He kicked the door shut with his foot, not looking away from me. “Can’t compete with a man who sells you tequila, but I did bring you something.”
Surprised, I perked up. “You did? What?”
From the inside pocket of his leather jacket, he produced a little black box. I may have blanched, because Nico laughed.
“Don’t get all deer-in-the-headlights on me, now, Kat. If there was a ring in this box, it’d be a hell of a lot bigger. And we haven’t even been on that third date yet.”
I blushed, feeling like a total idiot. Then I started thinking about ring sizes. Then I blushed harder, screaming at myself mentally to pull my shit together.
Nico put the box into my hands. I opened it, and gasped. It was a necklace, gold and delicate, with a pendant in the shape of a Japanese symbol.
The symbol for trust.
My throat got tight. I looked away, blinking.
Nico mistook my reaction for disappointment. “You don’t like it?”
“No, I . . . it’s beautiful, Nico. I love it.”
He put his fingers on my chin and gently turned my head back, so I was forced to look into his eyes.
“Then why d’you look like you’re gonna cry?”
The waterworks have been a lifelong problem for me. I get choked up over all sorts of random things, from hearing the national anthem to those cat videos on Facebook. The word “sentimental” was invented for saps like me.
One of the many reasons I have to try so hard to pretend I’m tough. I don’t have a thick skin, like Grace. I get hurt easily.
“How did you . . . this symbol . . . you know what it means, right?”
Nodding, Nico swept his thumb over my cheek. “Kenji told me you’re half Japanese, half Irish. It was either this or a Trinity knot, which I thought might be a little too much. For a second date, and all.”
A Trinity knot was a Celtic love knot, symbolizing eternal love. He was blowing me away with all this. “Nico . . . I don’t know what to say.”
He leaned down and gently kissed me. “Say you’ll wear it.”
Of course I would wear it. I was never going to take it off. I’d be wearing it when they lowered my coffin into the ground. I’d never received a gift as thoughtful, beautiful, or outrageously romantic in my entire life.
“Can I ask you a serious question?”
He nodded.
I had to gather my courage for a second before I could ask him what was on my mind.
“Why me?”
I promise I wasn’t fishing for a compliment this time. I was just confused. This man could have any woman he wanted. Literally—any one. I thought I was better than average looking, but I certainly wasn’t a stunner. Especially in a town like LA where beautiful women practically grew on trees. I could be funny on occasion, and I’d been told by past boyfriends I had a quirky, adorable charm.
But I wasn’t on Nico’s level. I was boxing out of my class. If he was Mike Tyson, I was the guy who emptied the spit bucket. I just needed to understand.
“Could be those freckles. First girl I ever loved had freckles. I was six.” Nico regarded me very seriously, but I sensed the humor behind his tone. “Or it could be those Cleopatra eyes. Or that killer body. You got a woman’s body, classic hourglass curves made for a man’s hands.”
I blushed again, looking down.
Nico’s voice grew quiet. “Or it could be that when you look at me, I feel like I could fuckin’ fly.”
I looked up at him. Now he was deadly serious, staring at me with something like wonder.
“I don’t have a lot of real in my life, Kat. You’re real. Knew it when you stood up to me when I got mad at Avery. Protectin’ a girl you didn’t even know, puttin’ yourself out there for someone else. And not backin’ down an inch. I liked that. Liked it too that you didn’t let me push you around or intimidate you. You’d be surprised how old that shit gets, people bowin’ and scrapin’, thinkin’ they’re gonna get somethin’ outta you if they kiss your ass just right. And then you demanded I explain what the deal was with me and Avery before you’d even consider talkin’ to me about there bein’ anything between us. Which I loved, by the way. Shows you got class. And self-respect. To top it all off, you got two girlfriends who obviously love you and have your back, which means you’re a good friend. Which means you’re trustworthy. Which means fuckin’ everything to me.”
I let it all sink in, just breathing. I wasn’t sure if I trusted myself to speak.
“So that’s why I got you the necklace. That’s what we’re gonna have: trust. It’s important to me, and it’s important to you. All this other stuff . . . ” He squeezed me into a tight embrace, nuzzled his face into my neck, and inhaled deeply. “Is just a bonus.”
“Other stuff?” I sounded like Minnie Mouse I was so breathless.
He chuckled. “The way my dick gets hard just lookin’ at you. The way you get wet when I touch you.”
Oh, God. We were back to the dirty talk. And we were in my house. Alone.
I tried not to hyperventilate.
“First date, remember? And we still haven’t established anything about me getting . . . you know. I never admitted to that.”
Nico had one hand on my ass, pulling me against him, and one hand fisted in my hair at the nape of my neck. My arms were wrapped around his shoulders, the necklace box in a death grip in one hand.
“So you’re saying you’re not wet right now?” He trailed soft kisses from my earlobe to my collarbone, lightly nipping me with his teeth, lapping his tongue against the pounding pulse in my throat.
“Uh . . . uh-uh.”
“So if I did this, it wouldn’t affect you at all?”
He slid his hand up from my ass, across my hip and up my ribcage, to the underside of my breast. He cupped it in his hand, then swept his thumb over my nipple.
My hard-as-rock nipple.
“Um. Nope. Not feeling anything.”
Had anyone, anywhere, ever told such a colossal lie?
His chuckle was dark. “Hmm. Funny how you’re shiverin’ then. Must be cold in here.”
His thumb stroked back and forth over my aching nipple, while his mouth—soft and wet, Jesus so incredible—sucked on a sensitive spot on my neck.
I may or may not have moaned. I couldn’t tell you with any sort of accuracy, because my mind was no longer running the show. I arched into him, utterly lost.
He pinched my nipple, and I jerked, gasping.
“Anything yet?”
Teasing bastard.
“I was just . . . thinking that I need to . . . put some laundry in the washing machine—”
He brought his lips to mine. The moment his tongue invaded my mouth, I knew I was toast. Damn, but the man could kiss.
He pulled back after a moment. “Tell me you’re wet for me,” he murmured, panting. “Admit it. I wanna hear you say it.”
Fine, Nico, you win. You win the battle, but not the war.
“Drenched. Soaked. Yes, okay, yes!”
I pulled myself out of his arms, straightened my shirt, and ran a shaking hand over my hair. I looked at him. He was breathing hard, staring back at me with fire in his eyes. It gave me courage that he seemed just as affected by me as I was by him.
“But this is only date number one—”
“Two.”
Well, I could compromise. “One point five. So I’m going to have to ask that you keep your hands to yourself for the remainder of our time together today, Mr. Nyx. We have an agreement, remember?”
My smile was sweet. Or maybe it was the smile of a humongous bitch. Or a woman with no sense whatsoever. Who turned down the sexiest man alive?
Me, that’s who. Like I said before, I’ve never been known for good decision making under pressure.
“Okay. Date number one point five.” He repeated it as if it were a life sentence. Then he smiled a smile of such wicked sensuality I nearly melted into a pool at his feet. “But in another one and a half dates, you’re mine
, Kat. All mine. For good.”
Gulp.
I shrugged as if this were something gorgeous men said to me on a regular basis.
“All right, then, Chastity, gimme a tour of your place. Start with the bedroom.”
I quirked my brows. Did we not just establish the ground rules?
He saw my look. “Most personal space in a woman’s home is her bedroom. I can learn more from one look in a woman’s bedroom than from spendin’ a week in the rest of the house. So that’s what I wanna see first.”
I quashed the ugly impulse to ask him just how many women’s bedrooms he’d toured. Because a) I didn’t want to know the answer, and b) I didn’t want to know the answer.
What was that old cliché? Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt?
“Okay. Follow me.”
I led him through the house, acutely aware of every dust mote, streaked mirror, dirty patch of floor. I tried to calm myself with logic. Men didn’t care as much as women about cleanliness. And rock stars probably didn’t care at all about cleanliness. I forced myself to picture him living in a mess of a bachelor pad with dogs running in and out, empty frozen dinner boxes on the kitchen counter, crumpled beer cans behind the couch.
I failed to conjure it. Someone as beautiful as Nico most likely lived in a cloud palace.
My house is only fifteen hundred square feet, so we arrived at the bedroom in about four point two seconds. He did the Dracula thing at the threshold again, asking me to invite him in.
I suddenly felt shy. What would he think? “Um. Come on in.”
And then he was in my bedroom.
Squee!
He roved around the room like a big cat, restless in a new cage, sniffing things out. I had to admit he was onto something about a woman’s bedroom being her most personal space. I’d spent more money and time decorating this room than any other. The rest of the house had a casual California boho-beach vibe, with its distressed wood floors, ivory furniture, and gauzy curtains, but the bedroom was very Zen. Decorated in a cool palette of sage greens and charcoal grays, with a floor-to-ceiling window along one wall that looked over a tiny tranquility garden of stones and succulents, it was my little oasis.
Nico seemed to like it, too. “Nice. Restful.”
He examined the four prints that hung on the wall opposite the window, featuring black bamboo leaves against a background of white. He saw the sliding screen that separated the sleeping area from the master bath, and went in for a look. I stood near the doorway, leaning against the dresser, waiting for him to be done.
“Your bathtub seems a little big for one person.” He stuck his head around the edge of the screen. He smiled, eyes alight. “Did I mention how much I love baths?”
“Really?”
His smile grew wider. “Candles, too. I see you got a lot of candles in here.” He winked.
What a flirt.
“I’m not sure the image of you soaking in a bubble bath surrounded by candles jives with the whole badass rocker thing you’ve got going on, but who am I to judge?”
He pretended outrage. “What, badass rockers don’t need to get clean?”
I pursed my lips. “I suppose you’re right. But please don’t tell me you also get facials and pedicures or we’re going to have to re-evaluate the status of our relationship.”
His grin returned. “There’s that word again, Kat. ‘Relationship.’ You got it real bad for me, don’t you?”
My face turned red. Because of course my face would turn red.
“Thought so.” He disappeared behind the screen again, leaving me to fan myself.
After what seemed like an eon, Nico strolled out of the bathroom, holding something in his hand. He held it up, dangling from his fingers. It was a short, black, silk chemise with a slit from thigh to hip: my lingerie. The master closet was adjacent to the bathroom.
“This is interestin’,” he drawled.
I covered my face and groaned.
“And there’s an entire section of the closet with even more interestin’ stuff than this. Care to explain yourself, Chastity?”
No, I didn’t. The story involved an ex with a lingerie fetish. I never wore any of it anymore, but I’d spent so much on the stuff I couldn’t bear to just throw it all out.
Nico chuckled. “You’re takin’ the Fifth, I see. All right, sweetheart, I see how it is. I’ve got your number now.” He strolled across the room, twirling the chemise between his fingers. He stopped in front of me, set his hands on the dresser, one on either side of my hips, and leaned down to murmur into my ear. “Lady on the street, freak in the bedroom, hmm?”
God, I hoped he didn’t look in the drawer next to my bed. Maximus the vibrator wasn’t the only little toy in there. I’d been single for quite a while.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, officer. That’s not mine. I’ve been set up.”
“Hear that sad story all the time, ma’am. Sorry to say I’m gonna have to take you down to the station for questionin’.” He took my wrists in his hands, put them behind my back, and tied my silk chemise in a knot around them.
I realized my playful little avoidance tactic had been misconstrued as an invitation to play. Play play.
“Um, Nico . . . ”
“Shh.” He set his finger against my lips. He looked into my eyes, all teasing gone. “Trust, remember?” He took the little black box I’d set on the dresser, opened it, removed the necklace. Brushing my hair aside, he clasped it around my neck, then set his hands on my shoulders. He looked into my eyes.
“You said another one and a half dates. I’m respectin’ that. So what we’re gonna do now is get to know one another better, so after that date and a half, you’re gonna feel more comfortable with me, because you see I can keep my word. And the more I keep my word, the more comfortable you’re gonna feel. Which is what I want. You feelin’ comfortable. So that when I finally do have you, you’re not gonna hold back, feelin’ shy, or embarrassed, or unsure. I want you a hundred percent on board. Yeah?”
I swallowed. My voice came out soft. “Yeah.”
He cupped my face in his hands, and kissed me.
I couldn’t remember ever feeling so turned on. It was part fear, part thrill, all physical reaction to his amazing smell and taste, to that electricity crackling between us.
It was also that I knew, without a doubt, that this man could make me break any rule I might set to slow things down. If he’d really wanted to, he could make me beg him to fuck me, and I’d be helpless not to.
“Good,” said Nico, and swept me up in his arms.
I yelped in surprise. He carried me into the living room, and sat down on the sofa with me in his arms. My hands were still tied behind my back. He settled me into a comfortable position on his lap, arranged one of the cushions behind me so I was propped up, and spread his big hand over my thigh.
“So. Let’s talk. First item of discussion: where were you born?”
“You don’t think you should untie me first?”
He sent me a smoldering look. I read it to mean he didn’t think he should untie me first. I sighed. “Manhattan.”
“You grew up in New York?”
“No. We moved to New Orleans when I was two.”
“The Big Easy. Cool. Must’ve been fun to grow up there.”
“I wouldn’t know. We moved to Georgia when I was four. Then when I was six, we moved to Kentucky.”
Nico cocked his head. “I’m sensin’ a pattern here.”
My father could never live in one place more than a few years. Said it stifled his creativity. It was only when I was grown that I realized he used “creativity” as an excuse for everything from avoiding conversations he didn’t want to have to keeping up with the rent.
I avoided his eyes. “My childhood was a little . . . chaotic.”
He squeezed my leg, making me look at him. “That why you don’t have any family pictures anywhere, Kat?”
Talk about sharp eyes. I cleared my throat and
sidestepped the question. “What about you? Were you born here?”
He studied me for a moment, his expression serious. He asked softly, “Family’s a sore spot?”
Less a sore spot, and more a gaping, bloody wound.
I shifted my weight in his lap and focused on the coffee table. Seeing my discomfort at the topic, Nico reached around my back and untied my hands. Then he took my wrists and put my arms around his shoulders. He stroked his hand over my hair. I rested my head on his shoulder, and he began to talk.
“I grew up in Tennessee. Shitty little town, dirt poor. My dad was an asshole. Beat the shit outta me and my brother whenever he came home drunk, which was a lot. Mom left when I was ten. Never saw her again. Got into drugs pretty hard when I was young, got in trouble with the law, spent a while in juvie. Met a kid in there who played the guitar. We got to be friends. Hooked up after we both got out. He taught me how to play, too. Started writin’ songs, playin’ this piece of shit guitar I bought at a pawn shop. Didn’t have much else to do.”
He laughed, but it was hard. “When I hit seventeen, figured I was gonna die in that town if I didn’t leave, quick. So I did. Moved to LA. Lied about my age, got a job at the Pig ‘N Whistle.”
He paused to run a hand through his hair, but I knew what came after Nico got the job.
The Pig ‘N Whistle was a famous restaurant and bar on Hollywood Boulevard. They had open mike nights twice a week where aspiring musicians could take a chance onstage. Nico took his chances, and became a crowd favorite. He could play, he could sing, and he looked like a movie idol. He was spotted by an agent, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Not yet twenty years old, he became a star. That was over a decade ago.
“And now here you are.”
He rested his chin on top of my head. “Yep. Here I am. With you.”
I closed my eyes, inhaling his scent. Here we were.
“How old are you?”
He chuckled. “You didn’t Google me? Not sure if I should be happy or hurt.”
I had Googled him. I’d read two or three lines, then I saw a picture of him and Avery, arm in arm at a fashion event in Paris, smiling into each other’s eyes. I clicked away from the page, and went and made myself a margarita. That had been my first and last attempt at finding out information about Nico Nyx.
Sweet as Sin Page 7
