by Natalie Wrye
Kay nods. And suddenly a shadow passes from fifty feet away. “Speaking of candy…” She glances over at the bartender still shaking up drinks. “I’ve got some of the ‘eye’ sort that I needed to attend to.” She adjusts the hem of her dress. “It’d be nice to get laid before I head back on a flight to Kansas.”
Violet scoffs with a laugh. “It’d be nice to get laid period,” she says as Kayla leaves to catch her eye-candy. “But I don’t see that happening for me in this millennium.”
“Really?” I smirk. “Because Heath told me that…”
My words are cut off. Because suddenly the doors are open, people starting to file in like a wave that just won’t stop coming, walking in by the boatloads. In their suits and cocktail dresses, in their bowties and heels, they enter into the infamous local Irish pub as if it were the Four Seasons, and I’m shocked by the number of faces I recognize, the local friends and acquaintances I’ve made over the span of just six months in a city I never really saw myself staying in.
Until now.
But there’s only one face that matters to me at the moment. Only one face I can’t find among the many as partygoers rush over to congratulate me, drowning me in a sea of hugs and celebratory kisses. Popularity is the one unfamiliar stage I’ve had to get used to… and sometimes I’m convinced I never will. I smile as I recognize Marilyn’s customary red lips heading my way, her perfect teeth shiny and white.
She hugs me, holding me tight.
“Fancy digs, ‘superstar’,” she comments. “You deserve this.”
“You mean the pissy stools and pale ale aren’t too blasé?” I grin.
“Are you kidding me? It wouldn’t be a party without the smell of bar piss in the air.” Someone taps her shoulder and she turns. She kisses my cheek before taking off. “Take a tequila shot for me.”
I attempt a wink. I don’t want to tell her that I’ve had about twenty, so I smile and try to find the fun, my eyes still searching for that one handsome face. But then the music grows louder, the DJ spinning a hard EDM beat. The drinks start to flow and I flow with it, my sobriety fading with each additional shot passed my way. Violet joins me on the dance floor. The air is thick with laughter and liquor, glasses clinking, and I leave the thinking behind for once, soaking a little of my success in, enjoying the warm lights and vibrant city night.
Twirling in front of the DJ booth, I accidentally knock knees with another dancer, my silver dangling earring falling to the floor. I kneel to the hardwood, my fingertips feeling over the dark wooden planks when suddenly my hands find a pair of dark leather Ferragamos instead. The smell of cedar wood cologne wafts over me, and I stand slowly, my gaze sliding up the black slacks before me, over the crisp white button down, the open collar.
He looks better every time I see him, if that’s at all possible. With one green eye and another blue, Brett Jackson in all his tattooed splendor stares at me, a ghost of a smile on his full lips, his shirt sleeves rolled up revealing an array of intricate colors over his exposed and muscular forearms. A vein pulses across the length of his skin below his wrist and he brings a thumb to the stubble beneath his chin, rubbing in a way that makes me want his hands on me immediately.
It’s only been thirty minutes since I’ve set my sight on him, but every second apart feels like an eternity, and I reach for him, eager to pull him into the circle of my arms. He steps forward, my willing victim, and casts me under the spell of his mesmerizing eyes. As always.
I wrap my hands around his neck, swaying against him, and he dips his lips to my neck, pressing hard.
“You look beautiful, Ms. Carpenter.”
“You’re not too bad yourself, Mr. Jackson,” I comment, my vision blurring as he rubs his body against mine, his hips rocking against mine. His touch is electric—addictive. I lean into it, anxious for more, and we start to dance as we’ve done so many times before. Only now there’s no spinning, turning, twirling around each other, waiting for the other to catch on. We’re both caught, encased in a love stronger than the steel structures that stand over the New York sky. Smelling sinful and angelic all at once, Brett spins me skillfully in his hands, his fingertips skimming my curves, driving me fucking crazy.
He rotates me back in his hold, gripping tight.
“You’ve learned new moves,” I declare, cocking a brow at him. “You really are an artist.”
“In every sense of the word.” He grins. “And that’s artist slash producer now, Ms. Carpenter. The deal is done.”
My eyes widen. “You mean…”
“Yup. I hate that the phone call took me away. But thirty minutes later…” A small grin spreads across his gorgeous face. “You’re now looking at the new junior producer of ‘Talented Tats.’ If we’re going to put a television spotlight on true tattoo artists, then we need to focus on getting them the recognition they deserve, instead of pushing them into gossipy press. I got my chance. It’s time to give them theirs.”
“And put the two million Reed gave you to good use.”
“I can’t think of a better cause to put it towards. I dedicate the successful launch to Mr. Hutton.”
I laugh lightly as Brett’s fingertips touch at the edge of my ass. “I’ll take a tequila shot to that.”
His voice lowers. “Is that all you’ll take?” The air begins to hum, and as Brett’s hips continue to rock against me, I feel the hardening of an impressive erection at the apex of my thighs, his sturdy length brushing between my legs. I am wet instantly. Hell, I was wet the second he touched me, but now I’m a veritable rainforest. I shift on my heels trying hard not to squirm… and fail.
Brett moves in even closer. “I want to take you into the bathroom right now. Press against that gorgeous ass of yours. Bend you over the tabletop and knead the skin under the edge of that dress.”
And suddenly I can imagine it all, a scene that’s yet to take place.
Brett. Me. His captivating stare capturing mine in the mirror as he moves behind me, lifting the skirt of my slinky dress up over my ass. A touch. A caress. A massage of my sensitive skin. Fingering the edge of my thin thong before ripping it to shreds, letting the threads hit the floor as he unzips his slacks. Circling, swirling, sinking his immaculate cock between my ass cheeks, pressing at my sex.
A groan. A needy moan. Me leaning over the edge of the porcelain sinks as he plunges into me slowly, sinking into the depths of my soaking wet pussy. A tug of the hair. A smack of my ass. Picking up pace. Pumping. Pounding. Plundering.
Taking everything and giving it back all the same. Fingertips against my nipples. Teeth at my earlobe. A touch. A fondle. A twist.
The slow strumming of my clit. And then an explosion.
I’m practically panting on the dance floor as I picture it all, needing Brett inside me. Now. Pleasuring me in only the way his perfect ass can. I close my eyes and he kisses my forehead, his lips skimming the surface as he whispers. “Let’s get out of here.”
I’m only too eager to say yes when I feel a small touch on my arm. A touch that’s not his. I hiss in frustration as a figure moves in, just as tall and dark as the man in front of me.
I hear familiar words. “Can I cut in?”
The presence feels similar to the tattooed Adonis still touching me—scarily similar, in fact, and I step back just as the mirror image of Brett moves forward, a phantom-like smile making an appearance on the strange man’s face. My Adonis’s face falls, all the life sucked right out of it and the remnants that survive are but an apparition of its former vitality. He swallows, his Adam’s Apple bobbing harshly as he stands face-to-face with a hardened older reflection of himself.
The man barely moves his mouth as he stares at Brett, his shoulders slouching as he shoves his hands in a pair of perfect slacks. Two words take the breath right out of me. The man sighs.
“Hello, son.”
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SNEAK PEEK of The Bet
VIOLET
Don’t spill the coffee in his lap. Don’t spill in the coffee in his lap. Do. NOT. Spill the coffee in his lap.
They’re the only words I can think off while my hands shake. My legs are shaking even worse, and as I sit the steaming cup of coffee in front of my boss, David Armstrong, it’s the only thing I can focus on.
Well, that…and the huge bulge lying limp in his crotch. I can’t help it. I can’t help but notice.
He’s freaking hot. He’s also the closest thing I’ve had to a male friend in a long time, and the more I look at him, the more I wish I didn’t. Why can’t I lose myself in a David? Granted there’s only the one and the teeny tiny crush I have on my new boss is probably nothing more than product of too much male testosterone in the room—a combination of cologne and raw masculinity with a hint of musk.
And the suits. Holy shit. The suits. The midnight blue stunner on David’s sculpted shoulders is worth more than my first year of law school and as I lean in to lay the java in front of his paper and pen, he smiles, making me fumble the large mug in my right hand. My cup spills, splashing some cold tea on my right hand, and as I shake the liquid away, I feel my knees do the same, nearly knocking as they try to carry me through the rest of the oval-shaped circle that borders the boardroom.
I manage to make it all the way around without spilling another drop. I grin, feeling triumph, but nobody notices me. They’re too busy in the middle of some deposition that I probably shouldn’t even be listening to. I sneak out of the well-lit walls with my hands clasped gently around the porcelain mug held to my navel, my head down, strawberry-colored strands of my hair falling over my face.
I tuck a few behind my ear when I feel a sudden touch on my back.
“Holy shit.” I jump.
Karina backs up. “Sorry.”
I close the boardroom doors. “Think you might want to give me a heads-up before you scare me shitless? There’s a really important deposition going down and I don’t want to interrupt.”
My newest colleague crosses her arms. “Of course you don’t. All that delicious-looking David… and one Violet. Must be tough…being around such a fuckable man.”
I shrug, walking past her. “You act like it’s my fault the firm hired a good-looking guy.”
“Just because he’s good-looking doesn’t mean you have to get coffee. You’re a junior partner, for crying out loud.”
“Key word: junior. And I’d like to be senior someday.”
“You won’t. If David sees you as his coffee girl.”
I groan, leaning my head back. “I’m just trying to be nice. Any other advice you want to throw to the tired junior partner, two inches from diving out the window?”
“Yeah,” she says, standing. “Stop ogling the man and get your own.” She points at the boardroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows. “I can see through glass, you know.” She grins. She grabs a brown paper bag I hadn’t seen until just now, sneaking into another boardroom without making a sound.
My fingertips are running hot and cold from the drinks, and so are my emotions. I stalk into the main floor’s kitchenette where I find myself leaning against the counter.
It’s been a hell of a day. Made more hell-ish by the office shipments that never arrived and my faulty computer keyboard. Not to mention the night classes that have been wreaking havoc on my nerves or the fact that my job has made any sort of dating life almost impossible. I stood Jeffrey up again last night. And even after my several attempts at apologies, he practically shrugged off my texts, giving me the virtual cold shoulder.
I sigh, stirring up my own cup of now-lukewarm coffee. Yup. I was going to be sex-less for another six months. I tap the stirring spoon against the edge of my coffee cup when I feel a tap on my lower back. Actually, less like a tap. More like a caress.
I turn.
“Well, hello, Violet.”
Fuck, I hate the way he says my name, as it were a dirty word. Every time Steven Randall comes around, I feel the need to fall out of my skin and replace it with a new one. Anything to get his touch off of me. Our local delivery man is a creep if I ever saw one, and the last person I want to see so early in the morning. I step away from his touch.
“And goodbye, Steven.” I grab my coffee.
“Wait, wait,” he says, blocking my path. “Leaving so soon? You just got here.”
“I’ve been here since five o’clock this morning. And I’m no good to anybody until my tenth fix of caffeine so if you’ll excuse me…”
He steps in front of me again, and I want to splash my cooling drink in his face. If I didn’t want the cappuccino so bad, I would have faked tripping, just to toss it into his lap. But I wasn’t lying. I need the caffeine. If I’m going to survive another day of that high-stress position that sometimes I think I would only wish on the bitterest of bimbos that went to high school with me.
Being one of the few female lawyers at my firm was no easy feat. And neither was keeping my cool while Steven tried to stop my escape. Why was it always the shitty guys that liked to pretend they had the biggest balls?
From the way he swaggered through the halls, you’d think Steven owned the place. Contrary to what I’d seen earlier with David, Steven’s lack of bulge in his too-tight overalls is a tell-tale sign that he’s not the boss of anything, and I consider commenting about it when he pipes up again.
“There are other pick-me-ups besides caffeine, you know…” He smiles knowingly.
“None that I care to talk about.” I reached back for a second tray of filled coffee cups. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
I can see the word “No” forming on his lips, but then someone grabs me. A female someone. Warm brown liquid goes splashing sideways, and I curse as a wave of caramel macchiato goes flying out of my hands and towards the table. “Shit!” I scream out loud. “Dammit, Emily.”
“Sorry,” she yelps quickly, though she looks anything but. “We’ve got an emergency on our hands.”
“What?” I snap. “David not receive enough whipped cream on their frappe-whatever or something?”
She shakes her head. “No. We have a visitor. Boy, do we have a visitor.”
From the way she spits out the words, I can tell she’s in shock. Her eyes widen with nervousness…or maybe it’s excitement. I can’t tell.
I take a deep breath, my chest literally heaving. “And?”
“Problem is,” she interrupts, “he has no identification, no appointment. He wants to come on the floor. But I can’t let him. Not without ID. Not dressed so casually, in an outfit tight enough to make my tongue twist ten different ways.”
I sigh, setting the rest of the coffee cups down. “Why don’t you just tell him ‘no’?
She gapes as if I asked her to strip naked and do the Hokey-Pokey. “Are you nuts?” She glances over her shoulder, lowering her voice. “He is way too fucking hot for me to make out my name, let alone the word ’no.’” She grabs for me again. “Come on. You need to see this for yourself.”
And just like that I was stolen from Steven’s grasp. Saved…by the scatterbrained secretary. But I have to admit: I am curious. Emily’s fingers are still wrapped around my wrist, and as she pulls me into the front lobby to meet the strange man, I turn the corner, feeling as if I’ve walked smack-dab into wall. The stranger, suited in a gray shirt and sweaty shorts, is somehow still debonair despite his slightly disheveled state, and though he looks annoyingly heavenly, his brown hair mussed and his salty musky scent heady, I know better than most… that the man standing before us both is the devil.
I place my hands behind my back, holding them there, my fingers interlocked… an
d every single one of them shaking. He glances over at me, ignoring Emily completely, his smile wicked and wide—showing everything I hate about him.
Heath Sparrow.
My heart almost stops at the sight of him, and suddenly I’m forgetting all about my hot-as-hell boss, all of my focus going to him. I swallow.
“Hi, Violet,” he says quietly to me, his voice smoother than silk. “Bet you never thought you’d see me again.”
Tap here to pre-order The Bet on Amazon.
Coming December 2018.
Also by Natalie Wrye
THE KISSES & CRIMES SERIES
The Bodyguard
The Investigator
The Imposter
The Enforcer
THE REVENGE SERIES
Riske and Revenge
Perfect Revenge
Sweet Revenge
THE MANHATTAN NIGHTS SERIES
The Vow
The Bet (Coming December 2018)
The Deal (Coming 2019)
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About the Author
Natalie Wrye is a tequila connoisseur, Game of Thrones addict and author best known for writing steamy bedtime reads.
A Jersey Girl living in the South, when she's not obsessing over a new Netflix series or yelling at college basketball games on TV, she's usually crafting sexy stories about hard-bodied, alpha males and the strong-willed women who crave them.
