A husky chuckle escaped him. “How many cop pornos have you watched, princess?”
“What?” Flushing, she flicked her ponytail back, nearly clipping him in the jaw with the strands. “I’ll have you know that I absolutely, positively do not watch—”
“I’m guessing you’re in the five to ten range.”
Her shoulders slumped. “It was like . . . two, maybe. I like a guy in uniform—sue me.”
Gage opened his mouth, only for her to clamp her free hand over it.
“Don’t,” she said, loudly enough to be heard over the rip of a guitar playing, “don’t do that super cliché guy thing where you give a recycled one-liner. Be original or don’t bother.”
Damn, but the claws were out tonight. Call him crazy, but it turned him on.
When her hand fell away, he lifted the beer bottle to his mouth, pausing long enough to say, “There’s a reason why guys go for the cliché, Lizzie. Because it works.”
Brows furrowing, she twisted her body around, pressing her back to the bar, giving him the full opportunity to admire the front of her red dress. Deep V. Side cut-outs. She looked like the cherry he wouldn’t mind plucking.
Another ponytail flick, and then, “Don’t be such a—”
“Bad boy?” Gage grinned, lifting his gaze back up to her face. “Pretty sure that’s why you hired me.”
“The word ‘hire’ makes it sound like I’m paying you.”
She’d walked right into that one. Wiggling his brows, he dropped his palms to the bar on either side of her, beer bottle still clutched in his right hand. “Now, princess, technically we did agree upon a . . .”
“Finish that sentence and I swear I will knee you where it hurts, Harvey.”
Gage dropped his head and laughed. He laughed so hard that his abdomen clenched, and the people on either side of them started murmuring behind the shields of their hands. He didn’t care. Not at all. Because Lizzie Danvers did that for him—stripped away everyone who wasn’t her.
This woman. She was just . . .
With his arms still caging her in, he lifted his head and met her eyes. “You’re gorgeous when you’re spittin’ fire, you know that?”
“Well, I mean, I don’t . . .” She downed what remained of her cocktail, and then set it on the bar beside his hand. “Thank you.” A little nod, and then she smoothed down the front of her dress. “Also, in reference to your elephant question, you ticked me off when you shoved that rod up your butt.”
The couple to their right gaped and then sidled a little farther away.
Lizzie wasn’t done. “I understand you don’t want complications, but it’s my life. Naked You, ThatMakeupGirl—all of that is me, Gage. You don’t get to pick and choose which side of me you accept, and you certainly don’t get the luxury of telling me what to do.”
Then why did he get the feeling that she wanted to pick and choose what side of herself she showed the world? “You’re right,” he said after a lengthy pause, “I overreacted.”
She tapped him on the chest. “Understatement of the year.”
Gage swallowed a laugh. “You want me to apologize or not?”
“Well, not with that attitude.”
“Careful, princess. I’m willing to apologize, even more willing to realize that I stepped out of line. But don’t take advantage of the olive branch.”
13
Gage’s proximity made it hard for Lizzie to breathe.
Or maybe it was that her dress, at least five years old, was snug around . . . well, all over.
Whether it was the Cosmo or the glass of wine she’d had before he’d arrived, her tongue felt loose and her thoughts a little sluggish, and so it came as a bit of a surprise when she saw her fingers hook around the belt loops of his pants.
His bracketing arms tensed, and Lizzie allowed her gaze to slowly climb the smart, gray vest he wore. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous. On Gage, it was downright sinful. Charlie Hunnam, sinful; Tom Hardy, sinful. Beneath the vest, he wore a black button-down, the sleeves rolled casually up to his elbows. His five o’ clock shadow was in full force tonight, maybe more like a six, but even his nearly black attire couldn’t match the darkness of his eyes.
Smoothed over, polished onyx.
If she had to pick a gemstone to represent the hue of his gaze, that would be it.
And if she had to select an eye shadow color . . . Midnight Passion.
No other shadow held as much pigment; no other shadow possessed such a pure absence of any other hue.
She licked her bottom lip, tasting the sweet flavor of her lipstick, and watched with a small shiver and a lot of delight as those black-as-night eyes surrendered to lust. Midnight Passion, indeed.
“Is this our first fight?” she asked, infusing just enough dryness into her tone so he knew she was only teasing him, trying to poke light back into the conversation. “Which one of us is going to storm off and get wasted?”
His cheeks hollowed with a gruff chuckle. “We’re not fighting. We’re just . . .”
“Having a disagreement?”
“Yeah.”
“A horse with no name is still a horse.”
Shifting his weight, he pulled one hand away from the bar and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans. Debonair. It was the perfect word for him. Debonair and . . . enticing. What would he do if she used her finger in his belt loop to tug him closer? Lizzie didn’t have any personal experience on the topic, but she’d heard from friends that makeup sex was the best type of sex.
“You know that makes no sense, right?” He shook his head, a smile lightening his naturally broody features. “Where did you even come up with that?”
A small shrug of her shoulders. “Half-song, half-natural creativity. If you thought about it, you’d realize it does make sense. Disagreements and fighting are practically synonyms in this context, so, really—”
“What am I going to do with you, princess?”
Kiss me.
Not that she said that.
She’d already reached her daily quota for kiss-begging.
Lizzie studied his rugged face. “You could buy me another drink.”
“I could.”
Heat swept over her as he moved in, his big body eating up the space between them. Lizzie wasn’t short by any means, but compared to Gage? She felt tiny, delicate, especially when he withdrew his hand from his pocket and settled it on the curve of her waist.
She wanted to blame the unevenness of her breathing on the dress, on the too-tight straps and the even tighter bodice. All lies. It was him, Gage, who had her panting like she’d run a half-marathon or like she’d had an hour-long sex marathon. Gage who backed her up flush against the bar, and dropped his face to the place where her neck and shoulder met. Gage who made her question everything—life, sex, nothing at all—as her thoughts emptied like a sieve and left her with only one last thing.
Desire.
A deep inhale through her nose did nothing to abate the pulse between her legs or the heavier tempo of her heart.
Could he hear it?
Her heart beating?
The music changed, switched over to the next track, and the song that emerged could only be labeled as one thing: a sex song.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because as the couples on the dance floor set the club on fire, Lizzie was burning up—and except for that one hand on her waist, Gage wasn’t even touching her.
Then he did.
With the blunt tip of his finger, he moved the strap of her dress to the side. The polyester skimmed her skin, calling goose bumps to her flesh, and then his mouth pressed down. Teeth grazing her skin in a soft, taunting nip. Tongue swiping out to soothe the sting. Lips brushing the tender spot with barely-there pressure.
Lizzie’s head fell back, and Gage took advantage, delivering the same attention to her neck. Slower, though. It was sensual and seductive and it was nothing at all like the frantic sex sessions—the frantic two-
minute sessions—she’d had in the past with her exes.
“Gage,” she whispered, desperate fingers grasping his corded forearms. Pushing him away, pulling him closer; in that moment, it was all the same.
He pressed his cheek to hers, and whispered in her ear, “Dance with me, princess.”
“Now?”
“You know of a better time?”
“Valid point.” Unwilling to give him the upper hand, Lizzie sauntered past him, stopping only to link her hand with his, and then pulled him to the dance floor.
The strobe lights were blinding, a little nauseating, and Lizzie centered her attention on the sexy-as-hell man in front of her instead.
As did every other female in their general area.
Gage commanded attention; it was simply the best way to put it. There were no awkward dance moves for him. Instead, he flashed her a wink and a grin, and proceeded to show her that if she wanted to keep up, she’d have to work hard.
Working hard had never been Lizzie’s downfall.
She approached him with a sassy sway to her hips, sending a small thank-you up to the music gods when the song changed again, this time to something with a heavy Latin beat.
Brilliant.
Thanks to outings with Jade, who was half-Cuban, Lizzie knew exactly how to move her body.
Eat your heart out, Gage Harvey.
Hand on his shoulder, she circled him once, then stepped back into his line of sight. Not that he looked at all tempted to cast his gaze elsewhere.
Lizzie shimmied. Rolled her hips. Lifted her hands to the ceiling, and kicked up her chin with a naughty smile in his direction. The rhythm of the music dictated each movement, each sharp thrust of her hips side-to-side in pure Shakira fashion.
Gage fell.
And he fell hard.
His hands found her hips, and he smoothly spun her around.
Her back to his chest, his breath warm against her ear. Strong, masculine thighs clenched behind hers.
It was a heavenly blend of bliss and torture, and Lizzie had no shame in tugging his left hand away from her hip and folding it across her middle, just below her breasts, as her head fell back against his shoulder.
“You’re killing me,” came his guttural voice in her ear. “You’re fucking killing me, Lizzie.”
Lizzie, not princess.
She smiled, and didn’t stop. But she did twist her head just so, to stare up at him. “Are you complaining?”
His fingers tightened against her. “Hell no.”
Black met blue, their gazes clashing in the middle of the crowded club. And Lizzie . . . she breathed it all in, soaked up the excitement, as well as the nerves of having him so close. It was the most thrilling moment she’d had in years with a man, if ever, and she never wanted it to end.
Forever isn’t an option.
Her hips paused, slowed, and then regained momentum as she pushed those thoughts of more away. This wasn’t about more, and it wasn’t about forever. It was about now, about the music threading through her soul, and the lust heating her core.
It was about being with this man and thinking of no one else.
She slipped her hand up into his hair, swirling her hips, enjoying the way his dark lashes fluttered shut to fully enjoy the sensation.
“I’m sorry I made you feel less than.”
The words against her temple were a shock to her system. “What?”
He opened his eyes. Smooth onyx, she thought, the color of his eyes were the exact hue of onyx.
“At Naked You the other day,” he explained, never missing a beat as they danced, “I never intended to make you feel less than brilliant. There are things . . .” His breath whooshed out. “I’ve spent too many years on the wrong side of the coin, the center of attention for all the wrong reasons. And I spent the same number of years working my ass off to be judged on my work ethic, nothing else. So I’m sorry, that’s all. Offending you wasn’t my intention.”
Her belly quivered with the rough admission, and she suspected that admitting anything didn’t come naturally to a man like Gage Harvey.
Even in heels, she had to lift on her toes to even put their lips in the same stratosphere. His black eyes burned bright, a silent dare for her to take what she wanted, and Lizzie planned to do just that.
“Gage, I—”
Her belly quivered again, and this time it had nothing to do with the man wrapped around her, and everything to do with that telltale sloshing sensation taking up habitat in her stomach.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
“Princess?” His hand slipped from her belly to her back, and that encouraging touch was almost worse than anything else he could have done.
Her gaze darted to the right, to the left.
And even as she made a break for the black trash bin posted against the wall, she knew exactly what was coming.
She didn’t make it.
Three feet from the garbage can, she keeled over, hands on her knees, and threw up in front of every club-goer, bartender, and worst of all, in front of Gage Harvey.
14
The sound of rock music playing woke Lizzie early the next morning.
If the music hadn’t done it for her, then the wafting scent of bacon would have succeeded in popping her eyes open.
She burrowed deeper in the soft covers, drawing them up to her chin and slamming her eyes shut against the bright light streaming in from the half-drawn blinds.
Mmmm, bacon.
Wait. Hold on.
Who was cooking the bacon?
Lizzie lurched upward, tugging the covers with her. Her eyes skirted the room, taking note of the dark wood everywhere—which was a sharp contrast to her own country-blue French-styled furniture—and the large-screen TV posted on the wall opposite the bed.
She didn’t have a TV in her bedroom.
She also didn’t listen to . . . Her ears twitched at the sound of a masculine voice singing along with the heavy rock.
There.
That.
She also didn’t have a man in her apartment.
Oh, God.
Fearing the worst, she pulled the covers away from her body and peeked down.
Clothes, she was wearing clothes. Thank you, thank you, thank you. A T-shirt had replaced last night’s dress, and, yes, those were basketball shorts. Not hers, but it was still something.
I’m not naked.
Good, that was good. As was the fact that she’d taken a cab the night before to the club, so at least she hadn’t driven drunk.
She pushed the covers away, sucking in a deep breath as the cool air hit her skin, and then very quietly slid off the bed. She was obviously at Gage’s house, that she knew. Who else would she have gone home with?
Had they had sex?
As much as she wanted the answer to be yes in any other circumstance, she prayed that it was a no right now. Not like this, not with her drunk and covered in vomit.
Gage Harvey may not be the bad boy—in the classical sense—that she’d initially thought him to be, but she had to hope that he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation . . . would he?
After a fast dart into the adjoining bathroom, Lizzie stole toothpaste and swiped it on her finger to brush her teeth, scrubbed her face clean of makeup, and flicked off the light switch.
She could do this.
Just walk in there and pretend she hadn’t slept off her drunkenness in his bed.
She wasn’t prepared for the sight of Gage at the stove.
Bare-chested.
Low-slung cargo shorts.
Purple LSU ball cap turned backward.
He was . . . Lizzie swallowed, giving his muscled back another unsubtle ogle. He was a dream. A tatted-up, walking wet dream.
The song broke into a guitar rift, and while Gage didn’t do anything so cliché as to fake-play a guitar, he sang right along with the singer, and . . .
Lizzie burst out laughing when his throaty voice cracked on a high note.
Grimacing, Lizzie sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island. His soft T-shirt pooled in her lap as she crossed her legs. “Can we pretend last night didn’t happen?”
“No can do, princess.” He stepped away from the stove and pulled two plates from the cabinets, along with two glasses. “You caught at least two people, you know.”
Caught two people . . .?
Lizzie clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.” The words were muffled against her palm, but that didn’t stop her from saying them another two times. “Oh my God, oh my God.”
“Yeah, that was their reaction, too.” He set the plates and glasses on the island, and Lizzie didn’t know what was more alarming: the fact that she’d vomited on other people or that his upper body was pure artistry. The muscles, the tattoos . . . She shoved her hands under her butt to keep from running her fingers over his ridged abdomen.
Eight-pack. What normal human had an eight-pack?
Well, he doesn’t drink coffee or eat donuts.
Good point. Next time he even tried to reach for her coffee, she’d slap his hand.
Cheese, too.
The crazy health regimen he preached clearly worked.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered. “Did I . . . I-I don’t even want to ask any more questions about last night. I don’t want to know.”
Two perfectly rounded pancakes landed on a plate before he slid it toward her. “OJ?” Gage asked, turning toward the fridge. “Milk?”
“I’m assuming you don’t have coffee?”
Gage’s soft laugh, accompanied by the early morning light, was the perfect antidote to her hangover. “Would I make your day if I told you that I picked you up a cup when I went to the store for breakfast stuff?”
“I would love you forever.”
He coughed awkwardly, and Lizzie had the sudden desire to bang her head on the kitchen island. Really? she scolded herself. Did you really just say that?
“I mean, I—yes, my day would be made. Absolutely.”
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 273
