by Cari Quinn
“Speak for yourself, love.” Max’s lips were close to her ear so she could hear him over the pulsing beat of Timbaland’s latest progeny. “Your skirt is just as short, but your legs are far better than half of these starving sticks.”
She grinned up at him, patting his cheek. “Good way to keep me here.”
“I’ll resort to any and all forms of flattery to get you to sit and enjoy yourself for an hour, Miranda.”
Sighing, she pointed to a table that had just been evacuated by a couple. Okay, so maybe she’d let work take over too much of her life. At the very least she could enjoy some people watching. She hadn’t been down to the pier in a few days to fill her quota.
Max waved over a waitress. “Appletini for me and a Hurri—”
“House red,” Miranda interrupted. She was definitely going to need wine to get through tonight. There was no way she was letting Max get her loaded on Hurricanes. Citrus and rum never ended well for her.
“You’re no fun,” Max pouted.
“I’m here, I’m wearing a skirt and heels and I let you do my makeup—I draw the line at getting me loaded when I have to get up at 5:30 in the damn morning.”
“One drink wouldn’t have done that.”
“Knowing you, it would be the never-ending glass.” She glanced around the room and relaxed a little. The male-to-female ratio was not in her favor, thank God. With any luck she might be able to avoid wandering hands, especially when three quarters of the females in the room were under twenty-five. The waitress returned and she took a sip of the wine, surprised at how good it was. She’d expected box-o’-wine grade.
“So, what do you think of the guy on the dance floor?”
Miranda laughed. “You’re joking.” There were a few guys sprinkled in with the feast of females. The one who was trying every dance move since 1980 in the hopes of getting noticed by the college girls was even entertaining. “Do you hate me?”
Max leaned on the bar table and laughed. “Just checking. He’s so totally your husband.”
So they fell into the game that they played when Max did manage to drag her out. “Nope, definitely not him. The guy hanging over the edge at the upper bar is totally my dream date.”
Max ducked his head and laughed. “Good God, his shirt doesn’t even cover his gut.”
“I’m tellin’ ya. He’s already broken in. No expectations.” She finished her glass and found another at her elbow. Too amused to question it, she took a sip. Her eyes stalled a few times at the bar. A simple cotton button-down shirt clung to a pair of impressive shoulders, but it was the forearms she kept staring at. Muscles flexed lightly as he cupped a mug of dark beer. He was tall and lean, tanned lightly—not the leathery, raisin skin of some of the surfers, but just right.
The two men he was with were attractive in their own right. The shorter one looked like a misplaced puppy the way his head kept snapping around as if he just missed something, and the lanky one held a bored expression that spoke too much of the men she’d run with in her L.A. days. The tats that twisted around his forearms and biceps gave her a moment’s pause. Ink was, and always would be, sexy.
She and Max laughed over half a dozen men in the room, from the hang-ten set to the slick, suited-up kind trying to look cool instead of desperate. Something started to hum deep inside her as the DJ’s beat pushed at her. She’d avoided the club scene since she’d landed in San Francisco nearly four years ago.
Restless, part of her wanted to go out on the dance floor and show the wannabes how to tease and lure, how to own the men and leave them wanting. Power was as addicting as any drug sold on the market, and she’d tried it all. In Los Angeles, there was an undertone of slick danger that was missing here.
A shimmer of memory tugged at impulses she’d buried under work and a life that included people who actually cared about her. Impulses that kept dragging her eyes back to Mr. Forearms. At the moment, his battered jeans, tight across the thighs, were the highlight of her current perusal.
“And how did I not notice him?”
“Who?” Miranda averted her gaze, focusing on anything but him.
“The one you’re staring at.” Max leaned in, draping an arm around her shoulder.
“You’re imagining things. I was looking at Mr. Blue-tipped Mohawk.” She forced herself to relax and pushed her reactions down where they belonged.
“He was next to a blonde, right?”
“Right.” She sipped her wine.
“Wrong, the mohawk guy is on the other end of the bar. You’re totally looking at tall, dark and rumpled in the middle of the bar with his married friend and…brother, I think. He’s straight and,” Max’s grin widened to a full-fledged smile, “he’s totally checking you out.”
Miranda’s heart kicked.
Go, take—he’s waiting for you.
Her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. “He’s looking at the hot little co-ed at the next table.”
“No, he’s looking at the hot redhead sitting next to me.” He moved closer. “Yup, he just shot the death ray at me. Should I kiss you so he’ll come over here and punch me out?” Max brushed his lips along her cheek.
The roll of heat gathered at the base of her spine and surged up. Not because of Max, but that there was someone watching, someone wanting her. That he was a mile of delicious was a bonus. Overwhelming and dangerous, the edges of want licked at her, reminding her how good it felt to lure a man in. Once upon a time she’d been the most desirable woman in the room. Not because she was the most beautiful, but because she was powerful. One word from her could kill an A-list position.
“I bet his shoulders get even bigger when he’s all macho—”
She lifted her shoulders to get him to stop breathing on her neck and let the ghosts of her past roll off at the same time. “Get off me, Max.”
Good-natured as ever, he didn’t pick up on her personal demon that was dying for freedom. Of course, why would he? For Max this was all in good fun. He didn’t know what she’d been.
“Go over there and ask him to dance.”
“Hell no.” Miranda gulped down the last of her wine. Too bad the hunger wasn’t as easy to get rid of. “Hour’s up, time to go.”
“Oh no.” Max closed his hand over hers. “We can go after you go ask the surfer to dance.”
“He’s not tan enough to be a surfer,” she muttered.
“Aha! You have been looking at him!”
“Max,” she whispered the warning, praying that he’d catch on. Max in focus was as lethal as his camera. “Keep your voice down.”
“I’m just going to get louder,” he said in a voice just under a shout. “God, look at those shoulders and that messy, delicious mop of dark hair. Imagine all of that on your pillow the next morning? Regrets are a lot easier to swallow when they’re pretty.”
The burn bloomed and the hum returned. Imagining him tangled in her sheets was a little too easy. “No. He’s attractive, but I’m not picturing him naked.” She wished for another hit of wine as Mr. Forearms drilled his hand into his pocket, tugging his jeans low enough that she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the hint of pale skin and trail of dark hair that disappeared into the well-worn denim leaving a notched V at his hip His shirttails raised a little as he lifted his beer to his lips.
She swallowed with him, imagining the dark brew heavy on her tongue. Just one lick of his skin. Just one hit of that foamy taste.
The whisper of want pulsed like the beat piping through the walls and the floor.
“Go on. We’re not leaving until you talk to him.”
“You seem to forget you can’t order me around, Max.” She tore her gaze away from Mr. Forearms and focused on her friend. “I’m your boss.”
“Until close of business, you’re my boss. Right now?” He shoved her forward. “Now, I’m the kick in the ass you need. Just a dance, Miranda. You don’t even have to tell him your name.”
That’s right, MJ, just a dance.
She
closed her eyes against the voice sneaking out through the haze of too much wine and way too many neglected hormones. It had been so long since she’d had a man touch her. And dancing was the safest sex on the earth. She could call the shots and at worst he’d bitch to his friend that he’d danced with a tease.
“After I dance with him, we’re out of here and you don’t get to guilt me into going out for at least six months.”
The self-satisfied smirk nearly got slapped off, but then she’d hear him whine for each one of those six months.
Just one dance.
She headed toward Mr. Forearms, lifting her chin and rolling her hips as she got closer to him. He’d put his beer down. His dark brows snapped together over eyes that were a clear and perfect gray. She hooked her fingers around the wrist of the hand buried in his pocket and drew him away from the bar. “Dance with me.”
The familiar thrill of control and awareness made her fingertips tingle within his large palm. His friend made a few off-color remarks, but as soon as she got in Mr. Forearms’ space nothing else mattered. The beat swallowed her—owned her.
He didn’t speak and that was perfect. She drew him into the middle of the dance floor as the music swelled into a tribal beat showcasing a woman with a watery voice that dripped sex. The click of his jaw only heightened her buzz. His mouth was soft and full, such a contrast to the ridge of his brow and sharp angles of his cheekbones.
“Don’t you—”
She shook her head. “No names.”
His frown deepened, and again she was okay with that. He had a purpose. She turned, backing into him until the heat of his body and the music drowned out caution. She wasn’t sure if the whispery voice and extended mix was helping her or hindering her until his hands gripped her hips, easing her back against his jeans. Big. All she could focus on was how big and warm he felt.
His fingertips tightened over the silk of her skirt, digging until he caught the sway of her hips. She raised her arms, brushed his shoulders with the backs of her hands, at once overwhelmed and at ease with him so close to her. He was lean and muscled under the layers of cotton and denim. Her shoulders rested against his chest and the licks of awareness were definitely not one-sided.
The air shimmered with the moment, the beat and the perfect alignment of bodies. His hair was thick and soft against his neck, just long enough to twist her fingers into. All it would take was one tug to pull him down closer, but she resisted.
Instinct and memory heightened the moment, lengthened the tease. Delicious as the Latin undertones of the song and the light, breathy voice that promised fantasy and a world of pleasure, they moved as one.
She drew his hand up her hip and over her belly where her tunic lifted. His hand was rough and calloused, spanning her entire torso. Gentle but not hesitant, his fingertips possessed the expanse of skin. The rumble of a moan transferred through her back and chased the ball of lust up and out of its box.
His thigh slid between hers and she undulated against him as the song changed and the beat increased. Her thighs dripped with sweat and her own excitement. Blood surged until the music climbed inside the empty spaces. Her breath came faster as he drew her back until there was no space between them. He leaned down into her, his cheek pressed against her temple. The citrus scent of him wrapped around her.
The music drove them harder. The room drifted away as he moved her hair aside and his breath hit just behind her ear. Her nipples ached for a touch. Him, her, it didn’t matter.
Take.
Thick and silky, his hair sifted through her fingers as she pulled him even lower. She undulated against him, feeling his jeans tighten and the head of his cock pressed into her lower spine. When his lips brushed her neck, she reacted instantly.
She spun around, grabbing the front of his shirt tight enough that the buttons dug into her palm. Her knuckles grazed over a ribbed white tank pulled snug over a chest that was anything but soft. His stormy gaze met hers a moment before he invaded her space, lining them up for a kiss.
That’s it, take. Swallow him whole. He’ll like it.
He hovered, looking for permission. Every part of her wanted to lift up into that first meeting of mouths. The mindless pleasure she’d find in him was there for the taking. Her panties passed damp and went right into drenched the moment he’d touched her.
And that’s why she stopped.
The song cooperated with her. She peeled her fingers off his shirt, smoothing it down even as temptation urged her to flick each button open instead.
Take.
The long-ago voice was insistent and scared her enough that she could barely breathe. “Thanks for the dance,” she said with a throaty purr. No. Her lungs burned and the sensual haze dissipated. She didn’t sound like that. MJ’s sex kitten voice had no business in her life. His eyes widened as she took another step back.
He reached for her hand, but she turned away. His voice barely registered over the Lady Gaga song that turned the dance floor into a jumble of bodies. Praying her knees really weren’t made of water, she didn’t even bother to look toward Max as she left the bar. Instead she focused on sucking in cool air and quickly crossing the street toward Max’s car.
“Jesus, who was that?” Matt asked when Nate made his way back to the bar.
“Miranda Woods,” he said woodenly. His cock was hammering to the same driving beat inside his head and piped through the club. The moment she’d touched him, he’d lost all brain function.
Tony crowded in on him. “And you let her walk out the door? Are you stupid?”
Nate ordered a Sam Adams. He needed to down it and cool the fuck off. “No, I didn’t let her walk out the door. She friggin’ teased me to an inch of my dick’s sanity and walked away before I could form a complete sentence.” His fingers drummed over the sleek surface of the bar and he nodded to the bartender as he set the bottle in front of him.
“On the house, man.”
Hell, even the bartender felt sorry for him. Nate barely resisted the urge to push the cold bottle to his zipper.
“I’m ashamed of you,” Matt said mildly. “You don’t come to nearly enough of my shows, Natey boy. There are tons of girls like that screaming to come home and play.”
Nate took a drag on his bottle. “Bite me.”
“Nah, but I bet that blonde staring at you would.” Matt flashed a smile at the cougar still stalking Nate.
Nate thought about it for a second. Maybe if he fucked the hell out of some random woman he could get Miranda out of his head. Especially now that he’d felt her against every inch of him. He closed his eyes.
Right—he was toast.
Tony laughed. “I didn’t know you could dance, my man.”
“I can’t,” Nate said and downed the rest of his beer. She’d surprised the fuck out of him. First, with the guy hanging all over her while she watched him. He had no right to the surge of jealousy. In fact it had been just what he’d needed to get her out of his head. Knowing she was involved with someone would have taken her off the fantasy list.
But then she walked—no, she damn well sauntered over to him. The way her hips swayed under the snug skirt put every other woman in the club to shame. For a moment he’d thought she recognized him, except she hadn’t been interested in his name or even facing him.
She’d dragged him on to the dance floor and turned away from him the entire time, rubbing that sweet little ass against his jeans over and over again. Her body, fluid and restless, had been seeking something in their dance. He wasn’t sure if it was just a warm body she was looking for, or if it was him. It wasn’t the Miranda he knew—if you could count a doorway greet and slam as knowing her in any real sense.
Struck stupid with the blast of natural sexuality, he’d followed her lead. The Miranda he knew was business layered in aloof ice. That hair of hers…tonight, it smelled even more like a sunny beach, especially when he’d buried his nose in it. He’d been tempted to push her head forward and press his nose into the nape o
f her neck where all that scent was trapped.
The Miranda he was used to would never leave it down to enjoy. It was always wrapped up in a knot, or some fussy clip or a ponytail. And twice today he’d been struck dumb with the ultrafeminine version of her. Everything about her had been soft, instead of the woman sharply focused on the task at hand or lost in whatever was going on in her head.
That Miranda had never looked at him as though he was the answer to her every need and was going to show him a freckled paradise that would probably change his whole goddamn world.
He snapped his bottle on the bar. “That’s it, I’m done. I need to get the fuck outta here.”
“You guys go ahead without me. I see a girl I know.”
“He sees a booty call,” Tony muttered.
Matt cut through the mass of people four deep at the bar, sliding his arm around a girl with improbable purple hair. She squealed and jumped into his arms, her mouth fastened to his, her tongue reaching for his damn toes.
“How does that happen?”
“He plays a guitar.”
Tony snapped his finger and pointed at Nate. “Right. Why didn’t I learn an instrument?”
“Tone deaf.”
“Right.”
Nate laughed. He knew it was a once-a-year thing to have his buddy come out with him, but he couldn’t stay there. “Have mercy on me, man.”
“But the co-eds were just getting drunk enough to start the slutty dancing. I put my dues in at the bar for a good spot and you’re going to steal it away from me?”
Nate’s shoulders relaxed. His friend was totally putting up a front. “Jenn can be your naughty co-ed if you play your cards right.”
His eyebrows rose and his smile warmed. “I thought you said she’d lop off my dick?”
He tossed a couple of bills on the bar top. “Not if you tug on that cute ponytail she wears and hope that she’s wearing your old jersey.”
“Oh yeah.” Tony’s eyes lost the low gleam of a tired dad and sparked up at the thought of getting his wife naked.
Nate wanted that. He wanted to be happy to go home to something other than his workshop. He wanted a woman who would look forward to his tired, cranky ass and wear an old jersey just because it was his. Miranda would look good in his 49ers jersey.
