by Lisa Wells
Chapter Twelve
Ian woke up pre-dawn with a boner. He was a changed man. Or at least his mind had been changed. Not wanting to wake Kinley, he’d gone to the gym and worked out, stopped by the check-in counter and cancelled her room reservation, showered, and was now lying back in their bed waiting for her to wake up.
He rolled toward her. Listened to her steady breathing. She had the covers pulled up under her chin, but he knew underneath the covers, she was naked. Her silky brown hair framed her beautiful face and splayed across the white pillow she was hugging in her sleep.
She’d won the bet. She’d seduced him. Watching her masturbate had killed his brain cells. To call the experience seductive was like calling heaven pretty. Helping her achieve the orgasm she’d been fantasizing about gave him a paralyzing climax.
God, she’d been imagining him. Being spanked by him. He’d stood there at the foot of the bed, listening to her sex talk as she wiggled her hips and changed the speeds of the vibrator.
When she’d begged to be spanked harder, he’d nearly fallen to his knees.
Shaking away the memory, he glanced at the clock. Eight a.m. Their meetings would start in an hour. He should wake her so they could talk. Make plans for their time together. Supreme satisfaction swept through him, leaving goose bumps on his arms. He rubbed his hands down them. He couldn’t remember ever having an actual reaction to the thought of starting a relationship with a woman.
And it wasn’t just about having sex with her again, though God knew that was reason enough. But there was something more behind the giddiness he felt. Like he’d discovered a treasure he’d thought lost forever. Like his heart was making room for a new emotion. Like the seduction of Kinley Foster was the beginning of something…
He picked up the remote that operated the curtains and opened them partially. He wanted to wake her slowly. Call him a sap, but he wanted to lie there and watch her wake up. Watch her eyelashes flutter. Watch her lips form into a smile as she remembered the night they’d spent together.
This felt right. Of all the things he’d done in the past that he regretted, this wasn’t going to be one of them.
He wanted her, and for the next week, he was going to have her. He was going to teach her about sex—about sexual tension—and somehow manage to make her see he never was the villain she thought him capable of way back then.
Unable to resist the temptation, he caressed the length of her neck. Her skin was satiny smooth.
She smiled and stretched, raising her arms above her head, exposing her breasts.
Desire pulled him considerably closer. “Good morning.” He tugged the covers down so he could see the creamy expanse of her stomach. The sight caused his breath to catch in his throat like a baseball in a catcher’s mitt. So inviting. He wanted to eat honey off of her stomach…among other places.
She stilled. Yanked the covers back up to her chin and sat up. “Hi.” Red spots formed on her neck and cheeks.
She gave him a scowl-y look and muttered something under her breath that sounded like stupid bluff. Or maybe she called him a stupid butt. Or was she calling herself stupid?
None of which made sense.
Okay. So the whole waking up fantasy wasn’t panning out like he’d planned. “Did you sleep well?” He laid back, crossed his hands behind his head, and gave her an encouraging smile.
“Close your eyes.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“Please,” she said. But not in a particularly nice tenor.
What was he missing? They’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms. Happy.
Was she just feeling shy? “Not in this lifetime,” he said in a joking tone, trying to put her at ease. No way would he believe she was unaffected by what happened between them last night.
Her scowl got a degree scowlier—if that was even a word. “You are not a gentleman.”
His boner agreed with a high-five. “I don’t recall you asking for a gentleman in your bed last night.” Why was she being so contrary?
She grumbled. And if it was possible, her cheeks turned even redder. She exited the bed, pulling the sheet with her, and haphazardly wrapped the snowy white cover around her body, reminding him of an unraveling mummy.
He couldn’t help but smile. “I thought we were going to talk this morning.” He wanted her to turn so he could catch a glimpse of her bare backside. The woman’s ass could stop hotrods at a race track.
She shuffle-walked to her suitcase. “We had a bad idea.”
His stomach tightened. Was this about more than her just feeling shy around him this morning?
She didn’t look at him as she pulled out clothes. “End of topic.”
The hammer of her sharp tone shattered his ego into more pieces than a beer bottle dropped on concrete. He sat up. “A bad idea?” What the hell did she mean by that?
She turned toward him, her expression guarded. “In between meetings, I’ll get checked into my room. It should be available.”
He stood, exposing his hard-on. “I thought we had a deal?”
“We did.” She glanced at him—at all of him—and quickly averted her eyes.
“And?”
“And…it was a lame idea.”
He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Is it because I spanked you?”
Her mouth fell open. “Shut up. Okay. Just shut up.”
“Why, Kinley?” What rabbit hole had they fallen down? None of this made sense.
“Because you’re right. I’m better suited to Amish romance.” She turned and hurried into the bathroom, firmly shutting the door behind her.
His heart tried to go after her, but his chest blocked its way. “Fuck.” What in the hell just happened? What he’d seen as a freaking fantasy, she’d just proclaimed nothing but idiocy.
Damn it. She was wrong, and he was going to prove it to her.
Chapter Thirteen
Kinley stood under the cold, pulsating water coming at her from every direction in a black marble shower the size of her home office, shivering and chastising herself.
The moment she’d became alert, she’d spotted that raised eyebrow. And not the good one. The one he used when he was up to something.
And she’d panicked.
When he’d opened his mouth to speak, she’d gone into full-on self-preservation panic mode.
Sure he was going to tell her that while the sex had been nice, it hadn’t been nice enough to make him choose her over his friendship with her brother. You have to get me to sleep with you one time without regretting the decision when it’s over. He was going to blame last night’s seduction on their bet. A bet that hinged on them first having sex, and then what he felt about it afterwards. And that raised eyebrow of his was all she needed to see to know he was going to tell her he was full of regret.
“If anyone gets to use the excuse of the bet, it’s going to be me.” She forced a laugh. “I did the dumping—not you.” Perhaps she was overreacting a tad bit. She did sound a tad manic to her own ears. But in the name of self-preservation, she’d done what she had to do.
She turned the water to warm and squirted soap on her pink scrubby. With more force than necessary, she scrubbed her skin to wash away his DNA.
Sure, they’d had sex.
But not because she made him forget who she was. Who her brother was.
When he discovered her masturbating, his sloshed brain probably shouted, join the fun. Orgasms up for grabs. She’s even done the pregame warm-up.
She wasn’t so vain as to think he walked in and lost the fat head on his shoulders over her. If the do-me-now dress didn’t push him over the edge, nothing would.
Where she was concerned, he wasn’t interested. Never had been. Never would be. Last night never should have happened. She turned off the three shower heads. “Never, never, never.”
Enough with the woe is me. She was a grown woman. She’d saved face. Now it was time to play it cool.
She took a deep breath and stepped out of the
shower, then wrapped herself in a fluffy white bath sheet. If he hadn’t left yet, she was going to hear him out. And then she’d get dressed and leave. She wasn’t sixteen anymore. They could discuss this as adults.
“Life’s too short to hide from men who make you nervous,” she told her foggy reflection in the mirror.
Besides, today was the first day of the conference—the reason she’d come to Vegas. She wasn’t going to let Ian Thompson ruin this trip for her.
She cracked the bathroom door to let the steam out and did a sound check for the presence of human life.
The bedroom was quiet. No television. No voice on a phone.
She peeked out. The lights were off.
He was gone. Was he afraid she would change her mind and try to get him to change his?
She glanced at the bed. The blankets were twisted. On the floor was her abandoned vibrator.
Could sex be better than what they’d experienced last night? Not that she would tell him, but God—just God.
She slipped on the robe provided by the hotel and walked over to the bed, picked up the sex toy, rinsed it off in the sink, and stuffed it into her purse. Sitting down, she pushed images of Ian spanking her out of her brain and instead went through the package of information she’d picked up the day before for the conference.
She put hearts by the conference sessions she wanted to attend.
Then she double-checked what type of manuscripts the agents attending the conference were in the market for. There were ten who were interested in steamy romance. Eleven if she counted Ian. She didn’t.
Someday he’d regret not being her agent. When all of her books were being turned into movies, he’d cry into his beer over losing her to another agent.
Out to the side, she printed one more name. Ann Collette—Kinley’s girl-crush agent. She was the agent of author Ashley Weaver, Kinley’s new favorite author whose debut book—Murder At The Brightwell—got Kinley through a lonely New Year’s Eve. Ann was the only agent Kinley had done any research on. Ann did a wonderful Twitter thing where she would live tweet as she read queries and say why she did or didn’t request them.
Unfortunately, she didn’t represent steamy romance. She preferred literary and mysteries and women’s fiction. Some authors referred to her as the dragon agent. Kinley thought Ann was a lovely dragon who exhaled pretty pink fire and got mani-pedis.
Ann always responded when Kinley tweeted her a question.
As a result, Kinley would walk through a graveyard, at midnight, during a full-moon to have Ann as her agent.
Satisfied she had a game plan, Kinley dressed. She slipped on an A-Line, long-sleeve red dress with a silver chain belt and silver jewelry, black tights, and knee high boots. She glanced in the mirror long enough to decide to yank her hair back into a low ponytail. The more somber style gave her a serious writer look. She slipped her glasses on, grabbed her conference material, and hurried downstairs to attend a session on dialogue.
And get her own hotel room.
Chapter Fourteen
By the time Kinley grabbed a bite to eat and found the correct conference room, the place was filling up. She found a seat in the front row and opened her laptop. She laid her purse on the chair beside her to save the spot for elbow room. She didn’t like to be crowded at meetings. And she wasn’t that good at appropriate chit chat. That’s why Charlie knew so much about her by the end of the airplane ride. Lord, the woman even knew she’d been wearing her un-sexy school uniform underneath an un-sexy orange raincoat the day she’d shown up at Ian’s offering up her virginity.
A volunteer introduced the speaker—an author whose first book went to auction and sold for big bucks, an event every author hopes happens to them at least once in their career.
“Dialogue should never be on the nose,” the speaker said. “On the nose is when the character says exactly what they are feeling. People seldom say exactly what they mean—unless they are with someone they feel safe with. Like a best friend.”
Kinley snorted. Obviously, the speaker didn’t know even best friends can’t be trusted. Look at Ian and her brother.
“Instead, use subtext. Have characters circle around the truth. This is how we speak in real life,” the speaker said.
Was that true?
Kinley’s phone vibrated. She pushed her glasses up her nose and read the incoming text message.
Did you use subtext on me this morning? —Ian
Kinley’s heart stopped. Her girly parts clenched. She frowned. Was he in the same session? Why was he texting her? He was supposed to be avoiding her so she didn’t have to avoid him.
She fanned herself with her hand. Damn. He was older than her. He should know the rule of one-night stands: no further contact. Nada. Zilch. The big fat Uno. It happened. It’s over.
What game was he playing? She sat up straight. She refused to turn her head and find him in the crowd. She would ignore him.
She typed what the speaker was saying. Mid-paragraph, her fingers stalled on the keys.
If she didn’t respond, would he think it was because she cared? Knowing him, he probably would. No way in hell was she going to let him think she cared. She grabbed her phone.
Using her index finger, she punched out her response.
None of it was subtext. All truth.—Kinley
She wished she could see his face when he read her reply. Was he really so self-absorbed as to think she lied? That she was into him and just didn’t want him to know? What an egomaniac.
Maybe I spoke in subtext.
Her brows furrowed. She chewed the inside of her lip. What did that mean? Was that comment subtext for something else? Damn him. Damn her for being curious. Damn. Damn. Damn.
What did you not say?
Why wasn’t he out schmoozing with other important people instead of attending a session on the craft of writing? He didn’t need to be here.
The speaker segued from subtext to yes/no alternatives. “Never answer a yes/no question with a yes/no answer. Always have them respond in a way that is more interesting. Have your characters respond in a way that makes the reader an active participant in deciphering what the characters are saying.”
I enjoyed spanking you.—Ian
Of course he enjoyed spanking her. He enjoyed embarrassing her. He’d always enjoyed embarrassing her.
Because you’re an ASS.
She wanted to stand up and shout the words at him, but she settled with texting them in caps. God, this man brought out the worst in her. Five seconds in his presence and she’d reverted back to middle school.
He didn’t respond right back. Was he having second thoughts on what he was going to say? Or was he done with their war of words?
Or because you have a fabulous ass, and when it’s rosy from my hand it’s every man’s fantasy.
Kinley could feel the heat of a blush infusing her body. Having him spank her had been so frustrating, but, at the same time, it turned her on. She didn’t know why, but—wowza. Part of her wanted to push him as hard as she could to see if he would do the deed again. Part of her. Just a small part. The part that was remembering last night’s exquisite orgasms.
Of course, she wouldn’t allow it to ever happen again. That would be asinine.
Enough of the games, Ian. What do you want?
This time his reply came quickly.
You.
A dizzy feeling swamped her. He wanted her? What did that mean?
What?
Another long pause.
Last night was spectacular. And I want to do it again.
Goose bumps popped like kernels of corn on her arms. She’d won? She’d won the bet? She’d won a bet against Ian. No way. She reread the text. Yep—way.
Kinley wanted to jump and shout JACKPOT!
He hadn’t been about to dump her this morning. He hadn’t…
She exhaled a breath. This was crazy.
Sure as she was sitting in the front row, this was a joke. Somehow, there was going
to be a punch line thrown into all of these texts, and she knew whom the punch line was going to punch.
Ha ha, very funny. Go away.
She didn’t have time for this. She dropped her phone in her purse and listened to what the speaker said. The woman really knew her stuff.
Kinley’s phone vibrated in her purse.
She drew in an unsteady breath and ignored the silent pulsing. Ian couldn’t harass her if she didn’t read his texts. But what if her mom called? To see how things were going? She should check. Just in case. She fished her phone out. Her vibrators tried to tumble out in the process, causing her heartbeat to kick up several notches while grinding through gears and missing a few. Shit. She shoved them back down in her purse. Why hadn’t she left them in her luggage? She read the text.
If you call me a liar again, I’m going to have to spank you tonight.
A rush of decadent desire flooded Kinley. Or maybe fear. She didn’t really want to be spanked. It hurt. The thrill was really just in knowing someone would do it, not the actuality of it happening.
In your dreams.
She pulled at the neckline of her dress and fanned herself, suddenly very hot. Crap, at twenty-six she was having one of her mom’s hot flashes. Or maybe it was a guilt flash. Or a “worst sister of the year” flash. Her brother and Ian may have moved past the fiancée incident, but her brother wouldn’t move past them becoming sexual partners. Any guy that would sleep with their friend’s fiancé sure as hell wasn’t going to be good enough for that friend’s sister.
The heat intensified.
Was she having a guilt-induced heatstroke?
Could she die of a heatstroke while sitting in a conference room in January with goose bumps coming and going on her arms like ants at a picnic?
She fanned harder.
Or in your fantasies, Kinley.
She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs in the opposite direction. She could feel a pleasant tingle. The kind of tingle that would drive a woman crazy if it stayed there all day. Was his text subtext for saying he’d heard her telling him to spank her in her fantasies? Or was it just a generic saying?
