1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Fourteen

by Kristen Ashley

  I stared at his dark head bent over his plate right along with feeling my heart contract.

  He lifted that head, swallowed, and asked, “What?”

  “I don’t know whether to throw something at you or jump you.”

  He grinned a wicked grin that set my coochie to buzzing.

  “We’re taking it slow, remember?”

  “Yeah. Right. Great.”

  He kept grinning and the buzzing got stronger.

  “Stop turning me on,” I warned.

  “Stop being cute,” he fired back.

  I stuck my tongue out at him.

  He watched it then looked in my eyes. “That didn’t work.”

  “Whatever,” I muttered, grabbed my bread, and gnawed off a huge chunk with my teeth.

  Marcus burst out laughing.

  And I loved the sound.

  Whatever!

  * * * *

  Marcus ripped his mouth from mine, rested his forehead against mine, and murmured a labored, “Christ.”

  I stood pressed against the doorjamb of his bedroom, my chest heaving, brushing against his, this setting my nipples to tingling (or setting them to tingling more). My fingers were also gripping the back of his sweater in a way that I was sure would misshape it forever.

  It was a great sweater. This would be a shame.

  I just couldn’t find it in me at that minute to care.

  It was time to go to bed.

  And Marcus led me to his bedroom, where I was sleeping (and he would hear none of it that I could take a guest room (he didn’t have one like he’d said, he had three) so I shut up about it) and he’d just given me a goodnight kiss that led to another one that led to another one that led to a make-out session in his doorway.

  He had one hand curled around the back of my neck, the other hand braced on the jamb over my head.

  His hold and pose were hot.

  So I was not feeling slow.

  At all.

  “I think maybe we can—” I began.

  He lifted his forehead from mine and cut me off.

  “We need to work up to it.”

  “I’m up for more working up to it,” I shared with him breathily.

  He took his hand from the jamb and brushed his fingers along my jaw.

  “Don’t make this harder,” he ordered gently.

  I wanted to make something harder.

  To communicate this, I replied, “I know ways to make it a whole lot easier.”

  “Daisy, honey, you lost it at dinner.”

  Damn.

  “We need to work up to it,” he repeated.

  He was right.

  And that stunk.

  “All right,” I grumbled.

  “All right,” he replied sweetly.

  “Can we make a deal that if I have forty-eight hours drama-free, you’ll consider banging me?”

  He smiled down at me. “Honey, I’m never going to bang you. What we’re going to do will not including banging.”

  I didn’t know what to make of that.

  “What’re we gonna do?” I asked, not to get a rise out him (in that way, or any way).

  I was curious.

  “We’re not going to bang.”

  “Okay, so what’re we gonna do?”

  “You bang someone you give a gold bracelet to to say good-bye when you’ve lost interest in banging her. The man I am does not bang a woman like you.”

  Oh Lord.

  His brows drew together as he watched my face. “Are you going to cry again?”

  “No,” I snapped, though I was feeling close to it. So I needed a retreat, stat. “Go away. I need to crawl into your huge-ass bed, smell you on your sheets, and fight the desire to ask you to let it be me who puts a bullet into that jackass’s forehead.”

  “That isn’t going to happen.”

  I blinked at the sudden change in the tone of his voice.

  It wasn’t just firm.

  It was steel grating against steel.

  “I was just joshin’,” I told him carefully.

  “Well, I’m not. I do what I do. I have other concerns that I’m growing alongside those you don’t know about, you’ll never know about, but know they’re there. I do this to assure the future I intend to have. That’s the part of my life where you’ll have your place. The only part. This gets done, you live in that light. I never put you in any dark.”

  “Okay, sugar,” I soothed, because I needed to soothe. The sparks flying off his steel were singeing me.

  The heat went out of his gaze, he bent and touched his mouth to mine, and then he gave my neck a squeeze.

  He did all this right before he didn’t play fair.

  “Now, go to bed, baby. And if you do something while you’re wrapped up in my sheets that I’d love, but right now knowing you were doing it would kill me, please be quiet. I intend to be.”

  My eyes got huge.

  His got wicked.

  Then he brushed his lips against mine again, took his time trailing his hand from my neck so his fingers went all the way through my hair before he stepped away and walked away, not looking back.

  Still, I watched until he disappeared through a door down the hall.

  Okay, giving you the honesty.

  I watched his ass until it disappeared through a door down the hall.

  But there was some shoulder watching too.

  I closed the door to his room, got ready for bed, and for the first time since what happened to me happened to me, I took care of business wrapped up in Marcus’s sheets.

  And really, who could blame me?

  Not to mention, he’d totally primed me so it was awesome.

  And not once did I think about what had happened to me.

  Oh no.

  After I took care of myself as quiet as I could, I rolled over, smelled Marcus, closed my eyes with a smile on my face, and slept like a baby.

  Chapter Nine

  Love Boat

  Daisy

  I sat with my bare feet up on a chair in the dressing room at Smithie’s, a cold Fat Tire beer in my hand.

  The beer was not my choice. It was Wynter’s birthday. She wanted a tub filled with Fat Tire, so Smithie left one for us in the dressing room. Though it wasn’t my choice, it was the first time I’d ever had it and that beer was yum.

  My contribution was a big birthday sheet cake practically covered with huge frosting roses.

  Oh, and the cake also had the words Happy Birthday, Wynter! and the whole thing was covered in edible glitter dust.

  I was sipping and grinning at Chardonnay, who was telling a story.

  “So then I was all, ‘What’s your problem?’ And she was all, ‘I don’t have a problem. What’s your problem?’ And I was all, ‘Do you see me talking to this guy?” And she was all, ‘Whatever.’ And I was all, ‘Not whatever. You just came up to him while I was talking to him and shoved your tits in his face.’ And she was all, ‘I did not do that.’ And I was all, ‘I got eyes in my head, don’t I?’ And then the guy says, ‘You did do that. And it was not cool. I’m talking to her.’” Her face got dreamy and so did her voice when she finished, “His name was Dylan, and he was fine.”

  Then she gave me big eyes.

  “How fine, sugar bunch?” I asked.

  She lifted her hands and held her pointed fingers out at least ten inches. “Fine.”

  That was when my eyes got big. “That is fine.”

  “So what happened with this chick?” Ashlynn asked.

  “She bitchslapped her,” Paris put in. “I was there. It was fucking aces.”

  “Good for you,” I said to Chardonnay.

  “You got that right, sister,” Chardonnay replied.

  We giggled.

  “Know this chick,” Paris said into our giggles, grabbing up a handful of the cashews that Ashlynn brought, which, as far as I was concerned, seriously classed up a birthday party in a stripper dressing room. Then again, cashews classed up anything. “Her name is Dawn. She’s so
good spreadin’ her bitch around, think she’s goin’ for the world record of bitchdom.”

  Then she threw back the cashews.

  “Dawn?” China sidled up, pulling out her own Fat Tire and reaching for the opener. “I think I know her. She went after my girl Bethany’s man. He is hot.” Her face got distracted. “Though I think she’s just a booty call. His name is Hawk. And that night when that Dawn chick made her move was the only time he’s been seen with her in public and that’s only because he was pickin’ her up from this party so he could have his booty call.”

  “This dude’s name is Hawk?” Chardonnay asked.

  China nodded.

  “Who’s called Hawk?” Chardonnay went on.

  “I’d call him whatever he wanted me to call him, he’s just that hot,” China replied.

  “Now, sugar,” I began to advise, “this guy could be hot but she’s givin’ him some and he’s been seen with her in public once?”

  I left it at that but shook my head slowly.

  “Daisy, serious,” China said. “I was at that party. I saw him. And Bethany has talked about him. A lot. So even if half the shit she said is true, just getting a load of him, I’d not only call him whatever he wanted me to call him, I wouldn’t care if we saw the light of day, just as long as he kept the lights on when he was doin’ me. Because, I’ll repeat, he’s just that hot.”

  “Well then,” I murmured on a grin, “there you go.”

  There was a knock on the door and Wynter called out, “Decent.”

  Smithie swung in with the door, just his torso, his hand still on the knob, his scowl already set.

  “Any a’ you bitches feel like doin’ somethin’ other than sittin’ around throwin’ back a few beers, like, I don’t know, dancing?”

  “Is it time?” Chardonnay asked.

  Smithie’s gaze cut to the big clock on the wall that said yes, the day girls were done, the night girls were on seven minutes ago.

  He didn’t use those words. He just returned his scowl to the room.

  The day girls didn’t leave the stage until the night girls scooted out.

  So it was definitely time for them to hit it.

  “Right, we better go,” Ashlynn said, setting her beer aside.

  “Thanks for the cake. I can’t wait to try some during your first set,” Wynter added, shooting me a smile.

  I gave her a smile back.

  “Knock ’em dead, sugars!” I called after them.

  Smithie didn’t move, glowering at them as they filed out in front of him.

  After China, the last of them, cleared the room, his eyes came to me.

  “Sloan’s booth is empty and the place is already packed. I need the space if he ain’t gonna show. He comin’ tonight?”

  I nodded, feeling my heart squeeze and not in a good way.

  I’d been back at work for over five weeks.

  If I was working, most nights, at some point during the night, Marcus slid into the semi-circular booth at the very end on the north side of the club. A booth that had become his. No one sat at it because, first, it was Marcus Sloan’s and second, Smithie put a red velvet rope in front of it until he showed.

  Sometimes I’d watch from the dancers’ hall, and when I did, I’d see that he didn’t watch the dancers (though I noticed his eyes never left me when I was onstage). He would either be on his phone, talking to one of his men, or going over papers he had on the table while he sipped his bourbon and branch.

  Whether Marcus showed or not, Brady stood outside the dressing room door if I was in it. If I was onstage, he stood just offstage, eyes on the club.

  Yes, Marcus gave me his bodyguard.

  After the night was done, if Marcus was there, Brady escorted me out the back door and into Marcus’s limo. If he wasn’t, Brady escorted me to my Porsche then followed me wherever I went after and then escorted me behind closed doors once I got there.

  That there usually being Marcus’s place, sometimes my place, though that was rarely.

  If I had a day off and it wasn’t a weekend (and I was a headliner and weekends were big for Smithie’s, so it was rare I had time off on the weekends), I’d do my thing, Marcus would do his, but we’d meet for dinner.

  The majority of the time he took me to fancy places. The other times, I made him let me cook for him (yes, I’d horned in on his kitchen). Twice, he got takeout but it wasn’t from Twin Dragon or alternate goodness like that. It was always from swanky places that didn’t even do takeout (except for men like Marcus).

  In the beginning, I slept in his big bed, him in his guest room, or the times we were at my place, he insisted on sleeping on the couch.

  Giving me hope, about two weeks ago, I got him to messing around in his bed, and even though he stopped the good stuff, he didn’t leave. He got on his pajama bottoms (silk, drawstring, navy-blue, f-i-n-e, fine) and joined me there.

  And from then on, we slept together.

  Without, it was important to add, sleeping together.

  He held me when we slept. Or he didn’t move all night if I cuddled up to him.

  That was good.

  But I will repeat, we slept together without sleeping together.

  That was bad.

  He’d slid into second base repeatedly. And he was good at that in a big way. And once (giving me more hope), with his fingers over my panties, he’d given me the very good stuff.

  But only once and that was it.

  Mostly, he stopped the festivities before they got too heated, turned me into his arms or let me snuggle into him, gave me a soft kiss on my nose or forehead, and then we went to sleep.

  And I’ll repeat something else.

  That was it.

  For over five weeks.

  We’d had conversations about this. Twelve of them to be exact. (Yes, I was counting.)

  And I was getting nowhere except to know really well Marcus thought we should “take it slow.”

  I hadn’t had a drama since my first time eating at his dining room table. I’d never had another nightmare. Not to mention, he knew I was no fragile flower. And I was giving him every indication I was ready to move us forward.

  I understood why he wanted to take it slow and that was sweet.

  But this wasn’t slow.

  This was alarming.

  Because, see, shit like this messed with a girl’s head.

  A man doesn’t want down her pants, that speaks volumes.

  Or, more to the point, it makes a girl ask a lot of questions that might not seem logical to some, but to a girl, they were as logical as it could get.

  For me, these questions were two in particular.

  The first, was I the damsel in distress in place of the sister he’d wished he could save? And part B of that question, was he in denial about that, thinking he was doing the right thing when he was not?

  Or second, was I a kind of employee he was looking after to keep safe while they kept looking for the guy who did what he’d done to me?

  And no one had said anything, so I reckoned he was still out there. Detective Jimmy Marker had called at least ten times to share that he was disappointed with the progress of the case, but he had no intention of giving up so they were still looking.

  Sure, the illogical part in all of this was that it had been way more than five weeks where Marcus had been sweet to me, kind, thoughtful, attentive, gentlemanly, generous, and even sexy. That should speak volumes too.

  But, I mean, in my life, one of the many things I’d learned was that if a guy wants it, it’s offered, he takes it. Especially if it’s offered repeatedly.

  So Marcus not taking it had to mean he didn’t want it.

  Now he’d seen me doing my thing on the stage and he’d seen it a lot. He was sweet as usual when I got in his limo with him after work. Complimentary. Touchy. Kissy. Nice. He hadn’t acted, not once, like watching me do my gig made him think I was skeevy. Not even close.

  In fact, it was the opposite.

  It coul
d not be said when he first started coming to the club it didn’t make me feel all kinds of special, not only that he’d come, but that his eyes never left me when I was onstage, like he was transfixed, spellbound.

  And not just in the beginning, that kept right on going, in actions and words, he gave me the sense he was proud of me. Proud that, at the end of the night, the woman he was watching onstage was going to be escorted to his limousine and she’d be spending the night in his bed (even if they didn’t do much there).

  But he was total class. He had a penthouse. He belonged to a country club (one he had not taken me to, by the way). He worked a lot and said things into his phone like “dividends” and “shift those investments around” and “the rate of return on that is not what I’d hoped, let’s consider alternatives.”

  And I was, well, a stripper.

  I had a Porsche but I didn’t have a limo or a penthouse, and even though I raked it in (with him paying me, but I could have done it my own damned self if he hadn’t taken off a set, a song on each set, and the lap dances), I’d never have that. I’d never belong to a country club. I’d never tame my hair, ease up on the eyeliner, and trade my platforms for Valentino’s Rockstud in order to fit in with that set.

  So maybe in the throes of the situation he’d gotten himself into a spot—being a gentleman and being the kind of gentleman Marcus Sloan was—a spot he couldn’t get out of, dumping the chick who’d recently been raped after realizing she didn’t quite fit at his side.

  I didn’t need that shit.

  I needed to start looking for houses, dining room tables, and checking out china patterns.

  And I didn’t need to do it with a broken heart (though, I wasn’t letting myself go there, but I had a strong feeling that ship had sailed).

  Because even without the good stuff, everything else was good stuff with Marcus Sloan. And I was not talking about the fancy restaurants, the penthouse, the limo.

  I was talking about his sweet. His attention that, even the times he was on the phone, he still made it clear if I was in his sphere, it was always on me. His touchy. His kissy. His arms around me while I slept. His warm, hard body the perfection it was to cuddle into. The easy way that came often that I could make him laugh. The beautiful way he looked at me every time he gave me the same.