"Thank God!" I say unable to contain my excitement. "I guess your minions are good for something."
"I'll just be waiting out here."
The corner of Cutter's mouth turns up with smug satisfaction, but I choose to ignore it, because I've never been so happy in my life to pee. That is until he decides to hold a conversation with me. I can't even relieve myself in peace.
"So who exactly is the square?" he asks through the door.
"You mean my date?" I say while flushing the toilet.
"Yeah, him. Where'd you two meet? He seems like a step up from the last guy I saw you with."
"Has anyone ever told you that you're really rude?" I ask while washing my hands. Silently wondering what last guy he's referring to. I haven't been to the club in a while. "That's another one of those rhetorical questions by the way. And another thing, last time I checked, I don't think the two of us have the sort of relationship where we chitchat about each other's love lives."
I hear his muscular body thump as he leans against the door between us.
"I feel responsible for you now. So yeah, I think we have that kind of relationship."
"Responsible for me?"
"I saved your life. I feel a duty to make sure all my efforts weren't for naught."
"Seriously, though, have you been watching Pride and Prejudice during your down time? Using words like naught.”
I rub my hands vigorously under the automatic dryer, so that the noise can drown out his over-inflated recollections of the other night. Although I don't think anything could stop this guy from talking.
"I don't mind a few English dramas here and there. My mother used to like them. Plus I've had a little spare time on my hands to watch them lately." He purposely raises his voice over the loud hum of the dryer. "Maybe you haven't heard but I've recently moved into a new place."
“The same place that you bought evidently.”
"Oh, so you have heard?" He chuckles. "Nice to know you've been asking about me."
My phone starts to vibrate. Thank God, it's Elizabeth.
"You couldn't have had better timing," I say while refreshing my lip gloss.
"Hey, how are you feeling? You sound weird."
"I'm perfectly fine. I'm actually out."
Cutter knocks heavily on the door. "You all right in there?"
"Who was that?" Elizabeth asks.
"I'm fine," I answer Cutter through the door.
"The dangerous one." I huff in exasperation to Elizabeth.
"The dangerous one?"
"The landlord," I try whispering.
Any other time Elizabeth can practically read my mind or finish my sentences but not lately. Ever since she got herself knocked up we haven't been in sync. I blame it on her muddled baby brain.
"What–wait are you talking about Cutter?"
"Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner, winner, chicken dinner."
"You're with Cutter again? Where? It's too early for you to be at the club."
"I'm not at the club. Get this! I'm on a date," I say excitedly. "A real one."
"With Cutter King?" She practically screams with excitement through the phone. "I knew–"
"Quiet." I quickly cut her off. "Is the baby in your belly sucking all the common sense out of your brain? I'm not out with Cutter King."
"Oh, for a minute I thought the world had just shifted on its axis, because I could have sworn you told me that you had no interest in Mr. King," she replies saucily.
I place my hands under the dryer again hoping it will drown out the words I'm about to say, since the person I'm talking about happens to be on the other side of the door.
"I don't have any interest in freaking Cutter King for God's sake. I'm on a date with Doctor Clark. You've heard me mention him before, right? My favorite client."
"Sure, I remember the name. He's the guy that's been asking you out since forever and you keep putting him in the friend zone. Which is why I am now thoroughly confused. You're currently on a date with the good doctor, but Cutter is there?"
"I'm at The Academy Of Music, and it just so happens that Cutter's here too doing God knows what. I can't imagine that he actually spent good money to come dateless to an interpretative dance performance."
Hmm, now that I think about it, I don't know if Cutter is here stag or not. He could very well have a woman waiting patiently in her seat for his return just like Clark is waiting for me. In fact, the thought of him being here alone seems a little preposterous. He's probably never had a lonely moment in his life.
"What else would he be there for, Sloan? I really think you've got Cutter pegged all wrong. He's actually a–"
"Do I really?" I cut her off. "No offense, Bitsy, but your fiancé and his friends aren't what I'd call cultured. I mean they're practically . . . gangsters."
"Umm, offense frackin' taken. One of those gangsters you're talking about is the father of my child and my future husband."
"Sorry, prego, but I call them like I see 'em."
"You see them through very a very tainted lens, my dear friend."
There's a heavy knuckled rap at the bathroom door.
"Let's go," Cutter commands from the other side of the door. "Time's up."
I worry for a moment that he heard what I just said to Elizabeth, but honestly it serves his ass right if he did. All I did was speak the truth, and he shouldn't be eavesdropping anyway.
"Was that him again?"
"Be quiet, prego. I'll call and tell you about my date tomorrow." I try speaking quietly. "Pray for me. This is the first decent date that I've been on in a long time. Just when I was about to give up on men altogether and stick to battery operated devices, Clark asked me out one last time, and this time I saw the light and said yes."
"Are you enjoying the good doctor's company tonight?"
"If you want me to be honest, it's just all right. I feel like the girl whose big brother had to take her to the prom, because no one else asked her to go."
"So Clark is a dud."
"I didn't say that exactly. The date is okay so far. It just isn't fireworks and fireflies like your thing."
"That's why you should wait for them."
"Wait for what?"
"For your fireworks and fireflies."
Unfortunately I don't think those are in the cards for me.
"Well I have a great deal of respect for him, so I'm hoping that it will grow into something more. Until such time, it's not a crime to get laid. And if I have to, it's not like I've never faked an orgasm before. I'm an awesome faker."
"Sounds like a plan then." Her words full of disappointment with me. "Don't forget that we need to set a date to plan out the nursery. Oh, and make sure to tell Cutter that I said hi."
She's never going to drop this Cutter thing.
"Bye, Bitsy," I say dryly.
Another authoritative knock on the door startles me.
"I said let's go, princess."
Sheesh, he's bossy.
I examine myself closely in the mirror, tugging up on the band of my jumpsuit, making sure it's securely in place and that my strapless bra isn't showing. Then I check my fingernails for snags and double check my teeth in the mirror to make sure there's no lip gloss on them. I'm about to repeat my stalling ritual for a second time, just to get on Cutter's nerves a little bit, until I hear several clicks disengaging the bathroom door lock. I instinctually use all of my body weight to lean on the door and keep it shut.
"Step away from the door, Sloan," Cutter orders from the other side.
"Are you crazy? I'm still using the bathroom!" I protest. My heart racing from a mixture of fury and fear.
"No you aren't. You've washed your hands about five times and checked that lipstick of yours probably five more."
"Just wait a minute, I'm coming out right–"
Before I can finish my sentence, Cutter pushes his way inside of the bathroom. The weight of my body against the door is no match for the strength of his massive arms. He shuts the d
oor behind him and stares at me with an intensity that makes me jittery, but I suppose that's the point.
The look he's giving me. It's kind of . . . wicked and so dirty that I can almost envision myself tied up and spread eagle across a bed, a table, or the hood of a car. I just get the feeling that he's into shit like that.
He moves slowly toward me like a predatory wolf, as I back up by mere millimeters into the corner away from him. I wouldn't say that I'm frightened of him, but it's just a natural reaction to move back when someone of his size and girth starts moving into your personal space. Plus there isn't much room to move in here.
Our bodies are flush against each other, and I instinctively swallow a breath when he raises one of his hands toward my face. That makes him crook a smile, as if he's enjoying how uncomfortable he's making me. He uses that same hand to firmly lift and hold my chin, and then he takes the pad of his thumb and slowly begins rubbing the velvet red lip gloss off of my bottom lip.
He does this silently.
While I gasp.
Then he repeats the same thing to the top one.
His lethal eyes laser focused on mine the entire time.
"You don't need to wear all this makeup," he growls. "You're fucking hotter without it. Now let's go."
Nineteen
Cutter
Every time I put eyes on Sloan Pearson, my dick gets instantly hard, without my brain's consent or permission. I'll admit that the head below my waist has a dirty little mind of its own. It's actually kind of funny in a metaphorical way if you think about it. Sloan makes a living selling drugs that help men get an erection, and all I have to do is look at her to achieve the same result.
Even though I've already committed every one of her curves to memory, when Sloan exits the bathroom she looks like a shiny, new toy to me. A toy I desperately want to play with. One that would distract me from all the other toys I should be playing with. A toy that I'd beat all the other kids asses on the playground to keep to myself.
Tonight she's wearing a simple black strapless jumpsuit that cinches her small waist but then drapes loosely down her long, lithe legs. It's tasteful, not tight and tacky, and expertly shows off her slim neckline and delicate collarbone. She's also wearing a pair of black strappy "fuck me" high heels on her feet, and her full lips are painted a glossy deep blood red.
Those lips.
It gives me the chills just imagining what those cherry colored lips would look like wrapped completely around my dick. Sucking the life out of it. Savoring the taste. I know what I'd do. What I'd like to do. And I'm confident that she'd enjoy that shit too. I'd slide my hand onto the crown of her head and grip her hair at the roots tightly.
Guiding her mouth down my dick.
Controlling each and every exquisite stroke.
And after that I'd get really fucking creative.
Unfortunately for me, my wet dream girl is dressed like this on the arm of someone else. For someone else. That's why I smeared that sexy cherry red lipstick off with my thumb. It was a small piece of her that I could take away from him tonight. I have to laugh at myself, because that was definitely some territorial caveman shit to do, which I don't have a rational explanation for doing other than it gave me complete fucking satisfaction. Maybe no man really knows the reasons why they preoccupy themselves over a woman, but I've been curious about Sloan from the moment we met.
If she were any other woman, I would have locked that bathroom door and been inside of her in less than fifteen seconds. Whether she was on a date or not, I wouldn't have given a fuck. Don't get me wrong, I only take what women are willing to give, but when a woman chooses to give herself to me, you won't find me asking a lot of questions about who's been there before or who might be waiting in the wings. I don't stay around long enough for any of that shit to ever matter.
Yet there's something inexplicable about Sloan which makes me want to slow down, take my time, and play with her. Like a cat toying with a mouse, I'm taking exquisite pleasure in the chase. Cornering her, then letting her scamper away–and starting all over again. It's been several months now since we met at the club for the first time, and I've enjoyed each and every one of our brief encounters. Of course I'm not sure that she would say the same. For some reason, I think she hates to see me coming.
I escort Sloan back down the stairs and into the vestibule. She doesn't grab my arm this time, but I make sure to initiate contact by placing my hand along the arch of her lower back as she makes her way down the steps. It's quieter now and most people have returned back to their seats, except for the few stragglers finishing up their drinks at the bar, as well as the last few women still waiting to use the bathroom.
"Thanks for the use of the facilities," she offers reluctantly.
It's obvious by the way she's avoiding direct eye contact with me that she's either affected or offended by me. I'm not entirely sure which one. Maybe it's the way I touched her lips without her permission, or maybe she's wondering whether or not I overheard her little phone conversation with Elizabeth while she was in the bathroom. Maybe it's both.
If she's wondering what I thought of what she said in there. I didn't like what little I heard. Sloan is not the type of woman who should have to force herself to date or fuck anyone, especially the suit that she's out with tonight. It screams of complacency, settling, and husband hunting. Traits that usually turn me immediately off, but I wish someone would tell my dick that, because it's still very much interested in one Sloan Pearson.
"You're welcome," I say as I reluctantly slide my hand away from her back. Raking my eyes across her bare shoulders and watching as small goose bumps appear. Goose bumps that I've put there.
So responsive.
Her eyes finally flick up to meet mine.
"Why . . . why are you looking at me like that?" she asks nervously. Unconsciously brushing two of her fingers over her lips.
Because I want to taste you, then bend you over, and taste you again.
"Like what." I feign ignorance.
"Never mind," she huffs. Her cheeks flushed.
Her phone rings. She mutters something about it being another pain-in-the-ass blocked call, then stashes it back in her purse. My inner alarm goes off.
"Do you get private calls a lot?"
"Not really, why?"
"When did the calls start?"
"It's not Damien."
"When did they start?"
"I'm not sure."
"If you start getting them every day will you tell me?"
"Sure, but–"
"And can I give you a piece of advice?" It's actually a rhetorical question, because I'm going to say what I have to say anyway.
"Advice about what?"
I stare quietly at her for a moment, swallowing a lump in my throat, because when those smudged red lips of hers finished mouthing the word what–I swear that my dick just jumped, and then blood rushed to my head.
Both of my heads.
"You said you were going to give me a piece of advice?" she repeats impatiently tapping her foot.
"Yes."
Dick. Still. Moving.
"Well, what is it?"
I do my best at discreetly adjusting myself.
"A woman like you doesn't have to work so hard."
"Work hard at what?" she asks as her eyes desperately attempt to look anywhere but at my hands.
"Searching for Mr. Right."
Her eyes pop back up.
"What gives you the idea that's what I'm doing?" she asks as if she's appalled by the question.
"Any idiot can see that's what you're doing. You're on a date with a man who is marginally attractive, who you have nothing in common with, and who is stupid enough to allow you to wander around the front lobby of this place unescorted looking like you do. You don't believe in love, but it looks to me like you believe in something much worse–mediocrity."
I can practically see the steam rising from her ears. She's pissed. I guess I have that effect on people
(especially women) a lot, because I have basically zero filter. I just speak what's on my mind and deal with the consequences later. But I've found that life is so much simpler when you operate that way. There's no room for misunderstandings.
"He's . . . far from an idiot."
"But he is stupid." I grin. "Can we at least agree on that?"
"He's a wonderful man," she counters defensively. Almost angrily. Which in turn makes me pissed. Why is she defending this dude? She's fooling herself if she thinks that something between them can turn out any way but badly.
"That's the best you could come back with? That he's wonderful? Interesting how that's not exactly the person you were describing to Elizabeth when you were on the phone just now. What's so wonderful about planning on faking it in bed? As if you already know that the suit's dick will never be able to satisfy you. That's actually the saddest thing I think I've ever heard."
"Mind your business!" she admonishes me. "I knew you were eavesdropping."
"Just admit that the doctor is boring the fuck out of you."
"My date is not boring. He's normal. He doesn't live on the edge, bashing people's heads in for a living like some people," she snidely retorts. "He's a healer. You wouldn't understand a man like him."
Where does she get this shitty idea of who I am? And since when is handing out Viagra prescriptions considered God's work.
"I'm a successful and respected entrepreneur in this city. I don't bash people's heads in for a living."
"Now we both know that's a lie."
Okay, maybe it's a little bit of a lie.
"I will most certainly bash someone's head in if I have to or if I choose to. I think you can attest to how and when I choose to use my skills, since I just recently saved your ass–but it's not my daily grind. I think you underestimate my ability to talk people into anything. That's what the king gets paid the big bucks for. The power to persuasively fix any situation using my God given charm and wit."
Indebted To A King Page 14
