by BETH KERY
“I would have rather spent the time with you,” he told her bluntly. “That would have been the gift I chose.”
A shadow passed over her radiant face. Regret spiked through him. “Picking out a special birthday gift for someone I care about is important. To me, it is. My mother spends months researching and thinking about perfect gifts for my dad and me for our birthdays. I only had a few hours.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling stupid for his crassness. His damn insensitivity. He’d never get rid of that character flaw. “I’m not used to having anyone giving me presents.”
“I thought your parents were always giving you things.”
“Not things like this,” he mumbled, eyeing the elegantly wrapped gift with wary curiosity. He saw her questioning glance as they walked into the living room. He shrugged. “Not things that they took half a day to shop for personally. More like things they asked their secretary or lawyer to procure for me.”
“Like a car or this condo?” she asked as they sat down on the couch.
“I guess.”
“This isn’t anything like that. It’s not a big deal. It’s a new Burberry trench coat and an umbrella. I had to make sure you looked the part of a London bureau chief, didn’t I?”
“It is a big deal,” he realized, humbled. “That sounds great. If you picked it out, it is. I’m sorry. Just ignore me. You’re incredibly sweet,” he said, kissing her to underline his apology. Still, he was uncomfortable for some reason. He couldn’t help it. He was used to giving women presents and usually enjoyed it. It hit him that he’d never once given her anything—Laila, whom he’d most like to spoil. He needed to rectify that. The idea of her shopping for a gift for him made him feel weird. Awkward, but also . . . special. It wasn’t really a feeling he’d ever experienced before.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked, her sexy, curling lips and bright eyes making him forget for a second what she was talking about. He leaned over and palmed her jaw, kissing her without restraint this time. She moaned softly. He felt her melting against him. He reached for her, and the bag dropped to the floor.
“Asher, what are you doing?” she mumbled when he pressed her back on the couch and palmed a breast. He groaned. She felt so good beneath the thin sweater she wore, so firm and soft. He’d never get enough of her beautiful breasts. He felt the peak harden beneath his stroking fingers. Her reaction enflamed him. He went to kiss her mouth again. She twisted her chin.
“Asher Gaites-Granville, you aren’t going to get out of opening that birthday present!”
He blinked in surprise at her scolding. She sat up, forcing him to straighten. She slid the gift out of the bag and plopped it unceremoniously into his lap, directly onto his erection. He started and grimaced.
“You are so odd sometimes. Who doesn’t like presents? Now open the damn thing,” she ordered, shaking her head, a smile peeking around her frown. She sighed and laughed when he began to unwrap the present in a desultory fashion.
“Then maybe we’ll see about giving you the birthday gift you clearly would have preferred,” she added drolly.
He grinned and started to rip the paper more enthusiastically.
• • •
They lay together side by side later that night on a mussed bed, Laila in the cradle of one of Asher’s bent arms. His fingers moved lazily in her unbound hair. They’d made love with the lamp on. He’d wanted to see every nuance of her giving herself to him.
“I got a call earlier today from my new boss at the Gazette,” Asher said quietly.
“You did?” Laila asked in a hushed voice. Had she stiffened a little when he’d brought up his job? It seemed more and more that they were veering away from the topic of his leaving next week.
“Yeah. You know how I told you that my father threatened to contact the head of Mandor Media Group and get me blackballed from my job? Well, either he backed off from doing it or Mandor decided it was worth the risk to make even more of an enemy of Clark and GGM.”
“They recognize how good you are and want you working for them. You made it worth it for them, no matter what your dad can threaten,” Laila said softly, stroking his jaw. He didn’t respond. “Asher?” He turned his head and met her stare in the dim room. “Was there something else? About the call or your job? You seem preoccupied.”
“I can’t keep much from you, can I?”
“I hope not,” she said, smiling. He reached up and traced the line of her plump lower lip.
“Avery Sennet told me something else. Something great,” he said.
She spun over on her belly and propped herself up on her elbows. “What?” she asked breathlessly. He dragged his gaze off the vision of her firm, suspended breasts gilded by soft lamplight. Before he could answer, she spoke.
“You won the Pulitzer Prize. Didn’t you?” she asked tensely.
He blinked in surprise. “How did you know that?”
She laughed, the sound clear and joyful. She scooted up on the mattress and started planting kisses all over his face and chest.
“I knew you’d win. That piece was so amazing. So honest and strong and compassionate, just like you.” He laughed when she started to kiss his ribs, her enthusiasm and soft, falling hair tickling him. His fingers cupped her scalp and she looked up at him. Air popped out of his lungs at what he saw on her radiant face.
“I’m so proud of you, Asher.”
A full, throat-gripping feeling rose in him. It mortified him, a little—her heartfelt reaction and the pride shining in her eyes.
It also pleased him more than he could put into words.
“Your parents are going to be so proud too,” she said tremulously. “How wonderful, that you’ll get to give them the news when we go there for lunch. I bet your father will especially be proud, given how he’s in the newspaper business too. I hope he doesn’t find out the news first!”
“The winners’ names were announced to their editors and publishers earlier today, but a general announcement won’t go out until next week.”
“So it will be a wonderful surprise for your parents too.” She looked so happy, he didn’t have the heart to correct her about his parents’ probable cool or dismissive reaction. Suddenly, she was scrambling out of bed.
“Where are you going?” he asked, not at all happy with the loss of her warmth and her naked, silky skin pressing against his.
“I saw some champagne in the refrigerator,” she told him with a grin. “We’re going to celebrate.”
Chapter Twenty-five
It was one thing to watch Laila perform behind the curtain. It was even more mind-blowing to watch her without the veil, Asher realized the next day as he observed her rehearsing at the State Room. The amount of talent she possessed, the sheer magnitude of her stage presence and her sex appeal was a little intimidating for him to consider.
She made eye contact with him now as she sang on the stage, a small, shy smile curving her full lips. She was dressed casually in jeans, a purple T-shirt, a scarf and boots. Her long hair was pulled into a high ponytail that emphasized her almond-shaped green eyes. He hadn’t seen her wear her hair that way since Crescent Bay. Since the secret lake.
The way she subtly moved her hips to the music and the knowing shine in her beautiful eyes went straight to the heart of him. Not to mention the crotch. He shifted his legs uncomfortably beneath the cocktail table. He was growing hard, watching her.
Wanting her.
He recalled perfectly that she’d had a similar effect on him the first time he’d seen her perform here at the State Room, when her true identity had been only a vague, seemingly impossible suspicion.
“She’s phenomenal, isn’t she?” a woman asked him quietly, fracturing his focused attention on Laila. “I just wish I could convince her to forget the veil. With that voice, face and body, she’d become one of the most recognized n
ames in the world.”
Asher frowned slightly. It bothered him that he both agreed with what the woman next to him said and yet felt irritated at the pat, arrogant assessment of Laila, as well. He shared the table in the otherwise empty club with a woman named Charlotte Morris. Laila had introduced them before she’d begun to rehearse, explaining that Charlotte was her newly hired agent.
“I thought Rafe was your agent,” Asher had said earlier.
“Rafe is her manager,” Charlotte had interrupted. She was the kind of pseudo-blond, no-nonsense, brassy middle-aged woman he associated with the entertainment industry. “Up until now, Rafe has been doing a lot of things that an agent would normally do.”
“I needed to hire a professional like Charlotte to negotiate my contract with Sunday Records,” Laila explained. One of the musicians on the stage had called her name. She’d leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth before she hurried onto the stage to rehearse.
“Laila is a very private person,” Asher responded to Charlotte presently. The band broke midsong and Laila went over to confer with the musicians. “Public displays like this aren’t condoned by her culture, generally speaking. Plus, she’s very reserved, by nature, aside from cultural expectations. It’s incredibly courageous of her, performing at all. The curtain helps her to manage things.”
“What things, exactly?” Charlotte asked.
“The different worlds she lives in,” Asher replied without pause, his gaze once again on Laila.
“I realize she’s Moroccan and Muslim. Her lyrics and performance are very sexual. Of course it might be a challenge,” Charlotte said brusquely. “But I mean, in this day and age, how big a deal could it be?”
“A very big deal,” Asher stated unequivocally. “To Laila, it is.”
“But surely it’s one she can overcome, given the probable result. She could become an epic star . . . a legend.”
“Just a word of advice, if you’re trying to sway Laila to your point of view, I wouldn’t try to convince her with flattery like that.”
The music resumed. Asher turned his attention back to the stage. Laila’s velvety smooth, resonant voice filled the large club once again.
“But I mean, listen to her. Look at her,” Charlotte muttered next to him, awe tingeing her tone. “Is a force of nature like that, is something so beautiful, meant to be veiled?”
He ground his teeth together, annoyed . . . sort of at Charlotte, but mostly at himself. Because he agreed with the agent—in part. Charlotte’s sentiment echoed something Asher had told Laila once, years ago.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like it a bit. When you close yourself off. Shut off your gift. Hide who you are. Try to dim your glory.”
The memory and the present moment created a friction in him. Because while he did agree with Charlotte in part, he also understood Laila. He got the conflict she constantly experienced between the different worlds she carefully and thoughtfully negotiated. It dawned on him, maybe fully for the first time, just how much strength and fortitude and courage it took for her to balance those worlds. He admired her for it.
He loved her like crazy for it.
He exhaled slowly at the admission. He still loved her. Now, more than ever. Of course, he’d known it all along. It was just too big a truth for him to consciously dwell on much.
And yet . . . he still did hate the fact that she felt the need to dim the incredible light inside her. Would he love her more if she’d rebelled, if she’d blatantly defied and denied her culture and family? No. He couldn’t love her more than he did right at that moment, watching her radiant face as her talent—her spirit itself—so effortlessly filled that room.
But he couldn’t help but feel frustration too. Yes, she’d told him that the curtain didn’t just protect her bonds with culture and family, but also shielded her personal privacy. But he wasn’t entirely convinced. Just as she felt the need to block her gift from a part of her world, he worried she’d feel a similar need to keep him separate from a good part of her life too. He didn’t want to have a half relationship with Laila. He wanted her fully, with no reservations.
He knew he was selfish. According to his mother, he always had been. Recognizing his fault didn’t help matters any.
He wanted all of her, without barriers. Without constraint.
The friction of his emotions only built as the afternoon wore on and he watched the evidence of her talent mount, until it felt like he drowned in its abundance.
He felt a little edgy and uncomfortable in his own skin as he followed Laila down the hallway to her dressing room later, after the rehearsal was finished. It didn’t really hit him that she hadn’t spoken either, or that she was feeling almost as wired as he was. Not until she shut her dressing room door, locked it, turned and slid her arms around his neck. She pulled him to her. The fire she’d started with her performance smoldered in her kiss. She passed it to him, until he hauled her up against his body and burned alongside her.
He broke their hot and heavy kiss a moment later when she cupped his cock boldly in her palm.
“Were you getting hard out there, watching me?” she asked throatily, moving her hand.
His gaze narrowed on her beautiful, exultant face. “How did you know that?”
“I can tell by the look on your face,” she said, an intoxicating smile tilting her lips. She began yanking on his button fly. “I can read your mind.”
“Oh yeah? What was I thinking about, exactly?”
“Dirty stuff,” she grinned.
He laughed and cupped her face. As he looked down at her, his amusement faded. “That’s all you imagine I was thinking about, watching you light up that room?”
Her smile faded. He kissed her deep and thoroughly. When he ended the kiss, she opened heavy-looking eyelids.
“Maybe not,” she replied. She jerked his jeans down over his ass abruptly, planting a kiss on his chest. She looked up at him, her gaze mischievous—sexy as hell. “Is it okay if I was the one thinking nothing but dirty thoughts, then?”
She went to her knees. A rush of heat went through him.
“I suppose I could forgive your lechery this once,” he told her sarcastically, palming the back of her head. She cupped his balls through his boxer briefs, lifting them slightly. He groaned at her touch, feeling himself stiffen even more. The head of his cock poked lewdly against stretchy white cotton. She slid her cheek against it, moaning softly. Then she placed a chaste-seeming kiss on the tip, her green eyes shining as she looked up at his face.
“I was thinking about giving you this birthday gift yesterday,” she said, her lips moving against his cock. “But you kept taking over in bed. You have a habit of doing that, you know.”
“I am a controlling jerk,” he admitted, watching her, spellbound, as she removed his erection from his briefs. She’d never sucked him off before. He’d thought about it, of course. A lot. He liked fellatio as much as most men, and Laila was the most desirable woman he’d ever known. But despite the fact that she was an innately sensual, incredibly responsive lover, there was something that remained untouchable about her. He held back with her a little. He wasn’t as demanding as he might be with another experienced woman. Maybe it was because her beauty, her fire—her very spirit—were so refined. So pure. His male hunger sometimes seemed coarse and blunt in contrast to her.
She held his now-naked, pulsing cock in her hand, her lips just inches from the head, and looked up at him soberly.
“If you’re a controlling jerk, why haven’t you asked me to give you pleasure this way?” She stroked the shaft of his cock with her soft hand. He shivered with sharp excitement. “Don’t you like it?”
He ground his teeth together as she continued to caress his erection. “I like it,” he said in bald understatement.
“Then why haven’t you asked me to?” she whispered.
“I
don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, her entire arm moving as she steadily stroked him from tip to balls.
“I’m not stopping you now,” he pointed out, mesmerized by the vision of her full, pink lips hovering just inches from his swollen cockhead.
“Tell me how you like it,” she whispered, her warm breath tickling his sensitive flesh. “Teach me, like you taught me how to touch you at the secret lake.”
He felt his cock surge in her hand. It was a potent memory. The prospect of repeating it with a different mode of making love inflamed him. He shut his eyes briefly and groaned.
“Asher?”
He heard the uncertainty in her tone. He found himself gripping her thick, soft ponytail. “Just . . . do what you want, Laila.”
She stopped stroking, gripping him at midstaff. “No. Tell me. Please?” He saw the desperation in her eyes. “I’ve never really done it before,” she whispered, looking a little embarrassed. “Or if I have, not well,” she added under her breath resignedly.
He started to sweat. He gently pulled her hand off his cock and replaced it with his own.
“Open your mouth,” he said gruffly. He felt blood rush into his cock at merely saying the words. Watching her follow his instructions was even worse. Grappling for restraint, he told her matter-of-factly how to use her lips to stroke him firmly and protect him at once from her teeth.
“Like this?” she asked.
She dipped him into her warm mouth. Excitement tingled at the base of his spine at the feeling of her sliding along her warm tongue. His balls pinched in pleasure. He groaned.
“That’s good. Tighten your mouth some,” he muttered, watching her like a hawk as she began to bob her head over the first several inches of his appreciative cock. She followed his instructions so precisely, he hissed in mounting pleasure. She slid her warm mouth off him, a concerned look on her face. He caught the back of her head and his cock at once, firmly reinserting himself into her mouth.
“You were doing great. That felt fantastic,” he assured her. “God, yeah,” he muttered as she resumed even more enthusiastically. “That’s so good, Laila. Now suck.” Again, he hissed at how well she followed his instructions. His eyes rolled back in his head at the sharp blast of pleasure. She was amazing.
