Locking Lips (Kiss Talent Agency Book 2)

by Virna DePaul

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Description

  More From Virna DePaul

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Books by Virna

  Kiss Talent Agency

  Bedding The Bachelors Series

  Home To Green Valley Series

  Hard As Nails Series

  Rock Candy Series

  Going Deep Series

  Say You Love Me Series

  About The Author

  Locking Lips

  LOCKING LIPS

  (Kiss Talent Agency Book 2)

  by

  Virna DePaul

  Description

  Caleb

  As a photographer, I appreciate contrasts. The stiff, snobby brat on the flight from New York turns out to be a scared, vulnerable woman who warms my heart. The icy cold soda she dumps in my lap leads to the hottest sex of my life in an LA dressing room.

  When I watch her walk away, I feel something I’ve never felt before. A twinge of regret that I’ll never see her again. Except we do meet again. And she’s driving me insane.

  Heather

  Clearly, I’ve lost my mind.

  Turns out the owner of the deep, sensual voice that kept me from needing the airline barf bag, who lured me completely out of character to indulge in anonymous, semi-public sex, is the photographer for my designs’ first photo spread in Bella fashion magazine.

  Worse, our artistic visions clash. And every time we butt heads, our butts somehow get naked.

  I can’t let my hormones cloud my judgment. I tried having it all, and it didn’t work out. I have to stop envisioning a life with him, and get my head back in the game…before I lose everything.

  ***If you are a new-to-me reader, I hope you’ll check out my other books. You can start with these (2) FREE Series Starters!

  Please visit my website and join my mailing list to be the first to hear about new releases and giveaways! You can also follow me on Facebook. Thank you! Virna

  Contact Virna Here

  Website: www.virnadepaul.com

  Twitter: @virnadepaul

  Email: virna@virnadepaul.com

  Facebook Fan Page: www.facebook.com/booksthatrock

  More From Virna DePaul

  KISS TALENT AGENCY

  HARD AS NAILS

  GOING DEEP SERIES

  BEDDING THE BACHELORS SERIES

  HOME TO GREEN VALLEY SERIES

  ROCK CANDY SERIES

  SAY YOU LOVE ME SERIES

  THE PARA-OPS PARANORMAL ROMANTIC SUSPENSE SERIES

  Chapter One

  Heather

  Excuse me, ma’am, I’m about to toss my cookies. Could you get me something into which I could toss them?

  Sir, I’d rather not ruin my Kate Spade bag by puking in it. Could you help me out? You’re too kind.

  Even as I contemplate the politest way to ask one of the flight attendants for a barf bag, I mentally kick myself. I should’ve gotten a ginger ale before boarding my flight, not a caramel macchiato made mostly of whipped cream. I think my reasoning was that if I treated this event like any other and got a ridiculous coffee concoction like I always do, then this whole flying thing wouldn’t be a big deal.

  Too bad I’d been so majorly wrong.

  Sitting ramrod straight in my coach seat, I take a shaky breath, fists clenched, trying not to puke from sheer anxiety, that stupid macchiato dancing in my stomach like a manic Riverdancer. Oh God, I really, really, don’t want to throw up in my brand-new purse, but the barf bag that would normally be tucked into the pocket of the seat in front of me has been pilfered by my five-year-old neighbor. It and two others like it are covered with crayon scribbles courtesy of the the small child sitting in the middle seat next to me. It would probably be rude to puke on her or even inside one of her artistic masterpieces, but I’m not making any promises at this point.

  The last time I flew, I was eight years old. It was a disaster. I was sick before the plane took off, and then while in the air—on a four-hour flight, no less—I couldn’t stop crying. I was convinced we were going to crash. The worst feeling was that I couldn’t get off the flight; I just had to wait until we were safely on the ground. By then, my parents were so exhausted that they promised they’d never, ever make me fly again.

  Now I’m twenty-six, and my anxiety about flying hasn’t changed one bit.

  Probably because flying is still the last thing human beings are supposed to be doing. People tell me you have a much higher risk of dying in a car crash, but if I drive, at least I’m the one at the wheel. On a plane? I just have to sit and hope for the best, something I obviously suck at.

  I cover my mouth to stifle a hysterical laugh. The woman sitting in the window seat gives me a strange look and pulls her young daughter onto her lap.

  I motion to the female flight attendant, who walks over to me with an eyebrow raised. “May I have a glass of water?” I croak.

  The woman gives me a thin-lipped smile. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait until we’re in the air.”

  “Please, just some water. I’m feeling nauseous.”

  The flight attendant looks like she’d rather do anything else, but she sighs and goes to get me that glass of water. She brings it back, and it’s lukewarm and smelling of disinfectant. I thank her before downing the glass. It helps my throat, but not much else.

  As the flight attendants prepare for take off, I try to get my mind off the whole flying thing by reading Bella, a fashion magazine that will be featuring my clothing line. I own a boutique in Los Angeles, Talina, which has been getting great press, and I have a big shoot tomorrow. Bella’s editor in chief, Rebecca Harris, loves my stuff and this shoot with Bella is a huge deal. Normally I’d be taking in every ad between its glossy cover, with an eye for business and making notes on my next line. But now, it’s all colors and words that I can’t seem to read.

  As the plane taxis down the runway, then begins to go faster down the track, I give up on reading. I grip the armrests until my fingers ache and I chant in my head, Don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke.

  “Are you okay?” the woman next to me asks. At some point, she’d returned the little girl to her seat and they’re holding hands.

  “I’m fine.” Why didn’t I bring something to calm me down? I’m an idiot. If I weren’t gripping the armrests for dear life, I’d slap my forehead in frustration.

  I realize my breath
ing is coming in gasps. Am I going to have a full-on meltdown here? I bite my tongue, and luckily, the plane is making enough noise that no one but the woman next to me seems to notice my distress. Although I have a feeling she thinks I’m just a weirdo who doesn’t know how to inhale and exhale like a normal human.

  When we’re finally in the air, my heart pounds and my breathing evens out a little bit. I’m still anxious and jumpy, but I can at least close my eyes for a second and pretend I’m on the ground. The blessed, beautiful ground.

  The woman next to me talks to someone in the aisle behind us. I keep my eyes closed but then feel a touch on my arm.

  “Sorry, were you sleeping?” the woman asks. When I shake my head, she says, “If you don’t mind, could you switch seats with my husband? They told us we had to wait until we were in the air, otherwise I would’ve asked earlier.” She smiles at me hopefully.

  I grip the armrests again, and for some reason, the thought of getting up and standing in the aisle makes me dizzy. I can’t move. How can she ask me that? What if a hole opens up in the floor and I fall straight through it?

  I shake my head again. “I can’t, sorry,” I say in a voice that’s embarrassingly curt. If I weren’t such a mess, I’d apologize, but I just look away when the woman is about to ask me a second time.

  I hear her confer with her husband, who sounds irritated. I can’t blame him. I must seem like the biggest bitch alive.

  “I can move,” a third voice says. “Me, too,” another male voice says. “There’s an empty seat in back.”

  Before I know what’s happening, the woman and her little girl are inching out of the aisle (only good thing about being short is that I don’t have to get up to let her out) and then a man I’ve never seen before is standing over me.

  “Wanna give me some room to get by?”

  I start at the drawling voice. I look up to see a man who I can only describe as yummy. With dark hair and deep green eyes, he’s tall and muscular and has a jaw hewn from marble. He looks like a Greek statue, I realize. Hopefully not with all of the same proportions. Realizing I’m thinking about some strange guy’s dick, I stifle a laugh. Jesus, I’m hysterical, aren’t I?

  “Uh,” I say helpfully.

  The man frowns and squeezes between me and the seat in front of me, various body parts of his rubbing against various body parts of mine. Then before I know it he’s sitting beside me in the middle seat, crowding me with his hard, delicious body. I hear the woman and her daughter sit down behind us, but not without some muttering from her husband about shitty people being shitty.

  I’m flabbergasted by what just happened, my mind still reeling, when the plane shakes slightly. Pulled back to reality, I barely stifle a moan of horror.

  “What’s your name?” he asks me in a voice that’s just as dreamy as the rest of him.

  I want to tell him we’re not at a networking event, but I’m already so embarrassed by my rudeness that I say, “Heather.”

  “Ah. Not what I was expecting. From your behavior just now, ‘Brat’ seems more fitting.”

  Eyes wide, I stare at him. Did he just—?

  I focus my gaze on the seat in front of me.

  Why did the hottest and yet most arrogant guy I’ve seen in ages have to sit next to me on the flight from hell? I almost shake my fist at the ceiling. What did I do to deserve this day?

  “So, I’m just wondering. What kind of a woman says no to switching seats so a family can sit together?”

  I glare at him even as his voice makes my body heat. I desperately tell myself it’s because my body is out of whack from my fear of flying and not because my propensity to be attracted to bad boys is rearing its ugly head again.

  “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, Brat. I’m just wondering.”

  “Don’t call me a brat.” I grind out the words. One second I’m drooling, the next I want to slap him.

  He leans closer to me. “The moniker seems fitting for someone who obviously thinks way too highly of themselves. I’d say you need a good spanking, but something tells me you might enjoy it too much.”

  I can’t speak. I inhale, but my heart’s pounding like I’ve run a marathon. I don’t know if I’m more turned on or pissed off. Actually, I think I’m both, but I won’t admit that to him.

  “You, you…” I’m stuttering. I’ve been rendered an idiot. Could this day get any worse?

  He laughs. “Like I said, don’t get your feathers ruffled. Even if they’re damn fine feathers.” He glances at my sliver of cleavage, his eyes heating.

  My nipples, damn them, harden, and I know he sees it.

  After slamming down the arm rest between us, I turn away, refusing to look at him anymore. But that doesn’t stop him from talking.

  “You didn’t answer my question. What kind of a woman refuses to switch seats? Do you just hate people being together?”

  I grind my teeth. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Considering I’m the one who ended up switching seats, I think it is. Come on, I’m trying to understand how brats like you think.”

  “Probably quite similar to how assholes think, so you should already know.”

  He laughs, and the sound sends a shiver through me. “The brat has claws. I’m impressed.” He crowds me, and I realize with a start that he’s put the armrest up. His arm is touching my side. “Do you use those claws regularly? Because I find a little scratching always makes already enjoyable activities all the more enjoyable.”

  I can’t help the images that come to mind: his hands skimming up my legs, touching me where I’m already hot and wet. His muscular back marked with scratch marks I put there.

  I’m practically panting at this point. I studiously ignore him, though, and look out the window.

  This time I can’t stifle my moan of fear when all I see are clouds.

  Chapter Two

  Caleb

  When I sit down next to the woman who refused to switch seats, I’m not surprised by what I see: she’s wearing what’s clearly a designer outfit, the purse at her feet is similarly expensive, and her hair has been highlighted to perfection. She looks like a total snob, and I’m surprised she’s flying coach rather than first class.

  What kind of a bitch says no to a woman and child wanting to sit with her husband?

  Despite her behavior, she’s totally gorgeous. Blond hair, creamy skin, and even though she’s sitting down, I can tell she has curves for days. Her breasts are lush, almost straining against her top.

  She squeaked when I moved to squeeze by her. Laughing, I sat right down next to her, just to make her sweat. Besides, I never give up the opportunity to sit next to a beautiful woman. Hell, I make my living studying and accentuating the female form.

  When I boarded this flight, I expected the usual: boring, long, with stale pretzels for a snack and not much else. But now part of me is intrigued by this woman who was so rude, while the other part is disgusted. She’s just like the kind of people I think of when I think of LA: self-absorbed and thoughtless, full of nothing much but Botox and way too much money.

  I turn her name over in my mouth like a piece of candy. Heather. It suits her. Heather the Brat.

  Suddenly, this flight has gotten way more interesting. Taking Heather in, making her blush and look like she could happily slap me? I haven’t been this entertained in a while.

  I wonder if she’d bite me if I tried to kiss her. Or more. I want to lick her skin, make her shudder and moan underneath me. I want to run my hands through her hair. Maybe grab it as I fuck her from behind. Despite how she’s practically shaking with outrage right now, I wonder if she’d be passionate in bed. For some reason, I have a feeling she would be and I desperately want to find out for myself.

  “I’m Caleb, by the way.” I glance at the bag at her feet. “And since you never answered any of my questions, I’ll make some guesses about what kind of woman you are. Sound good?”

  She whips her head to stare at me, a scowl on her pretty
face. “You just won’t give up, will you?”

  “It’s one of my best traits.”

  “Who told you that? Your mother? I hate to break it to you, but she lied.”

  I just smile as I begin. “You grew up in Los Angeles. Probably Pasadena or Glendale. You went to a fancy prep school, and you were one of the most popular girls. You never had to do your own laundry, or cook a meal, and you got a brand-new car on your sixteenth birthday. Your daddy let his little princess do whatever she wanted if you just made puppy-dog eyes at him.”

  When she doesn’t deny any of it, I smirk. “Well?”

  “I grew up in Orange County,” she says with a sniff.

  “Close enough. You would have flown first class but, like me, you waited too long to make your reservation and first class sold out.” At her expression, I grin. “Looking at your face, I see that I’m right. And now you’re going back to LA to continue your life while thinking that everyone else is beneath you, including that mom sitting next to you.”

  She’s red in the face now. “You are the most arrogant, cocky asshole—”

  “I’m aware, sweetheart. But you like it, don’t you? No one ever talks to you like this, and it’s turning you on.”

  “I—I—” She closes her eyes and inhales, and when she opens them, her eyes are glassy, her mouth parted. I was actually half-joking about my asshole-ways turning her on, mostly because I was enjoying the hell out of her bristling, but she looks so fuckable I suck in a breath, inhaling her perfume and what I like to think is the heated scent of her arousal. I’m getting hard, and I would bet every cent in my considerable bank account that she’s wet. What I wouldn’t give to haul her into the tiny bathroom and take us both to the Mile High Club with a quick, dirty fuck.