Hammered: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Hard n' Dirty Book 5)

by Alexis Alvarez

  Not that I’m supposed to care. And remember, I don’t even have time to date. Who knows what this even is: A one-night thing, maybe?

  Something in my gut twists at that idea, though. I don’t believe she’s the kind of person who wants a one-night stand. And I do care, at least to some degree.

  My first thought, back at the site when I saw her, was too liberal. Bleeding heart whatever.

  Not that I don’t care about animals—it’s just that people, in my book, are more important. The ones who have a job and a roof over their heads only as long as they’re employed at Danton Construction. I am going to make it my goal in life to keep them employed, and the cranes are not going to get in the way. No matter how pretty Talia is.

  I’m not doing this job for the board of directors. Or to impress Art. I’m doing it for one reason only—to help the employees.

  Like Hector. When I got to the hospital that night—the evening I left Talia in that Chinese restaurant—he was already in the ER. How the hell could he ever hope to pay one tenth of the medical bills unless he worked for Danton? And unless I keep this project on track, he—and most of the crew—will be laid off from the best job and lose the most superlative benefits they’ve ever had.

  I sigh and curse, looking out over the city.

  I turn as I hear her behind me.

  “Hey.” Her voice is husky with sex and the late hour.

  “Hey.” I turn, unable to resist smiling at her gorgeous face. “Come here.” I don’t wait for her to do it, though. I walk to her and take her in my arms and kiss her. Fuck, her lips are so soft, her tongue so pliant. My cock hardens as she pushes into me, her nude form lithe and supple.

  “I’m hungry,” she murmurs into my ear.

  “So am I.” I reach out to grab her ass and cup her cheek, pull her up against me. “Hungry for your pussy. Spread those legs so I can feast.”

  “I was talking about food, but…” she gasps as I move my fingers to the front of her mound.

  “But”—I insert a finger into her wet heat—“what were you about to say?”

  “Mmm.” She reaches down to stroke me through my boxers. “I have no idea. But this seems appealing right here.”

  “Oh, it is,” I assure her.

  “Maybe I could be persuaded to detour back to your bedroom.” She inserts her hand beneath the band of my boxers, and strokes my hips. Not close enough to where I need her touch. “Before you cook me some kind of gourmet meal.”

  My cock gets harder and I remove my finger from her cunt just so I can grab her up in my arms. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  She screams and giggles. “You’re going to drop me!”

  “Never.” I tighten my grip. “I’ve got you safe. I’ll take care of you.” My words come out stronger than I intended, more serious.

  For a second, she stills in my arms. She pauses. “Good. I could use some of that.” Her voice is soft and a little hesitant.

  And fuck, but right now all I want to do is take care of this woman. Bring her pleasure. Show her everything I can to make her happy in the moment.

  So I take her back to my bed and toss her down and make love to her. Rough, soft, kinky. All of it. All night long.

  And I don’t give another thought—for now—to my dilemma.

  Because when I’m touching her body, all I can think about is the pleasure.

  Chapter Eleven

  Talia

  “Hey, baby. You awake?”

  I moan and push my head into the pillow. “No.” Then I start. Reach out. “Wait… did I fall asleep? Is it morning?” I blink, and a bright shaft of sun makes me squint.

  “It is indeed morning.”

  I sit up. Wipe my eyes, feeling gritty makeup, and wince. “Why didn’t you wake me?” Images from the night before rush through my mind. Dane’s sexy dominance. How I loved it. The unreal pleasure.

  Dane is already dressed in jeans and a form-fitting black T, and the room is humid with moisture from the attached master bathroom, the scent of soap and man shampoo hovering in the warm air. He’s barefoot though, and somehow that’s sexy.

  “You looked like you needed the sleep.” He smiles and leans down to kiss me, and I kiss him back even though I’m worried about my morning breath. It doesn’t seem like he cares, and his lips have both mint and coffee on them.

  “I need to go.” His demeanor is different from last night. More shut off. Professional. He grabs socks from a dresser drawer and turns to look at me, almost apologetically.

  “Okay. Ah, give me a few minutes to get dressed, and I can…” I wipe my eyes again and glance to the pile of clothes on the floor.

  “No!” He puts up a hand, and sits beside me. “You don’t need to hurry. Stay as long as you want. Drink coffee. Shower. I just need to be somewhere.” His voice softens. “But I want you to stay.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure how I feel about being here without him. I guess it’s good that he trusts me, but I also wish he would prioritize me over whatever else is going on in his life. Although that might not be fair.

  “In fact, it would be hot to have you here naked and waiting for me when I get back.” He bites my neck and grabs my breast and I squeal, giggle.

  “I have a life too, you know.” Something about the situation makes me defensive. “And maybe you should be the one waiting for me in my bed.” I raise my eyebrow.

  “Done. You just give me a key, and I’ll be there. Anytime you want.” He smiles.

  How does he make the act of putting on socks sexy?

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” I give him a pointed look.

  “I hope you do.” He smirks at me. “Several times.”

  “Where are you going?” I feel butterflies in my stomach, because I think he doesn’t want to tell me. If he wanted me to know, he’d have said it, already.

  He put on his shoes. “Just a thing I have to do.”

  “I see.” But I don’t. And I don’t get why he has to be so mysterious. It makes me feel irritated and sort of like crying. Because—and this might be ridiculous, but emotions are not logical—I want him to be so crazy into me, after our night together, that he’s dying to tell me anything, everything to please me. To help me at least get one fucking interview with Danton Carter. Why is that so out of bounds?

  “You. Are. Amazing.” He kisses me again. “I mean that, Talia.” He touches my cheek, and I melt. The look in his eye is anything but distant, and despite his odd behavior, I really like him.

  “You too.” I touch his hand, place mine on top of his on my cheek. “Last night... I really enjoyed it.”

  “That’s an understatement.” He stands up. “This time I will call you, Talia Carlsson.” He looks at me for a second. “And that’s a promise.”

  “Okay.”

  My voice must not hold conviction, because he bends down next to the bed. “Listen. How about we plan our second date right now? There’s a great rustic cafe I like. Let me take you out tomorrow. Yes?”

  “I’d like that.” My face heats up with pleasure.

  “Good.” He bends over and kisses me once again, a brief one. “See you soon. Have all the coffee. Eat everything in the fridge.”

  “I might,” I call after him, as he strides out of the room.

  “Do it. I encourage you. Oh, and I prepaid an Uber for you. I left the information on a note in the kitchen.”

  The door closes and clicks.

  And I’m alone.

  I decide not to shower, because I don’t have fresh clothes and all my stuff is back at my place, so I put on my dress from last night and head into his kitchen—sleek, all stainless and granite—and pour myself a cup of coffee. I feel like a thief or spy, opening cupboards to find coffee mugs, even though he invited me to do just this. And it tempts me to want to dig into more cupboards and uncover all the details about Dane Troy.

  Like his history. What his deal is with Harvard. Why he’s got so much money. Why he’s doing construction foreman work but is a
lso some kind of PR guru, has this sleek apartment and a silver tongue.

  To my embarrassment and horror, I realize I don’t know much about him at all, no more than I learned the first night.

  Jesus. I’ve flirted with him, slept with him. And I—an actual reporter, someone who’s supposedly not just good at information brokerage, but an expert in the subject—have not even procured this man’s most basic starter facts.

  “Ugh.” I push my face into my hands. “Why?”

  The answer that dissolves into the edges of my brain isn’t the one I want, and certainly doesn’t fit the image I have of myself in my mind as an ardent ever-careful detail-gathering perfect feminist, so I take a sip of the coffee—strong and delicious—and walk to the window. The one against which he fucked me last night. The one where he’d made me cry out in pleasure.

  The air seems thick with the memories of him, his scent, even though, when I take a deep breath, all I smell is the neutral air of the condo and the coffee. But his smell is embedded in my memory. His taste. The way he felt in my hands. In my body.

  I sit back in the leather couch, careful not to spill my coffee, and run my free hand over the arm of it. I liked bending over for him. Letting him command me. Tell me what to do.

  “I trusted him,” I say aloud, as if I need to hear it. “It’s okay to just want sex, sometimes. Even if it doesn’t lead to anything more.”

  As if saying it will quiet my raging mind. Stop the cravings that already fill me. The hopes and dreams.

  Next time, when we go out, I’ll get all his details. His resume. His facts. It’s weird that he’s not on LinkedIn, and I’m going to ask why. I’m going to charm him into spilling his soul to me, all the details I need for my crane project.

  When I head back to his kitchen, I put the mug in the sink, debate washing it. Better to leave it here with my lip marks on it, so he can feel my presence? Or better to clean it and show that I’m the kind of person who leaves no unnecessary traces? It seems like a foolish thing to ponder, but the longer I stand there, the more the indecision weighs on me. Finally, I leave the mug there, half full. Half empty. Let him decide which it is, because the fuck if I can.

  I slide on my heels and grab my purse while trying to put on the look of a woman who’s dressed for the morning, even though the night is still all on me, in me, suffusing my essence. Taking the Uber information, I let the door swing shut behind me with a solid click.

  ***

  The next night there’s no reason, I decide, to end our newfound truce.

  I put on a red dress, sleeveless, strapless, that’s tight and comes to mid-thigh. Classy even though it shows skin. Easy on the makeup because it’s hot and sticky, and tall silver heels, my favorite ones. They make my legs look even longer, and I feel good in them.

  “Good day?” Dane turns to look at me, smiles. His hands are strong on the wheel, and I catch my breath, remembering how they felt on my skin.

  “Quiet. Did some work. How did your thing turn out?”

  “It was fine.” He seems to hum with positive energy.

  “Work stuff?” I push, curious to see what he’ll tell me.

  “Work never ends. I’m sure it’s the same for you.” The look he gives me, a sort of pointed expression, is not entirely to my liking.

  I swallow and blink. “True. That’s why it’s important to carve out a space that’s reserved for personal things, where work can’t intrude.”

  “Is that what this is?” He raises a brow. We’re stopped at a red light, and he smiles over at me.

  “Maybe. Do you feel the contentment of perfect seclusion? Are you enjoying the bubble we’ve created?”

  “So far, very much.” He reaches out and touches my bare thigh, and his fingertips electrify me. “More than enjoyed.”

  “More than enjoyed. Wow. High praise.” I raise an eyebrow.

  He laughs. “Relished it. Devoured it.”

  “Sounds like you’re talking hungry talk. Good thing we’re on the way to dinner.”

  His fingers tighten on my skin. “Hungry, yes. For you. But you know that.” His voice is husky.

  “You can tell me more about it. I’d like to hear the details.” I lean back and shoot him a side-glance.

  “You know what I’d like to do?” He runs his hand up my leg, just an inch. Strokes me.

  “What?” I let my legs part, slightly. Just the barest amount.

  “Touch you during dinner. Under the tablecloth. Make you so hot that you get wet and beg me to leave. To take you home.”

  “Is that so.” The idea has appeal. I arch my back against the seat and close my eyes for a second, thinking about it. His hand on me like this, then moving higher... giving me more. And less. What I want, but not enough. Teasing me. Driving me wild.

  “That’s right.”

  “Maybe I’d tease you instead, though.” I reach over and put my hand on his leg, then slide it over. Little by little. His cock is rock solid under my hand, and just feeling that sends spires of desire through me. And accomplishment. Me. I did that.

  “I don’t mind,” he drawls. “Tease me anytime you want, baby.”

  “How about right now?” I stroke him with a little more pressure. “Can you multitask?”

  “Give it my best shot.” He gets even harder under my fingers.

  “Oh, you will.” I press my palm to his pants and rub, slow and even. “Believe me, it will be your best effort to date.”

  He groans and smiles as the light turns. The car races ahead, his driving not at all affected by what I’m doing. “You can’t make me lose control here, though. I’m too focused.”

  “We’ll see.” I keep touching him, soft, firm, mixing it up. I don’t want to cause an accident, but I like having him under my control for a time. Because it feels like if this were a contest, he might be the one with a little more power over me than I have over him. And it’s nice to turn the tables, even if it’s just for a drive.

  When we get to the restaurant, he parks. Takes my hand into his. “Proud of what you’ve done? I need a few minutes before we go in.” He smiles.

  “Later on I plan to examine my handiwork in much greater detail.” I lean in for a kiss.

  “I’ll fully hold you to that.” He bites my lip. “And maybe I’ll spank you for getting me all worked up like this. But I have a feeling that’s exactly what you wanted.”

  “I must be a really dirty girl, angling for a spanking.” I lick his earlobe. “You’ll have to be sure to give me a very serious punishment.”

  “Now that…” he puts a hand on my neck and murmurs into my ear, “is exactly what I intend to do.”

  “Mmm.” I shiver in delighted anticipation.

  “But for now”—he pulls away—“our reservation awaits. And I’d like to introduce you to the delights of their sushi before I drive you insane with my tongue.”

  ***

  Wasabi in an intricate spiral in a cracked glass glazed plate. The smell of garlic and ginger, the air redolent with promise. And my body, pinging with need. Knowing that this dinner is just foreplay for later. That every moment we spend here, looking at each other, is only heightening the anticipation... and that later on, when we go to bed, it’s going to be just as amazing as the other night.

  “So, the first time I came here…” he starts.

  Before he can say more, a couple approaches us, both in their sixties. Elegant, well-dressed. Both with silver hair. Lots of diamonds on her, a paunch on him. Thick ankles, determined mouth on both.

  Dane says something under his breath, shoots me a look. Then he stands to greet them. “Barbara, Michael. Good to see you.”

  The woman leans in for an air kiss and thick perfume drifts in her wake. I feel like I can almost see it, winding around our glasses and the candle, a serpent. “Danton Carter Junior! It’s been far too long. How’s Danton Senior? Is everyone holding up?”

  I recognize her—them. Her husband, Michael Boyd, is a city council member and he’s running
for Senate. He’s not the candidate I’d pick—I prefer his opponent.

  But that’s not the main thing on my mind. Because—what the fuck? Danton Carter? Dane is really Danton Carter?

  Chapter Twelve

  Talia

  Clearly he’s not the CEO, the one whose picture is on the website. A relative, obviously.

  Dane shoots me an unreadable look, then turns back to the couple. “They’re making him comfortable right now.” He nods his head once. “Which is as much as we can hope for.”

  “We were so sorry to hear about the stroke.” Barbara takes his hands and squeezes. Perfume spirals through the air as she moves. “Weren’t we, Michael?”

  Her husband clears his throat and gives a phlegmy cough. “Absolutely. We were, definitely.” He looks at me.

  I stand up, too, body tense as Dane introduces me. A somber look on his face. Guilty? “This is my friend, Talia Carlsson.” His jaw tenses.

  I shake hands. “We’ve met before,” I start, but they’re not prepared to relinquish the field.

  “So tell me more about Danton,” presses Barbara. “We’ve all been so worried. What does the doctor say about recovery?”

  Dane’s body is stiff. “Barbara, he’s in hospice. He’s not going to recover—the family is spending time with him when they can.”

  “And they left you in charge. What a good idea.” Her voice is fond. “You’ve always been the smart one of the bunch, I can tell you that.”

  “I…” Dane swallows. “I’m doing my best.”

  “Oh, better you than Arthur.” Barbara lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me, that boy couldn't manage to tie his shoes properly, let alone run a corporation.”

  Michael interrupts her. “Let’s not talk like that, hon.” He takes her arm and to me it looks like his grip is tighter than necessary. “Art has always been a good friend to the family. As has Danton Senior.”

  She pulls away slightly. “Of course.” Her voice is taut.

  Michael looks at me. “You’re the new writer with Mapleton Daily press.” He blinks. His eyes, which bulge out slightly, make me wonder if he’s hyperthyroid. Or a lizard. Or if the force of his angry thoughts just makes his entire body bulge, like sausages which can’t fit into their casings properly. Oh, he’s not fat. Just sort of—inflated.