Bigger Rock

by Lauren Blakely

  But I’m not in the mood to discuss work, so I flash onto something I read earlier in the week. As I’m about to tell her my favorite weird fact I learned recently—cats don’t have collarbones like we do, which explains why they can squeeze into tiny openings the size of their heads—she moves in close to me as Bon Jovi plays on the sound system.

  “Look over there,” she says in a bare whisper. “She’s telling him all her furry fantasies.”

  I follow her gaze to a couple across the bar. The dude is Brooks Brothers all the way from the navy suit to the loosened red tie. The woman appears to be a colleague, judging from the crisp white blouse, or maybe she’s someone he just closed a business deal with. But with his arm draped over her shoulder, it sure looks as if he’s going to close some other kind of deal.

  “His raccoon suit is up in his room,” I say, since Natalie’s game sounds like more fun than cat facts. I tip my forehead to a Goth-looking woman with earplugs and the tattooed guy next to her, knocking back shots. “She dresses up like Little Bo Peep so he can spank her with a . . . fuck, what are they called?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Wyatt,” she says, in a faux admonishing tone, “they’re called crooks.”

  I snap my fingers. “That’s it. He smacks her ass with a crook.”

  For a flash of a second, Natalie’s breath seems to rush from her lips. “Kinda sounds like fun,” she says in a saucy tone, like maybe she’d want to play that sort of game. “What if I lost my sheep?”

  And evidently, she does.

  “Want me to help you find them?”

  The look in her eyes is inviting. “Yes. But to find them I need another drink. I want a vodka tonic this time,” she says, and since the bartender is circling, I order two.

  As he sets to work pouring, she parks her chin in her hand, looking straight at me. “I love vodka tonic. Want to know why?”

  “You bet I do.”

  But before she can reveal the root of her love for this liquor, the phone dings from her purse, bleating loudly enough to get our attention. She fishes around for it and clutches it close to her chest like a precious thing. “It’s Lila. At this rate, she’s probably calling to say she wants to pay us even more.”

  “Fuck, yeah. And I’ll give you all the extra.” I puff out my chest. “Because I’m a generous guy.”

  See? I can treat her well, and I’m not even thinking of nailing her.

  This second, that is. Ten seconds ago I totally was.

  “I think I might love you,” she says, and blows me a kiss as the bartender delivers our round.

  She slides open the screen, and her expression transforms. Her lips curve down, and she lets out a long, never-ending “oh fuck.”

  Her eyes slip shut, and she swallows then takes a breath. “Fuck a duck,” she says, but it doesn’t sound cute or playful. She sounds frustrated.

  My heart pounds against my rib cage, and worry takes root. “What is it, Natalie?” I ask, reaching for her arm.

  She opens her eyes and speaks in a monotone. “The job is cancelled.”

  All the buzz leaks out of me. “For real?”

  That just doesn’t compute.

  She nods.

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask again, because this makes zero sense.

  “I wish,” she says flatly, then reads the screen aloud. “Dear Natalie: I’m so sorry to be sending this, but Mr. Mayweather had a deal on another property that just went south. Sadly, I have to put the Vegas remodel on hold. I’m hopeful to return to it soon, and please know I can’t wait to work with WH Carpentry & Construction on it.

  P.S. I’m taking the jet home right now to comfort him. I know it’s not nearly the same, but I’ve arranged for first-class tickets on a commercial airline for you and Wyatt, leaving tomorrow afternoon. The tickets are in your email. I hope the service is sufficient. My best, and we will regroup soon.”

  Natalie drops the phone on the bar with a dejected clang, the sound resonating in my bones.

  Because . . .

  Fuck a motherfucking flock of ducks. This stings.

  I grab the vodka tonic and down half in one big gulp. She does the same with hers.

  “I’m sad, Wyatt,” she says, as those pretty lips droop once more.

  And that does it for me. I can’t stand the thought of this girl being sad. I want that smile back on her face, and I’m going to find a way to do it. I don’t care about how this job loss makes me feel. I need to make Natalie happy again, and that will also take my mind off this shitty news. “Hey,” I say, gripping her shoulder. “We’re in Vegas. Let’s make the best of it. Okay?”

  She sighs dejectedly.

  I park my hands on both her shoulders. “Seriously. We’ll figure this out. We’ll make this work. I’ll give you the raise regardless. But right now, right here, we have fun. Got it?”

  She shakes her head. “You’re sweet to say that, but you don’t have to give me the raise. I know it was conditional on the Mayweather job.”

  “No,” I say, correcting her, holding her gaze. “It was conditional on you being amazing at what you do. And that hasn’t changed. We’re not going to let one setback get us down. You’ve never been to Vegas before, and I promised to show you the sights. You name it. This town is yours, and we’re doing whatever you want tonight.”

  She shrugs then waves a hand dismissively. “I should have known better. It was a ridiculous, overpaying, crazy job. It was too good to be true. There’s no such thing as calorie-free chocolate, or a guy who’s funny, well hung, and sweet.” I want to protest, but she’s right, since no way am I sweet, “And the same is true for a client willing to pay twenty percent more for this job. They’re all unicorns.”

  “Natalie, it’s not ridiculous. It’s reasonable. You said it earlier. We’re good at what we do. Lila knows that. This is just a snag. Deals fall apart. I’ve seen this happen time and time again in this business. Hell, Nick goes through this with his job. I’m sure your sister would say the same. I bet she and Spencer have had deals from suppliers that fell through—it’s just the way it goes. We wanted it, it didn’t happen, we move on.” Since she hasn’t agreed to my make-the-most-of-the-night proposition yet, I keep going, the determined mofo in me steering the ship. “And no matter what, you still get a raise, so you can make your videos. And tonight? We’re having the time of our life. Deal?”

  Her lips twitch, and that’s the hint I need to press on more. I won’t give her a chance to be bummed. I search the bar quickly, and my eyes land on a middle-aged man in a turquoise tropical shirt, and a woman wearing a matching one. I drop my hand from Natalie’s shoulder, but lean in close and whisper, “Handcuffs for the Hawaiian shirt duo. Tonight, he’s cuffing her. And he’s giving it to her good and hard against a bedpost in the Flamingo.”

  “Yes,” she whispers conspiratorially, picking up the thread, like she can’t resist this game. “They’ve been married for twenty years, and they still do it every night.”

  That’s an interesting addition. I arch an eyebrow. “That sound like something you’d like, sweetheart?”

  She nods. “Someday. Especially since my last boyfriend wasn’t like—” She cuts herself off. “I shouldn’t say it.”

  My curiosity is piqued. “No, you should say it. I want to know.”

  She grabs her glass and takes another sip.

  “Tell me, Natalie. He wasn’t like what?”

  She runs her fingertip along the rim of the glass, avoiding answering.

  I give her a pointed look. “Fess up. He didn’t want to cuff you? Spank you with a crook? Do it every night?”

  Because I’d cuff her. I’d tie her up. I’d spank her. I’d fuck her on all fours. In a car. On a plane. Anywhere and everywhere and every night. No hang-ups for this guy.

  “Fine. He wasn’t very . . . interesting in bed.”

  And I’m hard. Just like that. Not because of her ex, but because of what this implies—that she is interesting in bed, and I’m very interested in inte
resting things happening between the sheets with her.

  “And you prefer interesting, I take it?”

  “Strange, that I,” she says with a wiggle of her eyebrows, “at the least, prefer regular nookie. And I think handcuffs, doggie style, public sex, and spanking are just fine and dandy.” She clasps a hand to her mouth and cringes. “Shit. I didn’t say that out loud, did I?”

  “Every single delicious word.” I smirk. “So, we have a deal? No more sad Natalie tonight?”

  She exhales, nibbles on the corner of her lips, then grins playfully. “As long as I can ride the rollercoaster, it’s a deal.”

  “You’ll get your rollercoaster, and you’ll get the full Vegas experience. Nothing less,” I say, holding out my hand.

  She takes it and we shake. “Full Vegas experience.”

  “One night. We’re going to fit it all in.”

  “We’ll go all out.” She sweeps her arm grandly.

  “Let loose.”

  “Throw caution to the wind,” she says with a full-wattage grin. She reaches for her vodka tonic, her elbow knocking her phone closer to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her text messages. The one from Lila is the most recent. But beneath it is one to Charlotte she must have opened after closing the Lila one, and the words flash temptation at me, like a line I shouldn’t cross but will anyway.

  I want him so badly.

  And that’s all I need to know. The words embolden me, and I return to what I’m pretty sure she was hinting at before Lila’s message landed. I tap her glass. “Tell me, why do you like vodka tonics?”

  “Guess,” she says, inching close, her command a flirty invitation.

  “Because of how it tastes on your lips when I kiss you?” I ask, trying that on for size.

  She says one word. Yes.

  And before I know it, I’m kissing Natalie.

  8

  Let’s back up.

  How did we get from not kissing to kissing? What was that turning point? Did she lean into me? Did I move closer to her? Details matter. I’ll gladly share them.

  Start with six months of sexual tension. Add in two mojitos for her, two beers for me, and a couple vodka tonics. Stir that with some bad news on the business front, and top it with the cherry of Natalie’s hit-me-over-the-head-with-a-stick comment that left no question as to what she wanted . . . and here I am.

  We don’t lean into each other. There’s no inch-by-slow-sensual-inch pull. It’s not a slow burn.

  It’s a fiery crash. We’re two cars speeding on the highway of this night, and we slam into each other, crawl across the hoods, and kiss like crazy.

  Nothing is tentative about this. We go from not kissing to kissing in less than sixty nanoseconds. Yeah, I don’t really know what a nanosecond is, either. But it happens in no time.

  And now my hand is in her hair, yanking her close as we crush our lips together. We kiss hard and rough, fueled by pent-up desire and more than enough vodka and rum to make this inevitable.

  Her teeth scrape me, and I growl, loving her roughness. I suck hard on her bottom lip, and I’m rewarded by nearly the same sound from her. She’s like a tiger, and together we’re animals.

  I grip her head tighter, and her hands are all over me—in my hair, then down my chest, then along my arms. We kiss so deeply, it’s like we’re trying to climb each other.

  At some point, she breaks off, breathes out hard, then whispers in my ear, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

  “Not as long as I have. Now get those lips back on mine,” I tell her, and she complies.

  My hands cup her cheeks, but I’m not gentle, and she doesn’t want me that way. She’s not a gentle girl. She’s badass and tough, and she wants what I want. I hold her face tightly in my hands, and she practically crawls into my lap in a rush to get closer, then closer still as she presses her tits against my chest.

  I’m seated on a stool at the bar, and we are putting on some kind of show. But I don’t care.

  My tongue searches and hunts, wanting to taste every corner of her mouth, savoring the vodka and the tonic and, most of all, the Natalie. She whimpers and moans, and I swallow every sexy sound she makes.

  This stool is ours. This bar is ours. The night belongs to this kiss, because it’s not a starter kiss. It contains all the clues necessary to assemble the puzzle of where this night will end.

  With unwavering certainty, I know what kind of kiss this is.

  As I explore her mouth, and she claims mine with equal urgency, I know that I will be fucking Natalie tonight.

  Somehow we make it out of the bar. I pay the bill, she grabs her purse and phone, and we stumble into the big maw of New York-New York.

  “So, this whole Vegas experience.” Her eyes are flirty, her voice is naughty, and her hips sway as she walks. “Does the rollercoaster come next?”

  Now that’s an invitation if I’ve ever heard one. I RSVP to it. “Let’s ride it now. We’re making the most of every single second in this town.”

  I don’t say the next part—that come Monday we go back to normal. To work. Anything more than tonight is too risky, but I don’t want to lay down ground rules now. I want to be in the moment tonight. Besides, the vodka is already telling my brain who gives a crap about Monday? “We do it all,” I say instead, because that makes a helluva lot more sense right now than thinking about consequences.

  “Good.” She grabs the neckline of my black T-shirt as we stop in front of Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs, where patrons stuff foot-longs and cheesesteaks in their mouths. “Because I love rollercoasters,” she says, grinding against me in the bright light of the casino hallway, the plink-plink-plink of nearby slot machine payoffs and the spinning of roulette wheels gliding through the air.

  I grasp her hips in my hands so she can feel the hard length of me against her. She gasps as she comes in contact with my hard-on, then a sweet, sexy moan slips from her lips. Her reaction is priceless and perfect. “How much do you love rollercoasters?” I ask.

  “Just you wait ’til you hear me scream on the drop. Then you’ll know how much.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, I’m going to take you for a helluva ride.”

  Somehow, we pull apart.

  We walk and we kiss. We follow the signs for the ride, and stop to make out on the way. I press her to the wall and kiss her neck, my stubble dragging against her soft skin. She moans when I do that, and her sounds drive me crazy. I want to hear all her murmurs and sexy cries, be the reason she makes them, and then make her groan and moan again.

  We manage to traverse another hundred feet or so, then up the escalator where the entrance to the joint arcade and rollercoaster looms near.

  But I need to touch her again, so I spin her around, back her up to the wall, and pin her wrists at her sides, pressing my body to hers and crushing her lips once more with mine. When I manage to pull away, I drag my mouth to her earlobe, and bite. She lets out a soft yelp. “Want you so much,” I tell her.

  “God, you have no idea. Being near you is torture. I’ve been dying to touch you. I told my sister when I got on that plane there was no way I could come here with you and not want you.” She says it in a breathless rush, her admission perhaps fueled by liquor, and that’s fine with me because I’m buzzed, too. Not so buzzed, though, that the sliver of text messages I’ve spotted locks into place.

  It hits me—she’s been texting her sister about me. Telling Charlotte that being near me is torture. Then Charlotte replying that she knew Natalie would want to do this with me in Vegas. And fuck if that doesn’t turn me on more.

  All my reasons to resist her have vanished. All my rules separating work and pleasure have crumbled to dust. This is temporary, a one-night-only kind of tryst as we make the most of this evening.

  I hope things won’t be awkward in the morning, but hell, I can only think about now. Tomorrow is for tomorrow.

  We thread through the bright lights and flashing screens in the arcade and find our way to the
line for the rollercoaster. There are only a few people ahead of us. We won’t have long, but I want the wait to be foreplay for her. I yank her against me, her back to my front, tugging her ass right against the outline of my hard cock.

  She leans her head against my shoulder, turns her mouth to my neck, and says my name in a purr.

  I whisper hers in her ear, and the way I say those three syllables seems to set her off. She pushes back into me, her sexy little ass rubbing up and down along my length. We are the fucking definition of PDA right now. We are the get-a-room people, but amazingly, no one says a thing.

  Vegas, baby. I love this town.

  My fingers play at the top of her skirt. “Tell me how much you want this. I want to hear you say it.”

  “How much I want to ride the rollercoaster?”

  My hands dig into her hips. “No. How much you want me to fuck you tonight.”

  She spins around, her blue eyes meeting mine. She says nothing at first, just studies me. Her eyes darken with desire, and she never lets go of the stare. The air whooshes out of my lungs from the intensity of her gaze. “Wyatt Hammer, don’t you know?”

  “Don’t I know what?” I say, my voice a dry husk.

  Each word comes out of her mouth dripping with desire. “I ache for you.”

  Never have four words sounded so hot when strung together. Even though we’re not alone, we might as well be. I drop my lips to hers, and for the first time all night, I kiss her softly. It lasts for a second or two, then I whisper, “You’re killing me here, Nat.”

  Then it’s our turn, and we untangle from each other as our group heads to the station with the string of yellow cars designed to look like taxi cabs.

  I take no chances. I grab her hand and guide her purposefully to the last car. She slides in first, her skirt riding an inch or two up her thighs, revealing more of her smooth skin.

  I join her, and as soon as we’re in place, my hand is on a mission. As the cars in front of us fill up, my fingers travel to the edge of her skirt and under, then up her thighs, between her legs to the damp panel of her panties.