ChampagneCravings

by Ava McKnight

  “Thanks. Uh, Biel,” I ventured, ignoring her last comment. I already felt way too fucking old to be in her presence. “Aren’t you concerned about the fallout of the botched product launch?”

  “Well, yeah, sure,” she said as she untied the sash at her waist and dropped trou right there in front of me. The woman didn’t have an uninhibited bone in her body. I found myself jealous of her. Not so much that she was drop-dead gorgeous—perfection personified, to be exact—but because she was so confident about, and comfortable with, her body. With herself in general.

  As she rummaged around in a waist-high drawer for a thong, I presumed, she continued. “I was totally beside myself last night. I mean, what a fucking nightmare, right? And I was like, so unprofessional. I shrieked in front of hundreds of people at the party and, inevitably, millions of viewers on TV and the Internet. Seriously, how bad is that?”

  She spared a quick glance over her shoulder, then returned her attention to the lingerie chest and dug around a bit more until she found what she was looking for. Black satin strings that I, in my now over-the-hill mindset, couldn’t figure out how they constituted underwear.

  I didn’t get a chance to respond to her question. She quickly added, “So I bawled all night long as if I was a two year old, then woke up this morning and thought, ‘You know, you just have to be honest about your reaction and hope the world forgives you.’ I tweeted about the whole thing, apologized, said I was embarrassed by my reaction, but that I was also upset because of the way the whole incident hurt Elan. I posted the message to my wall too, and everyone on Facebook was so supportive.”

  She slipped into the strappy G-string and turned back to me. I kept my eyes glued to her face, not the bare breasts that would make most Playboy centerfolds want to slit their wrists. “I’m totally blown away by how wonderful everyone has been—and I picked up even more followers on Twitter than Charlie Sheen did when he started up his account after being fired from Two and a Half Men!”

  “And that would be a good thing?”

  She giggled. “Yes, silly. It means my fans know how horrible the experience was for me and they understand someone wanted to ruin Elan’s big launch party. That creates a huge buzz for me and the company, plus lots of sympathy and curiosity, which all equates to ginormo sales!”

  “Ginormo…? Oh never mind,” I said with a shake of my head. I was aging with every minute that passed.

  “It’s like that movie Basic Instinct, right?” she continued on, talking and dressing so fast it made my mind reel. So too did the fact she was referencing a movie that had come out just a year after she’d been born. “I’ve read about how the critics had a huge cow over the lesbian scene with Sharon Stone and it generated a massive buzz about the movie. Religious groups called for a ban and people were in an uproar and wanted it pulled from theaters, but all the complaints served as hype and jacked up ticket sales. That whole ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’…or whatever the saying is…totally applies in this situation. I think Elan will see a positive impact from what we all consider to have been a disastrous evening. As for me,” she buttoned up her low-cut suit jacket and slipped into a pair of five-inch stilettos, “I’ve got offers pouring in. Seriously, my agent said his phone has been ringing off the hook all morning for guest appearances on talk shows and more modeling jobs.”

  She executed a smooth three-sixty and then spread her arms wide. “Appropriate for taking on the world?”

  I had to hand it to her, the woman was more than blessed with self-awareness. She was a freakin’ force of nature with which to be reckoned. I said, “You look sensational.” She did. From head to toe. “Women like you are the reason the term ‘shrinking violet’ came about.”

  Biel stared blankly at me. “I don’t get it.”

  “You put us all to shame,” I explained.

  “Oh please.” She waved a hand at me again. “You are so beautiful. I saw you last night at the party. That silver dress was stunning.”

  “Thanks.” I had no idea what to say beyond that. Being complimented by a supermodel was not the norm for me, and the fact she’d actually picked me out of the crowd—and could recall the dress I’d been wearing at the height of the pre-launch debacle—was much too mind-boggling to process.

  “Well,” Biel said as she tucked a large envelope-style purse under her arm. “I’m sorry I have to run. How about we meet tomorrow? I have an hour or so available before I hook up with Piper and some of our friends. We could have a drink at Velage in Chelsea. Nine o’clock?”

  She gave me a hopeful look I couldn’t resist. “I’ll see you there,” I told her as I handed over my business card with my cell phone number.

  We walked out together, Biel chatting enthusiastically about her upcoming meeting with her agent before we parted ways at the bank of elevators. I returned to my office in time to meet with the vice president of information technology. A helpful diversion from the erotic images of Biel and Piper that were now ingrained on my brain.

  The VP, Greg Hanson, was prepared to give me access to the email system so I could do some keyword searches, but instead, I requested email transcripts for the past month from everyone in the marketing and PR departments. Cell phone activity would follow, but I thought I’d see if anyone had divulged an excessive amount of information electronically, since the leak that had been stymied was to an online social media network.

  Greg wasn’t exactly pleased to grant my request, given the amount of work involved with providing hard copies, but as Mav had told me, the top brass had been informed to cooperate with me and give me whatever information I needed for the investigation.

  True to my word to Mike, I was home before seven.

  Chapter Four

  Yes, I Like Them Bad.

  I dumped an armful of transcripts on the kitchen counter and changed into a pair of beige drawstring pants and a white tank top with spaghetti straps. Pulling my hair into a ponytail, I settled on the couch and went back to work. Not quite an hour later, the doorbell rang.

  Excitement skipped through me at the same time apprehension gripped me. Two extremely contradictory feelings, both of which held significant meaning. I couldn’t say I’d been successful in keeping all thoughts of Mike from my mind during the course of the day, but I was so busy with my case—and so shocked by Biel and Piper—I’d managed to keep from completely obsessing over him or worrying about seeing him tonight.

  My work at Elan had helped me to stay calm throughout the day, but now my nerves jumped to attention. My stomach tumbled. My nipples tightened. The latter freaked me out the most. I’d had yet another sexually charged encounter with Biel, and though I was not interested in her romantically, I did find her exuberance refreshing and her confidence enticing.

  And yes, she was exceptionally beautiful and sexy, which meant there was no way I could have avoided being aroused when I’d watched her and Piper together. Unfortunately, the stimulation hadn’t dissipated. Adding to that was the knowledge of Mike being on the other side of my front door. Thinking of his kisses got me hot and bothered all over again.

  Not necessarily a good thing. I was trying to keep a cool head when it came to him and I couldn’t do that when the mere thought of him sent my heart and my body into a complete tizzy.

  Pulling the door open, I was back to nearly self-combusting when I laid eyes on him.

  “Hey, babe,” he said in his casual tone.

  He wore faded Levis and a navy-colored T-shirt. The sleeves strained against the bulge of his biceps. The material stretched across the hard ledge of his pectoral muscles. He’d tucked the hem into the waist of his jeans, which fit him sinfully well. He did New York chic justice when he was out and about, but opted for the comfort of his native Wyoming when hanging out at the apartment. I liked both looks, but had to admit the worn denim conformed to every inch of him in just the right way. I felt the drool build again.

  Jesus. My attraction to him was even worse now that I knew how arousing
his kisses were and how fiery my desire for him could be if I let it get out of hand.

  I had to be very careful not to throw caution to the wind, regardless of how much I wanted him.

  “Hey,” I said back, as I stepped aside so he could enter the foyer. He carried two bags of Chinese food with him.

  He took a couple of long strides into my apartment and planted a killer kiss on me. Nothing tentative and no water-testing from this guy tonight. He went straight for the gold medal, kissing me like a world champion. His tongue tangled with mine as his lips pressed against my mouth. A moan swelled in my throat and I couldn’t tamp it down.

  Fueled by my response to him, he used his body against mine to coax me backward to the wall. He set the bags on the entryway table, never breaking the kiss. His arms slipped around my waist and he crushed our bodies together, making all the nerve endings inside me go haywire.

  A vibrant current ran through me, pulsing deep in my cunt and creating an intense pressure I knew only Mike could relieve.

  When he finally pulled away from me, I was breathless and practically swooning as though I was the heroine in one of the black-and-white movies we sometimes watched.

  “Oh boy,” I whispered as my hands clutched his broad shoulders.

  On a jagged breath, he said, “Sorry. I wasn’t going to kiss you tonight. Thought I’d give you some space. But I couldn’t help myself.”

  “I wasn’t going to let you kiss me,” I admitted. “But I couldn’t help myself either.”

  With a grin, he asked, “So you’ve taken a few steps to catch up to me?”

  I gnawed my lip as I considered this. Our encounter in the hallway this morning forced me to see we’d been moving in this direction for three years. In fact, I’d actually had this revelation last night, though I hadn’t been able to sort it all out, what with the passion-induced fog clouding my brain.

  Tonight, however, I could see this had been a slow, yet inevitable seduction, suddenly cast into the light with Mike’s broken shower and my physical needs, which he easily amped up. I’d wanted him for a long time. I’d been able to ignore the burning desire by categorizing him and by keeping our association on a friendly basis. But perhaps it was because we were such great friends that transitioning into something more serious was actually a natural progression.

  The trouble I had with this theory stemmed from not being able to see the big picture at this point—something I desperately needed. Were we simply shifting into the friends with significant benefits realm, or did Mike really believe we could be serious enough about each other to attempt a more substantial commitment?

  My stomach churned over these possibilities. Accepting the fact we’d arrived at this crossroad didn’t exactly soothe my frayed nerves, primarily because—as much I’d like to say otherwise—I suddenly couldn’t fathom not having this new hint of intimacy between us that allowed us to kiss each other as if we’d been doing it for years. As though this was a standard greeting for us.

  A slippery slope, I understood. Which was why I had to remain cautious. Stay on guard just enough to not get lost in the sexual shuffle.

  “I’m not sure where I’m at right now,” I told him honestly, still wanting to identify a broader scope of what was going on between us so I could get my feet more steadily beneath me. “But I’m not complaining about you kissing me.” How could I, when I now craved the affection?

  “Good to know,” he said with a sizzling-hot look. “I can work with your tortoise pace as long as I still get to make out with you.”

  But no sex—for the moment. He didn’t have to say the words, I’d heard the point he’d made last night. My heart melted this time, instead of seizing up with the pain of rejection. He was trying to take this…whatever it was that was happening between us…slow. For me. I knew he wasn’t accustomed to holding back. He was the type of man who went after what he wanted and his women didn’t balk at his aggressive, alpha behavior. I’d witnessed enough heated moments between him and his girlfriends to know Mike Lucas didn’t lollygag. Chase and Brandon hadn’t either.

  Yet, for me, Mike was attempting a different approach.

  I asked, “Are you sure this is worth the effort you’re expending?”

  He stared down at me with his lazy, yet oh so sexy smile. “Long past that point, babe. Roll with it.” He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead and then collected the food that was making my entryway smell as yummy as the House of Hunan.

  I followed him into the living room and uncorked a bottle of pinot noir while Mike laid out our meal on the squat, square coffee table that matched my end tables and the tall bookcase in rich espresso. The sofas were chocolate suede with pale-blue pillows that had thin, dark-brown swirls on them. Everything in my apartment was color-coordinated, reflecting my slight obsessive-compulsive behavior. I liked everything neat and tidy and in its place. I supposed my semi-OCD and structured lifestyle were what drew bad boys to me in the first place. They liked to muss me up. Toss all my alphabetized cards into the air and let them fall where they may to see if I’d leave them be or scoop them up to re-categorize them.

  My first experience with a bad boy had been long before Chase. In junior high, I’d had a crush on a bad boy but had never uttered a word about it, nor had I accepted his invitation to our first boy-girl dance. I’d blown him off for a band geek. In high school, the hot quarterback with the bad reputation had followed me around campus, offering to carry my books and telling me how much he wanted me to wear his letterman jacket. I’d passed him over for the president of the student body and honor society, though I’d been intensely attracted to the quarterback and had secretly fantasized about being his girlfriend.

  In college, I’d finally given into the magnet-and-steel effect between me and bad boys. I’d been at a biker bar in San Francisco’s trendy North Beach district during spring break my senior year. My friends and I had staked our claim at a high-top that sat four and faced the dance floor. A band playing sexy jazz with muted trumpets and wailing saxophones lent a sultry mood to the atmosphere. I’d been stirring my cocktail with a straw, not particularly liking the frothy drink. The other girls had been asked for one dance after another, but I had school and my future on my mind, having been offered a TV reporting spot before I’d even graduated. I hadn’t made eye contact with or encouraged anyone at the bar to come my way.

  Nick hadn’t needed any encouragement.

  I’d lifted my gaze from my drink when I’d felt someone staring at me. Our eyes had locked across the dance floor and he’d simply slid off his barstool, crossed the crowded floor and taken my hand in his. He hadn’t spoken a word, not even to ask me if I wanted to dance. He’d held his hand out to me and I’d slipped mine into the strong grasp as he’d pulled me from my own stool. He’d walked me out onto the dance floor and held me tightly in his arms as we swayed to the provocative music.

  Song after song, we didn’t say a thing to each other, just danced. He was the sexiest man I’d laid eyes on at that point in my life. All of the women in the nightclub had been lusting after him and trying to get his attention in a blatant way. He was tall, dark and handsome, dressed all in black and sporting too-long dark brown hair. I’d felt his muscles against my body and beneath my fingertips when I’d gripped his shoulders. Three or four songs into the night, I’d relinquished my hold on his shoulders and had tangled my fingers in his hair. His skin had smelled of soap and male heat. His breath had been laced with tequila.

  I remembered everything about him, even nine years later, because he’d been the bad boy who’d unwittingly sparked my inevitable romantic and sexual downfall. It’d been my fault, I’d eventually deduced. I’d thought I could control something that couldn’t be controlled—the consummate bad boy.

  With Nick, I’d let him hold me all night long, only taking a break every now and then to share a beer and visit the restrooms. Then we’d be back on the dance floor, in each other’s arms. We didn’t talk. I knew nothing about him. I hadn’t even
known his name until we’d parted ways at the end of the evening. He’d borrowed a pen from the bartender and had written his name and number on my palm. He’d closed my hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing my fingers.

  “Call me,” he’d said. “Meet me for lunch tomorrow at Fisherman’s Wharf.” I’d nodded, then he and his friends had roared down the street on their badass motorcycles as I’d stared after him.

  My girlfriends had all suffered heart palpitations and had tried to persuade me to follow through with the promises I’d made to Nick. To call him. To meet him for lunch.

  I’d wanted to, of course. With every fiber of my being. He was cool and beautiful and he’d turned me on like a light with a freshly installed, hundred-watt bulb.

  But the next morning, I’d sat on my bed in the hotel room and stared at the phone, nibbling my lip and vacillating between the “should I?/no, I shouldn’t” dilemma. I didn’t want to spoil the perfection of the night. I’d pulled off the kind of evening with a bad boy most good girls dreamed of executing. I’d captured his attention by doing nothing at all, except by being me. I’d held his interest all night and had even felt it elevate as his erection had pressed to my belly. I’d kept my cool and had not ruined a single second of our time together. He’d been the one to divulge his name, when I hadn’t given mine. He’d been the one to offer the phone number. He’d been the one to ask for the date.

  And I’d been the epitome of nonchalance, even though he’d made my pulse race and I’d wanted desperately for him to be my first time.

  I’d come to realize after Chase and Brandon had stomped all over my heart that I’d believed I was capable of taming their wild spirits, based on my school experiences and that night with Nick.

  I’d been so very, very wrong.

  Now here was Mike. Settled on my sofa and digging into a box of Mongolian beef as I poured wine and placed our glasses on the coffee table.