by Lana Sky
It was how I handled all of my breakups, professional or otherwise.
Go out with a bang.
Kiss the bastard goodbye.
Never look back.
“You want me to drop you off?” Perry asked.
My throat went dry.
Yes…
No.
The professional businesswoman I pretended to be warned me to back off. The last thing I needed was bad publicity in a public place. Bret would kill me.
But…God, was it utterly terrible that I just wanted to see his face?
With a sigh of defeat, I finally spoke. “Do you know of a restaurant called Motilda?”
Fifteen minutes later, I stood on a street corner about a block down from Motilda and tried to catch my breath.
I wasn’t really going in there, was I?
Desperate to calm my nerves, I dug into my purse and pulled out a candy bar that I hoarded for emergencies. After tearing off the wrapper, I took a hasty bite before I could even begin to hear Perry’s disgusted, “that’s five pounds, bitch” inside my head.
I chewed mechanically as a group of businessmen wearing suits passed me by—but not without first stopping to scan me up and down. It was almost as if the bastards could sense that I wasn’t wearing any underwear.
Funny thought: right now, my thirty-dollar thong was probably lost amid a pile of fan mail. Even better, it had been stuffed into Jason Daniels’ trash, never to see the light of day again.
I tried to tell myself that the lingerie had gone to a good cause, but when I finally finished the last of the chocolate, I just felt hollow.
A sudden ping from my cell phone had me glancing down. This new message was even more impatient than the last.
Five minutes.
Who is this? I typed, knowing the answer before I hit send.
Four minutes, was the reply.
Three, came a second later.
“Okay asshole,” I ground out on a sigh. “You wanna play? Let’s play.”
It was game on.
Stowing my phone in my pocket, I started down the block with my hair streaming out behind me like a war banner.
By the time I reached Moltilda, I was determined to march in, say my piece, and march right back out. The bouncer recognized me from Bret’s many business soirées and let me in without comment.
Out of all of the venues on the west side, I had a strange fondness for this one. Maybe because it was so exclusive, and the mysterious interior made me feel powerful. In charge. Not to mention that I liked the food.
The layout was a unique design, with every table cordoned off in a semi-private booth. The seclusion added a false sense of privacy, and I couldn’t count how many times I’d stumbled across a couple getting a little too comfortable in one of the lounges.
It was only when I entered the dining room, where a trendy hostess stood behind a marble countertop, that I realized that I had no idea where the mysterious texter even wanted to meet. I reached for my phone and, as if on cue, it pinged with an incoming message.
Table four, to your left.
I followed the instructions, waving off the waitress who attempted to help me.
There, at table four—which happened to be at the very back of the near-deserted dining room—sat none other than Jason Daniels, blue eyes and all.
He wore a plaid shirt with the topmost button undone.
Kinky. Among his wholesome kind, I bet that was the equivalent of a bible-study girl showing off her bra or ankles—whatever indecency pissed off conservatives these days.
Indigo eyes blazed from beneath a wayward fringe of brown hair, but otherwise he looked innocent enough to star in one of those puppy shelter commercials.
God, I hated him.
I hated that perfectly tousled hair.
I hated that “bare your soul to me” expression he mastered without even trying.
I hated those perfect pink lips and that choirboy smile.
“Ms. Newman,” he greeted in that thick, southern drawl as I marched over to his table.
I tried to tell myself that his lack of a reaction didn’t faze me. So what if I was swishing my hips a little harder than necessary, hoping to remind him of my absentee panties?
I was disappointed when he maintained steady eye contact.
“Do you need me to sign something?” I asked while posing with one hand on my hip, purposefully allowing the hem of my skirt to rise up on one thigh. “Some kind of ‘we will never work together professionally—ever,’ type-thing?”
Or perhaps he had gone a step further and decided to tell my boss on me for sending naughty items through the mail?
It wouldn’t have been the first time.
“I don’t want you to sign anything, Abigail,” Jason said. “I simply wanted to give you something.”
Damn. Damn. Damn.
My breath caught on that very dangerous word.
Give.
“Like…like what?” I asked, struggling to maintain my composure.
Without explanation, he reached into his pocket. Motilda had a dress code, so I knew that he must have bribed his way in wearing a worn, but oddly flattering, pair of light-wash jeans. I tried to ignore the way the fabric accentuated the muscles in his thigh as he dropped a small, black piece of material onto the table for the world to see.
My little, lace thong.
I grabbed for it, only to have him snatch it back at the last second.
“Uh-uh,” he scolded in a stern tone that made my stomach lurch. “Not these. These are mine.”
I could only gape, like a dumbstruck idiot, as he tucked my panties back within his pocket and then gestured to the empty seat across from him.
“Join me, and we can talk.”
What. The. Hell?
My cheeks stung as I tried to comprehend the fact that Jason Daniels had my panties in his pocket. His panties.
Was I having a stroke? One that caused impossibly sexy delusions?
“Have a seat, Abigail,” Jason reiterated when I didn’t move. “Please.”
That little, odd bit of politeness snapped me out of the paralyzing shock.
Please have a seat, Abigail, while I stuff your panties in my pocket and eventually blackmail you to the press and have your reputation smeared through the tabloids.
No way in hell was I going through that.
Not again.
“No, Jason,” I said sweetly while sidling up to him as closely as I dared. “I don’t think I will. I wouldn’t want your reputation tarnished, after all.”
I sidled even closer, all the while flashing my most wicked smile.
“They don’t call me the ‘ball buster’ for nothing.”
Truth be told, I hated that damn nickname. I reinvented my client’s image, and if I had to get a little tough in order to do so, then so be it.
I had no shame.
But I did feel a little…something when Jason Daniels didn’t even twitch a perfect eyelash in the face of my oh-so fearsome reputation.
“Do you have another client waiting?” He wondered innocently.
I felt my mouth curve into a frown. “You are not my client. In fact…”
I shuffled a little closer, leaning down so that he got a nice view of cleavage, not for his benefit, of course. I had always preferred an uneven playing field—and I knew just how to push a man off balance.
With one hand, I braced myself against the back of the booth and came just close enough to sweetly whisper in his ear. “You don’t have what it takes to work with me. I demand respect.”
“Of course.” He startled me by turning his head to meet my gaze full on.
Blue. Fucking blue.
His gaze held mine captive, and for a split second, I couldn’t breathe.
“I wouldn’t expect any less from a woman such as yourself.”
I jerked back and tried to disguise the unsteady motion by tossing my hair over my shoulder. “What is that supposed to mean?”
The corner
of his mouth twitched. “Won’t you join me?” He gestured to the table, and not for the first time since meeting him…
I, Abigail the “ball buster” Newman, was thrown off my game.
Jason Daniels didn’t melt with lust when I pushed my boobs in his face or told him to go fuck himself. Not since I’d first learned the powers of a wonder bra and eyeliner had I ever felt so out of my element. Ever.
I blamed utter shock for what I did next.
“All right, Jason. I’ll join you.”
I turned my attention to the table, but rather than take the empty seat across from him, I approached his side of the booth and swung my left leg over his waist instead.
It was a total kamikaze move.
I expected nothing. Was completely thoughtless.
It was only when the bare flesh of my inner thigh met the harshness of his jeans that I remembered my current lack of underwear.
Not that it stopped me from straddling him. My hands trembled as they gripped the ledge of the table behind me. I dug one knee into the cushion of the booth, using it to support my weight as I swung the other up onto the seat, fully bracing myself over Jason Daniels’ lap.
He was so damn warm.
His heat licked up and down that dangerous space between my legs, searing my insides way more intensely than I ever would have thought possible. I struggled to draw in air. I had to lean back, almost resting my ass on the table, just to keep any part of me from touching him. But, when I finally glanced down at his face, I was grinning in triumph.
I waited for him to push me off.
Cross himself.
Blush.
So naughty, Abby, I scolded myself. This stunt would probably earn me a(nother) restraining order. One that I would brandish on the walls of my office with pride.
I scanned Mr. Daniels’ face, waiting for the disgust…
But he just smiled.
“Well, Ms. Newman,” he began in an alarmingly husky drawl. “I guess we can finally get down to business.”
He never touched me. In fact, his hands remained by his sides, but my body reacted as if he had seized me by the waist and settled me right there on the center of his jeans. He looked that smug. That calm.
My knees turned to jelly. I clutched the edge of the table for dear life, and only months of Pilates enabled me to remain suspended above him.
And the longer I stared into those damn, electric blue eyes, the less I was sure that I even wanted to move.
“What…what are you doing?” I demanded, damn near breathless.
The corner of his mouth twitched into another charming smile. Only then did it finally sink in that he might not want to press charges, and that he was the one holding the power.
Oh shit.
“This…this was a mistake,” I blurted, trying to scramble from over top of him. “I’m not…we’re not—”
“Not what?” He shifted, catching me off guard. I tried my damn hardest not to react as one of his hands caught the back of my thigh.
“Careful, darlin’.”
If…if, out of some weird, twisted fascination, I might have wondered how his hands felt against my bare skin, then the fantasy didn’t even begin to do him justice. His fingers were calloused and warm, and every nick and rough patch teased my skin with the most delicious friction.
I could feel the fucking earth through his palm, if that even made sense. Every long hour he’d spent at his guitar. Every stroke of his fingers along the chords.
“You’re blushing, Abigail.” He was smirking, mocking me, and the thought of him getting off on my humiliation was just too damn much.
Let go of me. I swallowed back the words, knowing that they’d be a sign of defeat—and Abigail Newman submitted to no one.
“I’m just flushed, Mr. Daniels,” I lied as I loosened my death grip on the table. “It’s hot in here.”
Somehow, I managed to maintain eye contact—and not suffocate—as I lowered myself fully onto his lap.
It was a bad idea.
In an instant, there was nothing between me and him but a rough layer of denim. I had never felt so dirty than I did at that very moment, practically naked above a fully-clothed man.
I wish I could have said that it was a bad feeling, but Jason Daniels was solid and firm, and his nearness reinforced just how long it had been since my last roll in the hay.
“I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, Ms. Newman,” he murmured, sounding hoarse for once. Any other day, I would have taken malicious glee in causing that slight slip in his unshakable demeanor. Mr. Perfect sounded mighty uncomfortable—but if anything, I sounded much worse.
“I-I don’t think so.”
I scooted back just a smidgen, until the center of my thighs rested right over the gap between his legs.
“In fact, Mr. Daniels,” I breathed. “I think we’ve gotten off on the right foot. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the ladies room.”
I drew out the word, loving the way his eyes narrowed ever so slightly as my breath basted his cheek. I started to shift my weight, prepared to bring my leg back over, but then Jason moved. His grip tightened, and with one merciless flick of his wrist, he yanked me forward.
Caught completely off guard, I had no choice but to brace myself against the back of the booth with my hands on either side of his head. I still straddled him, resting fully on my knees, but my breasts were uncomfortably close to that chiseled jaw, lined with stubble.
I couldn’t breathe.
This never happened to me. Abby Newman was never at anyone’s mercy—ever. My mouth opened, prepared to demand he let me go.
But before I could even find the words to speak, his hand slid from my thigh. I hated the pang that shot through me at the loss of contact.
What the hell was that?
“Perhaps you’re right, Ms. Newman,” he suggested in that husky twang. “Perhaps we have nothing to talk about after all. I won’t bother you again.”
I frowned. I couldn’t help feeling like he was toying with me. Like I had failed some secret test. What? I wasn’t scoring high enough on the slut-factor radar to earn a big enough reaction from Mr. Perfect?
Well, a part of me purred before I could tamp it down, I’ll just have to prove him wrong.
“You’re right,” I agreed in a sultry, ragged voice I’d never heard myself use before. “We have nothing to talk about.”
I dug the nails of one hand into the black fabric of the booth, supporting my weight, while the other hand slid down between us. I gave him ample time to pull away. I allowed my nails to rake the cotton of his shirt in a teasing caress, catching the hint of solid muscle underneath in warning.
He should have pushed me off by the time I reached his stomach…then the waistband of his jeans. Everything I knew about perfect men like Jason—who cared so much about their flawless images—told me that he would never let me get far enough to teasingly tug on his zipper.
Never let me pull said zipper down just enough to reveal the hint of gray boxers underneath.
I gulped, intimidated by the sight of him in a way I had never been before. Even without touching him. Even without pulling his zipper down the whole way. Even without seeing him fully, I knew that he was aroused.
And I don’t know why the realization didn’t have me grinning in triumph. Why the air clung to the insides of my chest. Why I felt the strangest urge to close my legs and sit back on the other seat, like the good, Christian girl I never was.
“I must admit…” Jason spoke in a rumbling baritone. “I’m rather intrigued by this turn in the conversation.”
He was mocking me. The bastard was getting off, but he didn’t even have the decency to look like he was getting off.
His face wasn’t flushed. He wasn’t dripping with sweat. His voice didn’t tremble.
In fact, the only clue that he might have been semi-turned on was the way those blue eyes had darkened into this delicious, deep metallic color. It felt like I was staring rig
ht into the fucking ocean, brimming with dangerous creatures eager to swallow me whole.
And a part of me so wanted…needed to be devoured.
I hated myself for the ache that unfurled within me as my gaze fell over those wickedly formed lips. They looked so soft. Subtle. Perfectly suited to a task I couldn’t even name inside my own head without feeling my cheeks heat up.
And then it struck me.
If anyone was in danger of losing their shit, it was me—and I hated feeling so out of control. In fact…I don’t think I’d ever felt so out of control.
There was a saying Perry used to repeat back when I did his crazy diet binges along with him, and it got to the point that we were both desperate enough to kill each other over the free sugar cubes at Denny’s—“Have your cake, bitch. When it gets to the point where the damn thing is mocking you, just fucking eat it and walk away.”
Jason Daniels was pure sin, and I was hungrier than I ever thought I could have been when it came to the opposite sex. I tried to tell myself that—after the last bastard I’d been with—even my scruffy landlord and his greasy hermit-beard would have sparked the same reaction in me.
The way I was feeling had nothing at all to do with the pair of magnetic blue eyes staring me down—just a ten-month sex drought and a lack of fresh batteries.
Desperate to prove it, I forced every bit of common sense out of my mind and just focused on regaining control over the emotions racing through me.
I leaned forward, arching my hips down, putting myself in direct contact with Jason Daniels.
Oh dear, sweet God…the friction. His zipper grazed my inner thigh. Such an uncomfortable sensation shouldn’t have seemed so damn yummy. But it did. My stomach fluttered, insides stirred by Jason’s heat and the intimate feel of that rugged denim. I had to bite my bottom lip just to trap a sound inside that may or may not have been a moan.
Get a grip, Abby, I told myself. This was about control, wasn’t it? Ever since my high-school days, one of the sure-fire ways I reacted to stress was by just giving myself a taste of what I wanted—enough to get it out of my system and walk away.
When I had a crush on the sexy science teacher in twelfth grade, I’d “accidentally” let my backside come into close contact with his crotch on my way out of the classroom.
