and forty-three minutes. She’s all class, and professional as hell, flittering about to make contact with each semi-celebrity, shmoozing the pool manager, and even staging photo ops. I’ve had to threaten bodily harm to a handful of guys before word got around that she’s off limits. And yet, they’re still staring. Fuckers.
“Hey, Snake.” A bouncy little brunette comes to lean against the bar next to me.
Ah, shit. Not again. I’ve been brushing women off since I got here. It’s becoming a struggle to remain polite.
Like the majority of the women here, she’s topless. I give her a quick nod in acknowledgement and slide my gaze back to Layla. She’s removed her net-sweater and is walking around in her linen pants and string bikini top. Dammit. I should have marked those gorgeous breasts up with my mouth when I had the chance. That would’ve kept her covered.
“I like your tattoo.”
I cringe at the squeaky voice of the girl next to me. She traces my tattoo with her fingertip.
Glaring at her through my sunglasses, I push her hand away from my chest. “Don’t.”
She shrugs and sticks her overly enhanced breasts out. “You look hot.” She licks her lips.
There was a time when I would’ve appreciated her advances. She’s cute and more than willing. The way she talks, the look in her eyes— it all says she’s open for play. A few weeks ago, I would have been all over it, but that was then. Now her attention is annoying as shit.
“Let’s go for a swim.” The heat of her body presses against my arm.
I glare at where her bare chest is pressed against me and then take a step to put some distance between us. “No, thanks.” I move my eyes back to Layla—fuck. Where is she? I search the crowd for her blonde head. Dammit.
The brunette is talking to me about something, but I’m not paying a damn bit of attention. I see Jonah and the guys moving toward me. Maybe they’ll know where she went.
Don’t freak out. She’s probably in the bathroom.
“Hey, B. You got company?” Rex grins wide at the girl and I resist the urge to toss his ass in the pool.
Jonah shoves Rex and shakes his head, smiling.
“You guys see Layla over there? I lost her.”
They turn back to look at the direction they came then swing their eyes back to me. “Yeah, I think she’s over there rubbing suntan oil on some dude,” Jonah says.
“Nah, that wasn’t her.” Rex spins and motions to the opposite side of the pool. “She’s over there, playing Twister with those frat guys.”
They all burst into laughter.
“Assholes.” I shove past my fuck-face friends and head out to look for her, ignoring the guys’ chuckling and the girl’s huff of irritation behind me.
Zigzagging through the crowd, I move toward the pool. My eyes scan each person, every face that isn’t hers sending my heart rate higher. Why didn’t I keep my eyes on her? Shit.
She’s not in the hot tub, not at the bar, and nowhere around the DJ stand. There are too many people. Over by the pool steps, I see the familiar glint of sunshine-blonde hair. With purposeful steps, I walk toward her. Her gaze swings to me, and she smiles. Just then, the warmth of a small hand slides into mine and grabs hold. What the fuck?
Layla’s gaze dips to my hand, and I know, even through her dark glasses, that she’s seeing exactly what I’m feeling. The topless brunette at my side, and I’m holding her damn hand. Ah, hell.
I rip free from the little leach. “Layla—”
She’s smiling, but nothing about her smirk is warm and friendly. It’s challenging. She raises one eyebrow above the frame of her sunglasses and tilts her head. My stomach drops. In super slow motion, I watch her hands slide behind her back to the tie of her bikini top.
Oh, fuck no.
Layla
That brunette has been hanging off Blake for the past thirty minutes. With my sunglasses on, it was easy to spy on her without being obvious. She stuck her boobs out and rubbed them against my… guy, er… boyfriend. Whatever. My Blake.
And that’s not even what pissed me off the mo
st. I wasn’t born yesterday. I get why she’d be intrigued. Heck, I’ve barely been able to keep myself from panting like a dog at his impressive physique. His broad shoulders are cut so perfectly it’s like he was sculpted by an expert hand. His brawny chest melts into his rippled abdomen, which I know from experience is as hard as it is soft. The perfect V that tapers beneath his black and white board shorts. All of that is enough to draw a woman’s touch.
But what makes me seethe is that she was touching his tattoo. I’ve seen Blake at training, but he never takes off his tee or sleeveless shirts. Even his promo picture is taken from an angle where his tattoo is hidden behind his bicep. So I didn’t even know he had a tattoo until today, and here this young, gorgeous bimbo gets to touch it? Before me?
When she scurried up beside him and grabbed his hand, he pushed her away like I expected. But I didn’t like it.
Even now, she’s pressing her body against his.
It’s time to make a statement.
I wiggle loose the tie of my bikini top. Blake rips his sunglasses from his eyes, green fire igniting his glare. Little Miss Big Boobs leans against his side. He doesn’t push her away or even seem to notice. His scowl pierces through me. I pull the strings away and out to my sides, marveling at his chest as it rises and falls faster and faster.
He’s pissed. Butterflies explode in my stomach. He tilts his head, a clear warning that I’m crossing the limit of his patience. Tempting a guy like him is dangerous. It’s immature, but so damn exciting that I can’t stop.
Moving my fingers to the white triangles of fabric that stand between my nakedness and 200 strangers’ eyes, I give Blake a daring smile.
“No,” he commands in a voice so deep I feel it between my legs.
When will he learn? I don’t take orders.
I flip up my top. Before the air registers against my skin, the heat of his chest is pressed against me. His arms wrap tightly around my waist, and he presses me back against a nearby wall.
He buries his face in my neck. “Fuck, Mouse. You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
“She touched you,” I growl with a ferocity that shocks even me.
