by Jenna Sutton
Ava Grace jerked her head toward him. “Tequila?” she repeated, her lip curling in disgust. “Why do you like tequila more than bourbon?”
Roarke smiled devilishly. “Because you can do body shots with tequila.”
She blinked, her eyes round and wide. “Body shots?”
Roarke looked at the audience. “You guys know what body shots are, right?” he asked, and the audience answered with a cheer.
“You can do body shots with bourbon too,” Ava Grace assured Roarke.
Beck frowned. Trinity was supposed to be sipped, not sucked down.
Roarke narrowed his eyes doubtfully. “Are you sure you can do body shots with bourbon?”
“Absolutely,” she answered, nodding her head emphatically.
“Maybe we should test it.”
To Beck’s surprise, Ava Grace said, “That’s a great idea, Roarke. We can do body shots off you.”
Roarke looked at the audience. “Should we do body shots off me or someone else?” he asked, shaking his head toward Ava Grace.
The audience went wild, chanting Ava Grace’s name. She shook her head and gestured to her torso.
“I’m not dressed for body shots,” she protested.
“That’s the whole point of body shots,” Roarke quipped.
The chanting grew louder, and Ava Grace grimaced. “Okay. Okay. Calm down.” She pointed to the crook of her elbow. “I can hold the shot glass right here.” The audience booed loudly, and she threw up her hands. “I can’t hold it anywhere else!”
Roarke turned to the audience and waggled his eyebrows. “Do you have any suggestions?”
A male voice shouted, “Between her legs.”
The audience began to chant legs, and Beck’s heart rate picked up until it thudded in a hard, fast rhythm. This was turning into a fucking circus with Ava Grace as the main attraction.
Ava Grace smiled widely. “What a fantastic idea!” She rose from her chair and picked up the full shot glasses. “Roarke, clear off your desk.”
Roarke grabbed the bottle of Trinity in one hand and swiped his other arm across his desk in a dramatic move. After handing the shot glasses to Roarke, she sat down on top of the desk.
Beck’s eyes shot to the TV monitors hanging from the ceiling. Somehow Ava Grace managed to swivel and swing her legs up without flashing the whole goddamn world. She reclined on the desk, and it was just long enough only her ankles and feet hung off.
She looked just like a virgin sacrifice, her arms straight by her side and her legs closed tightly together. She turned her head to look at the audience.
“Is this what you wanted?” she called out.
The audience roared its approval, and she laughed. She beckoned Roarke, and when he leaned down, she whispered into his ear. The mic picked up only one huskily spoken word: thighs.
Roarke placed a shot glass between Ava Grace’s toned thighs, several inches above her knees. As he rose and looked into the camera, he pointed to his head. “Head.” He pointed to his chest. “Heart.” He pointed to Ava Grace’s crotch. “And this is the tail.”
Bending down, Roarke wrapped his mouth around the shot glass. He slowly straightened with the glass clasped in his mouth, and when he reached his full height, he threw back his head and gulped the bourbon.
The talk show host jerked the shot glass from his mouth with a gasp and smacked his lips. “Bourbon is definitely better than tequila, especially when you get to drink it off a beautiful woman.”
The audience cheered, and Roarke held up the shot glass. “Who wants to go next?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As the makeup artist swept the eye shadow brush over Ava Grace’s lids, she impatiently tapped her foot against the metal rung of her chair. She hated to keep Beck waiting, but stage makeup was too heavy for normal everyday wear, and she’d needed a quick touch-up before she left the studio.
After the show had wrapped, she made sure to introduce Beck to Roarke. As always, the talk show host was gracious and affable. Beck, meanwhile, was friendly but more reserved than usual, and he’d been silent on the walk back to the green room.
Beck’s mood had been drastically different before the show. Earlier he’d said some really sweet things, and no matter how much she told herself not to ascribe too much importance to them, she hoped he’d meant them.
Unfortunately, she had a feeling he wasn’t too happy about the show. Although it hadn’t turned out exactly as she’d expected, she still thought it went well. It certainly could’ve turned out a lot worse. She hoped Beck realized that.
“Time for mascara,” the makeup artist said.
Ava Grace obligingly opened her eyes wide and blinked against the mascara brush several times. As she repeated the process on her other eye, she decided to casually strike up a conversation with Beck in the limo to suss out his feelings about the show. His answers would determine her strategy for dinner.
After a slick of tinted lip gloss and a dusting of face powder, Ava Grace was ready to go. She thanked the makeup artist, grabbed her bag, and exited the dressing room. Beck was waiting for her, propped against the wall with his muscular arms crossed over his chest.
The sight of him made her heart rise like a hot air balloon. She was always happy to see him.
Earlier today, she’d been shocked when she entered the Riley O’Brien & Co. jet and found Beck sitting in the cabin. She’d hoped he had wanted to come with her, but he doused her with cold water when he told her that Gabe had food poisoning.
The flight to Los Angeles had been tense, silent, and uncomfortable despite the plush leather seats. She tried to engage him in conversation, but he shut her down.
His mood had been as dark as his eyes, and she hadn’t been able to charm or tease him out of it. By the end of the flight, she was irritated with him and even more irritated with herself for putting up with his rudeness.
Beck pushed away from the wall, and she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the sight of him in his button-down shirt and flat-front trousers. With thin stripes of light blue and black, his long-sleeved shirt made his chest look even broader, and the expensive cotton emphasized the dense muscles of his shoulders and arms.
He’d paired the stylish shirt with black pants that looked just as good from the back as they did from the front. They highlighted his lean waist, made him look even taller, and showed off his tight butt. A black leather belt with a matte silver buckle and black leather dress shoes with a tapered toe finished his dressy look.
“Ready?” she asked.
He responded with a curt nod, and she headed down the hall. With him following, she put an extra sway in her hips, hoping he was watching.
As they reached the door, he moved in front of her and opened it. To her surprise, he didn’t hold it for her but stepped through and blocked the opening. A second later, he moved to the side so she could exit, and she realized he’d checked to make sure it was safe for her to leave the building.
A heavyset, uniformed driver stood in front of a long, black limo. He immediately opened the door for them, and she slid into the car as gracefully as possible given her short dress and ridiculously high heels. Beck climbed in behind her, but instead of sitting next to her, he settled in the seat along the side and stared out the window.
The driver shut the door behind them, and when he got in the car, he looked over his shoulder and asked, “Back to the hotel, Miss Landy?”
She darted a glance toward Beck, noting his tight mouth, the stiff set of his shoulders, and the clenched fists resting on top of his thighs. Anger emanated from him like a sonar signal from a submarine.
“Back to the hotel,” she confirmed before pressing the button to raise the privacy glass.
As the car glided forward, she angled her body toward Beck. “That went really well,” she chirped, knowing she was antagonizing him.
His head snapped toward her, his brows lowered and his eyes narrowed. Dark color flushed his face, and he rolled his lips inward, obviously struggling to co
ntrol his temper.
She smiled brightly. “Roarke was funnier than usual, and the audience had a ton of energy. I’ve been on the show a few times, and it’s never been like tonight.” She waited for him to respond, and when he didn’t, she prompted him. “Did you enjoy the show?”
His eyes narrowed into slits. His nostrils flared, and he looked away from her, his dark eyes drilling a hole in the privacy screen.
“I think ‘Head, Heart, and Tail’ is going to be a hit,” she added. “I can always tell when people connect with a song because they tap their toes without meaning to.”
He didn’t respond, and her bravado … her defiance … drained away. Her throat closed up, and she had to swallow a couple of times to relax it.
“I know you’re upset,” she began, a placating note in her voice. When he gave no outward sign he’d heard her, she said, “Please look at me, Jonah.”
He slowly turned his head to meet her eyes. “I know you’re upset,” she repeated quietly. “But please believe me when I say nothing like that has ever happened before.”
She gave him an apologetic smile. “You’ve worked so hard to build Trinity … to create bourbon you can be proud of. I know you think the show damaged your brand. I know you think I damaged it.” She grimaced. “Body shots and premium bourbon don’t really go together.”
Leaning closer, she put her hand on his knee. “I understand you don’t want people to associate Trinity with drinking games, but I couldn’t let Roarke imply tequila was better than bourbon. I didn’t want anyone who watched the show to have a bad impression of Trinity. I was trying to protect Trinity’s brand, not hurt it.”
He moved his knee out from under her hand. She stared at him, her guilt and regret morphing into anger. She’d done the best she could under the circumstances, and he should be thanking her.
“What was I supposed to do?” She threw herself back into the seat and crossed her arms over her chest. “You don’t know what it’s like to be in front of a live audience. It can get really ugly, really fast, if you don’t give them what they want. Do you think I wanted complete strangers to do body shots just inches from my…”
Crossing her legs, she shifted away from Beck and looked out the window. Tears clogged her throat, and she cleared it roughly. She wasn’t going to cry over this man ever again.
As the lights of Hollywood slid past the car window, she said, “I should have spent my time on Roarke talking about myself. But I didn’t. I talked about Trinity the whole time, and I performed a song I’m not making a penny on.”
The limo slid to a stop. She grabbed her bag and jumped out before the driver could open the door. Beck had already exited by the time she rounded the back of the limo, and he grasped her elbow. She shook off his hand and gave him the “death stare” before stalking through the revolving doors.
She hurried to the elevators as fast as her shoes would allow and stabbed the up button. She felt Beck’s solid presence behind her, and she was tempted to ram her elbow into his gut. She’d never considered herself a physical person before, but she turned into one whenever he was around.
The moment the elevator arrived, she rushed inside. Unfortunately, Beck was right on her heels.
Roarke’s people had booked the hotel for her, so she had a suite on one of the higher floors. Beck’s room was a few floors below hers, and she hoped it was the size of a shoe box and infested with bedbugs.
He pressed the button for her floor, obviously planning to see her safely to her room. Even when he was being a jerk, he retained some gentlemanly qualities.
The elevator dinged, and as she pushed past him, she said, “I don’t want you to walk me to my room. The last time you did, you stuck your tongue in my mouth and your hand up my shirt.”
When he closed his eyes and dropped his head back, she just knew he was counting to ten … or maybe twenty. She spun and stomped down the carpeted corridor. He caught up with her halfway to her suite.
After unlocking the door, she paused with her hand on the handle and sought his dark gaze. “Everything I did tonight, I did for you. I didn’t do it for myself or for Trinity. I did it for you.”
He stared unblinkingly before turning on his heel and striding away. With tears burning her eyes, she entered her room and slowly closed the door.
Maybe it’s time to give up on Beck.
Even as the thought skipped through her mind, her heart whispered, Not yet. Please, not yet.
After tossing her bag on the purple velvet sofa, she went into the bedroom. As she unbuckled her sparkly shoes, she decided to take a long shower, put on her snuggliest pajamas, gorge on room service, and fall asleep on the sofa after watching a movie with hot superheroes.
Half an hour later, she stepped out of the shower and smoothed brown-sugar-scented lotion into her skin. After taking her hair down and brushing it out, she donned her favorite pajamas and padded barefoot into the living area. She’d just picked up the room service menu when she heard a knock on the door.
With some trepidation, she crossed the cold, gray marble tile. Only a few people knew she was in town, and she wasn’t interested in any company.
She looked through the peephole, and surprise made her head snap back. Beck stood outside her door, obviously impatient because he knocked again, this time a little longer and a little louder.
She opened the door just a crack and peeked around the edge. “What do you want?”
“May I come in?” he asked, his tone more polite than she’d ever heard it.
“No. I don’t want to talk to you. And I’m in my pajamas.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “May I come in?” he repeated.
She hesitated, and he added quietly, “Please, Ava Grace.”
“Fine,” she muttered, pulling open the door and standing to the side so he could enter.
Once he was inside, she slammed the door and stomped into the living area. She turned to face him, her hands on her hips.
“What do you want, Beck?”
He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her bare feet, her breasts, and her face. His lips twitched.
“Those are some interesting pajamas,” he said.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Amelia bought them for me.” She stroked her fingers over the soft, aqua-colored cotton printed with small red crabs. “They’re my favorite.”
“Why do you have crabs on your pajamas?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
“Because I’m crabby in the morning,” she replied crabbily.
His answering laugh was barely a breath of sound. “Is that right?”
“Yes. Very crabby.”
“Maybe I can help with that.”
“Oh, yeah?” she asked sarcastically. “How do you plan to succeed when cinnamon rolls and French press coffee have failed?”
He walked toward her until only a few inches separated them. Looking down into her face, he smiled slowly. It was a smile she’d never seen before—one that made her stomach quiver and her knees turn to jelly.
“I have a few ideas, sugar.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Beck was waving the white flag of surrender. Metaphorically, at least.
He didn’t have a white flag on his person, but he had six condoms in his pocket. He’d cleaned out the hotel gift shop after walking Ava Grace to her room.
He was so damn tired of fighting his overwhelming, unrelenting desire for her. So damn tired of going to bed every night thinking about her and waking up aching for her.
He wasn’t going to fight anymore. He was giving up.
Sliding his hands into her thick hair, he gently tilted her head and stared down into her face. Completely bare of makeup and dewy from the shower, it was almost more beautiful than he could stand. Her long eyelashes were darker than her hair and looked like they’d been dipped in liquid gold. A few freckles dotted her nose, and her lush lips were petal-pink even without gloss or lipstick.
He dropped hi
s head and settled his mouth over hers. Her lips fell open, and he lightly stroked his tongue across her bottom lip before nibbling on the luscious curve. She sighed softly, and he angled his head, licking deeply into her mouth. Her tongue slid against his, twirling in an erotic dance.
Every time he kissed her, she tasted better than before. Sweet and light like cotton candy but also spicy and hot like cinnamon.
As he sucked on her tongue, he thought about doing the same thing to her nipples and her clit. His erection lengthened and throbbed against his zipper, and he shifted a hand to the waistband of her pajama pants. He slid it under the soft material and found nothing but smooth, warm skin.
Fuck, yeah. No panties.
Palming her bare ass, he tugged her closer until his cock pressed into her lower stomach. She clutched his biceps, jerking her lips from his. She stared up at him with wide eyes, her mouth rosy and swollen.
She swallowed noisily, her throat rippling with the movement. “I told you not to kiss me again.”
“You told me not to kiss you again unless I planned to take you to bed.” He lightly squeezed her ass cheek. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“I don’t understand you,” she whispered. “I thought you were angry.”
“I was angry, but I’m not anymore.” He rubbed his thumb against the silky skin of her neck. “What you said in the limo … you were right about everything. I understand why you went along with Roarke and the audience.”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did just fine.” He stroked his fingers over the crest of her cheek. “The show probably will create some positive buzz for Trinity. The segment with Roarke doing body shots off you is going to go viral, and we’ll probably see a huge spike on social media. Hopefully, we’ll see an increase in sales too.”
As he began to unbutton her pajama top, he said, “I’m sorry about the way I acted in the limo. I was just…”
He didn’t know how to describe how he’d felt. He’d barely been able to keep it together at the studio. He’d wanted to choke-slam every guy within ten feet of her including Roarke.
