by Chloe Cole
“I like you, Tuck. And I want to see where this goes.”
“I want that too.” His face looked troubled. “But what if someone else finds out? Skeet will keep it hush hush, but it’s a small world. What if I have to leave, start over again?” His soulful hazel eyes searched hers. “What if I can’t give you up then?”
“Hopefully that will never happen. But if it does and you can’t give me up by then, it’ll be because we’re meant to be and I’ll go with you.”
“That sounds real good.” He nodded and brushed her hair away from her forehead. “I know what you said and I know you aren’t mad, but I want to make sure I say this. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth right from the start. But I really am different. I’ve been a good man. I want to continue to be a good man.” He gazed at her in earnest and she caressed his cheek.
“I believe that. But you can still be a good man and a bad boy, can’t you? I like you a little bad, Tuck,” she murmured.
The serious expression gave way to a killer grin. “Well, now that you mention it, I was thinking, we have two more weeks before the projects are due. We can go to the lab and pick up the glove and maybe some whipped cream…”
She laughed and pressed her mouth to his. Oh yeah, this was definitely worth a shot.
About The Author
Chloe Cole is one half of the happiest couple in the world. She and her handsome hubby currently reside in Pennsylvania with a four-pack of teenage boys and their two dogs, Gimli and Pug. If she gets time off from her duties as maid, chef, chauffeur, or therapist, she can be found reading just about anything she can get her hands on, from Young Adult novels to books on poker theory. She doesn’t like root beer, clowns or bugs (except ladybugs, on account of their cute outfits), but lurrves chocolate, going to the movies, the New York Giants and playing Texas Hold ‘Em.
Writing is her passion, but if she had to pick another occupation, she would be a pirate…or, like, a ninja maybe. She loves writing fun and adventure-filled romance stories, but also hopes to one day publish something her dad can read without wanting to dig his eyes out with rusty spoons. Chloe also writes romance under the pen name Christine Bell. She loves to hear from readers, so please feel free to get in touch with her via her website http://www.christine-bell.com
Conquered
By
Cari Quinn
Dedication
To my mom, who is proud of me even when I don’t deserve it. And to Taryn Elliott, the most kickass critique partner, bestie and author ever.
Chapter One
In theory, a bachelorette party should provide plenty of chances to get laid. Except when said bachelorette party occurred at a club featuring barely dressed male entertainers.
Emma Donegan sighed and swirled the glass she held of lime green liquid, the virgin version of her best friend’s drink. Totally stripped of all the good stuff.
Just like her completely unexplosive sex life, which offered few inducements to cause that rare phenomena known as an orgasm. And multiples? Forget it. Mission impossible.
“You need another drink,” Becky mumbled in her ear, patting Emma's leg just above the hem of her sensible skirt.
“No way. Can't you see I'm already tipsy?” To add veracity to the story, Emma added a giggle and a hiccup.
Seemingly appeased, Becky nodded. She didn't need a lot of corroborating evidence tonight. She was drunk enough for the both of them. Bride-to-be's privilege.
“It won’t be long now before we’re both tethered. Well, mine will be legal, yours just the bonds of boredom.” Becky laughed. “Though I keep wondering why you party it up just to go home to Ted.”
“You do the same damn thing.”
“Oh no, I don’t. Believe me the party continues when I’m alone with Jake.” Becky waggled her brows. “You, on the other hand, get to listen to Ted regale you with tales from the wild world of fish.”
“Not anymore I don't,” Emma muttered.
She'd done something utterly shocking last weekend, so shocking she hadn't even told her best friend about it yet. Instead of waiting to be dumped or proposed to—both scenarios were equally horrifying—by her latest long-term boyfriend, she'd broken up with him first. Amicably of course. She'd just been very honest about her needs not being met, though she appreciated his time. All eight months of it, not counting weekends because that's when Ted went fishing.
Keeping that in mind, she'd called him so as not to put a damper on his trip with his buddies and let him off the hook. Literally.
He hadn't been too upset. Ted's idea of getting worked up meant leaning forward to stare at the TV during the bass fishing pro-am tournament.
She'd had enough of boredom. From now on, she intended to grab hold of the whole fun and sex enchilada. But she couldn’t get in a party mood and she’d dressed all wrong. What she thought sent a subtle message of availability sure didn’t when compared to the practically naked women sashaying all over the club.
Too late. She’d just have to make the best of things. If she wanted to get laid, gloom-and-dooming her way through the evening wouldn’t get the job done.
“Ted’s out of the picture,” Emma said definitively, hoping she sounded cheerful about that fact rather than vaguely nauseous at the thought of being almost thirty, single and without any prospects. Yet again.
She didn't have anything against relationships, per se. But the idea of settling down before she'd let loose and gone for it at least once in her life downright depressed her. “It” being one night where she could act completely uninhibited, consequences be damned.
“What's that mean?” Becky's voice slurred as she dropped her forehead to the table.
“It means I'm sexy, single and free.”
She grimaced and glanced down at her long skirt and unrevealing top. Ah well, at least she’d achieved two out of three. Though she normally placed herself around average on the beauty scale, in a place like this she felt downright plain.
“Aw, shit, did Ted dump you?”
“No, I released him from our relationship contract.” Emma patted Becky on the shoulder. She'd yet to lift her head from the table. “Good thing this party's winding down, because you, my blushing bride, are thoroughly toasted.”
“Winding down? Fuck, no. You promised me a show.” She finally raised her head and started pounding on the table, banging her engagement ring against the fake wood. “Where are my strippers?”
As if the dancers had heard her shout, the dark red velour curtain onstage began to rise. But the banging continued.
“Hey, hey, watch your ring. You’re going to scratch it if you keep that up.” Emma grabbed Becky’s hand, only to earn a glare.
“Why don’t you wear it then? I want my strippers!”
Before she knew what had happened, Becky had shoved her engagement ring on Emma’s finger. They always swapped rings since they wore the same size. A bit strange to swap this particular one but at least it would still be intact tomorrow.
As Becky started to chant unintelligible words, Emma looked toward the stage and gulped her drink. Guys gyrating in the half-nude were not what she considered a crucial ingredient for a fun night—unless they were giving a private, horizontal show. A line of them parading about in their banana hammocks? It didn’t turn her on. Talk about degrading. And seedy. And—
And holy crap, who was that?
Emma's cheeks heated as a row of guys dressed in various uniforms came into view. A loud R&B hit suddenly blasted from the speakers and they started bumping and grinding to the beat. The lineup included the requisite fireman, scientist—in flapping lab coat, no less—and construction worker. Bringing up the rear were a boxer and a cop. The cop so couldn't dance. He kept watching the other guys and trying to mimic their moves. Not only did he have two left feet, they were both broken.
But he scored high on the yummy scale. Long and lean, his firm muscles bunched in all the right places. Other parts of him appeared quite firm as well. Emma tried not to
look, but the big badge he had pinned over his package didn't help.
Protect and serve, huh? She wouldn't mind some serving from him tonight.
Thoughtfully, she reached for the bag of novelty items she'd distributed to each of the four women celebrating with Becky. She'd made up a bag for herself too, though she'd had no intention of using most of the stuff inside.
Edible body powder? It would probably make her sneeze. Day-glo condoms? To put on whom? But just now, the vibrating nightstick she'd bought as a gag gift seemed especially appropriate.
She started to withdraw the slim wand, turning at a movement beside her chair. Holy shit, the owner of a red, white and blue G-string had appeared at her side.
Emma's attention flew upward, seeking the face attached to the groin gyrating inches away. It was him. The bad dancing cop. He’d obviously decided to make up for what he lacked in dancing talent with moves of another sort. His hips swiveled in ways that should be illegal, especially when a badge bounced in time with his rhythmic steps.
And the smile he flashed her? Criminal. Devastating. His short brown hair fell forward, dipping into his light eyes. Gray, maybe. She found it hard to note nuances while he gave the dance his all so close to where her nipples had gone on high alert.
She fumbled for her wallet. Weren't you supposed to tip guys when they were flaunting their junk? Despite her certainty she’d flushed the same flame red as her shirt, she owed this fine gentleman some compensation for his efforts.
Without looking at what she pulled out, she shoved some money at him.
“Not his hand, dummy,” Becky whispered. “Stick it in his G-string, Em!”
Emma's eyes widened until her forehead hurt. Nope, no way. The only men's underwear she felt up were those belonging to her significant others and none of them had ever sported patriotically themed banana hammocks.
Of course none of them had sported bananas like that either.
She wet her lips as the cop turned to Becky when she motioned him her way. Huh. It couldn't be real. Could it?
While the cop swiveled his hips in front of all the appreciative ladies at the table, Emma tossed back more of her drink. Oddly enough, she felt sort of drunk. She hadn't been in years, for good reason. Sometimes the guys she came on to while inebriated didn’t appreciate her forwardness.
Sometimes? Try most times.
One time she'd licked a random man's ear at a club after having two drinks. His wife hadn't been pleased. Another time she'd bared her breasts to a passing car as she'd ridden in Becky's passenger seat. That hadn't been so bad, except the hottie she'd flashed had two toddlers in the backseat and she hadn’t seen them until too late.
Faking being drunk ensured safety for all involved. Besides, she'd become so adept at pretending to be intoxicated she usually relaxed more anyway.
“Um, Em,” Becky said, scooting closer. “Think that's my drink you grabbed.”
Emma took another sip. Uh oh. “Sorry.” She pushed the almost empty glass back. How bad could she get from one drink? “We had the same thing, so no biggie.”
“No, we didn't.” Becky bit her lip. “I sort of added an enhancement to mine.”
Oh God. “What enhancement?”
“An herbal mix.” Suddenly Becky seemed practically sober. “A new blend I came up with in the lab just for my honeymoon. Tonight’s the first time I tried it. Known aphrodisiac extracts with a hint of a totally safe sexual enhancement drug.”
Oh crap. A sexual enhancement drug “safe” with alcohol? Did such a thing exist when it came to her?
Her head swam. Not unpleasantly, but still. She'd thought trying a drink called bedrocker sounded cool but the predominant sensation she suffered from now was heat. Lots of it.
Especially between her thighs.
She reached for a napkin to blot the dampness off her temples. Whoa, had the temperature shot up into the stratosphere or what?
“It won't hurt you. It'll just make you really horny. If it works.” She glanced down at the front of Emma's shirt and lifted her eyebrows. Emma followed her gaze.
Definite nipplage.
“Well, the guys are smokin',” Becky said in an undertone. “I’m turned on too.”
As if on cue, the dancers circled the table, bumping hips to the raucous cheers of Emma's friends. She stared dumbly as the cop made his way back to her, grabbing her chair and thrusting his private area disturbingly close to her face. Instead of grabbing at his crotch like Becky—and she had to climb over Emma's lap to do it—Emma just winked.
Um, wow, where had that come from? Confident, sexually assured women winked at strippers. Normally that description did not apply to her.
She grinned. Score one for the chemist o’love.
Apparently flummoxed by her reaction, he stopped dancing and stared down at her while the other guys pressed all around him, some even shaking their groove thang up against his ass. He seemed oblivious.
Time slowed, crawling to a stop. The loud music became white noise. Even Becky's high pitched squeals faded away. Dazedly, Emma watched her arm lift from the back of her seat and extend outward, fingers poised to grab...
***
Sweet hell, the mark had touched his cock. Actually, she hadn’t stopped touching it yet.
Abort!
Shane Madison gulped in a breath. He'd stopped dancing after she'd death rayed him into immobility with her flirtatious grin. Then she'd hijacked his good sense by wrapping those long, delicate fingers, finished off with equally dainty pink nails, around his package. All the way around.
“It is real,” she whispered while her friends hooted and hollered.
He didn't know how he heard her over the music, the screaming and the roar of blood pounding through his veins to gather in his groin. But those full lips seemed to dawdle over the words just as her hand lingered on his flesh.
Welcome to the mother of all erections.
To save his sanity, he pulled her arm away and danced back into the crowd. It had been a mistake to get so close to her but he'd been drawn like a slightly off-center magnet.
PIs never let themselves get involved. Pretty or not, the fiancée of one of his biggest—fine, only at the moment—clients should not be making him hard.
God, pretty didn’t begin to describe her.
Soft curling black hair framed a face with a tiny, adorable nose and eyes as bright green as the liquid in her glass. Those sexy eyes reminded him of summer days, hot sunshine, fresh cut grass. Making love in same green grass. To her.
He shook off his thoughts. She was a pro at this supposedly, so of course he’d fallen victim to her charms. She'd had a lot of practice. Though he still doubted that an innocent looking woman like Ms. Shawcross could be visiting Strippendales just to find new prospects for her escort service, he couldn’t deny she'd inspected his…finer qualities.
And those finer qualities had liked it. Hoo boy.
Throughout the rest of the show, he avoided her. His cock finally relaxed to a respectable semi-hardness that only encouraged the overly amorous ladies.
Damn, women said men were horndogs? They should check out this place on a Friday night. Especially table number sixteen.
The one bearing the nametag “Buxom Bride Becky” still bounced in her seat. Ms. Shawcross sat quietly, her expression demure. How could she pick up possible escorts if she didn't even make eye contact with any of the dancers? Though maybe she'd heard about the recent firings and had adjusted her, uh, hiring practices to compensate. After all, she wouldn't have been able to grab Shane’s dick if the guy before him hadn't gotten axed two days ago for being part of what the club called “an infernal web of potential criminal activity.”
Enter Shane, who'd been blessed with a good body he maintained with lots of sweat equity and a hunger to succeed that overrode his hatred of anything resembling dancing. Near naked dancing? Even worse. That they only stripped to their thongs barely mitigated the horror.
Whatever he had to do, he would d
o it. Connor Taylor believed his fiancée had a sideline dealing guys to horny chicks, and he needed to deliver the proof. Luckily he'd danced his way right toward the person he sought.
The woman in the audience looked remarkably similar to the lady in the picture Connor had provided. Not that he'd been able to check the photo again since he'd laid eyes on her, but come on. No other woman had groped him. Plus they both had short dark hair, bright eyes and come-hither smiles. She also wore a diamond on the hand she’d wrapped around him. It had to be her.
Considering he’d only been dancing for three nights, he’d hit the damn jackpot.
Backstage in the dressing room, he donned his street clothes as fast as possible and grabbed his gym bag. He had to get out front before she left. What if she disappeared without trying to proposition him? He wouldn't let it happen. Connor had major connections and the boon to Shane's barely off the ground private investigation firm would be huge.
This time he had to make it work. He would not walk away from another career. He'd used up his fail quotient for two lifetimes at least. Probably more.
Shane ignored the comments as he pushed through the crowd of guys shadowing the doorway. They called him stuck up because he didn't make a lot of small talk but he didn't have a problem with them. They all seemed like decent people. Even so, he wasn't about to form attachments to coworkers at a short-term gig. He needed to do his job, collect his fee, and get out.
He couldn't deny the extra money from dancing would help cover the plentiful gaps in his budget. In the months since he'd quit the force he’d wondered again and again if he'd made the right move. He wasn't the only person who had trouble working for someone—though the someone he’d had issues with cut a little too close to home—but he'd been passed over so many times for choice assignments he'd decided he had to go it alone.
As a PI, he was responsible for his own successes and failures. So far he'd added a bunch more notches to the failure column but he was determined to change that, starting tonight.
