by Lisa Wells
“May I touch you what?” he asked, not allowing himself to yank her down on the bed with him and have his way with her.
“May I touch you, please?”
God, he wanted to say yes. “No.”
A sound of disappointment came from her.
He bit down on his tongue until the pain cleared his mind. “There will be time later.” One plus one equals two. He turned the vibrator off. “Right now, I have appointments in ten minutes.”
She blinked.
He sat up, and she lowered her leg.
She made a pouty noise and turned away from him.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at him. “To remove the vibrator.” There was an edge of anger to her voice.
“Leave it in,” he ordered.
Her eyes closed. “Why?”
“Any future questioning of my orders will result in a spanking.”
Chapter Nineteen
Ian stepped into the session on Naughty Words for Nice Writers being presented by author Cara Bristol, a writer of erotic romances.
He sat down next to an older lady, probably in her early seventies, with gray hair and pearls. He wondered if she was published or still trying to get her first contract.
“Some men have nicknames for their penises. I once knew a guy who referred to his as Fred,” the speaker said. She was best known for her Rod and Cane Society domestic discipline series.
“Who would call their penis Fred?” the lady sitting beside him asked in a smoker’s voice.
He shrugged, trying not to smile. He couldn’t tell if she was shocked or tickled.
She elbowed him in the side. “Well…I bet there’s a good story behind the nickname.”
“I imagine you might be right,” he said.
“If you’re going to write romance where a man’s penis is up for thought or discussion, you’re going to need a variety of terms you can use to describe this noble organ,” the speaker said.
His elbow partner elbowed him again. “What do you call yours?”
Ian pulled his phone out of his pocket and pretended to have a phone call. “Sorry,” he mouthed to the lady. Then he got up and went further back in the room, away from the elderly lady with too many questions, and spotted Kinley. She raised a hand in acknowledgement of him.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t try to sit in the empty chair next to her.
He’d come to the workshop in hopes of catching the speaker afterward and buying her a drink. He wanted to learn if she was open to mentoring a new author of erotic romance. Of course, he’d pay her. Kinley need never know. He’d agreed to Kinley’s term of ending their connection at the end of the week, but there wasn’t any way he could just walk away without making sure she had all of the resources she needed to be successful. Cara could help her incorporate her new knowledge into her manuscript in a way the readers found believable.
“Erection, corona, manhood, staff are just a few names you could use to describe a man’s cock,” the speaker said.
He’d never thought of himself as one who had to be in charge in a relationship, but he’d be lying if he didn’t say he was intrigued now that he and Kinley were exploring the lifestyle. Did real Rod and Cane societies exist in New York?
He found a seat several rows back where he could see Kinley. He’d have to ask her what her favorite word was to use when describing a man’s cock.
“Just as there are many names for a man’s penis, there are also many names for intercourse,” the speaker said.
Kinley was taking notes on her laptop. She reminded him of an over-achiever student eager to learn and to please the teacher. How hard would she work to please him in a long-term relationship?
“You can fuck, hump, ravish, surge, just to name a few.”
Not that Ian needed to know the answer to that question. Theirs had an expiration date. After this week, she was off-limits. But no wonder her writing was so strong—she obviously loved to learn.
Teaching her about sexual tension very well might be the exquisite death of him. Not taking her this afternoon nearly undid him. But not giving in to the desire to ravish her was part of his job as the dominant one in their relationship. He’d learned that many years ago when he did extensive research into the BDSM lifestyle before he started representing erotic romance authors. And having done the research, he’d discovered aspects of the lifestyle appealed to him. He hadn’t progressed to NDA’s and red rooms of pain, but he knew his preferences and had no problems finding women whose appetites aligned with his. Thank you again, Miss E.L. James.
“Moving on, let’s talk about terms that describe oral sex.”
He had to have enough control for both of them. By the end of this week, she would know what sexual tension felt like. She’d be able to write about wanting something so bad you’d kill for it.
“The most famous would be deep throat. But it’s also known as giving head, eating, and going down on.”
An image of Kinley going down on him caused his cock to harden. He shifted in his seat to adjust himself and felt the presence of the remote to Kinley’s vibrator. He pulled it out and turned it on, watching her as he did so.
She jerked and straightened. Lifted her hair off her neck.
He smiled when she shifted in her chair, obviously trying to get the vibrator in the right spot. He changed the vibration, not sure if he was making it harder or softer.
Kinley stood suddenly and sidestepped her way out of the row she was in while holding her laptop under her arm. She glanced around for him, but he ducked his head so she couldn’t spot him.
He watched through lowered lashes as she left the session.
He should feel bad. She obviously wanted to learn from the author. He’d buy the author’s book and give it to Kinley.
What she had to learn from him was more important.
…
Kinley stepped out of the session and walked quickly away from the conference room. She had to get out of remote control reach. She stopped at the ladies’ room and then went to the check-in counter. “I need to cancel a reservation under Kinley Foster.”
The attendant punched in her name, glanced up at her, and smiled. “It’s already been canceled.”
Kinley frowned. Ian must have cancelled her reservation. When did he cancel? Before she told him she was in or after? “May I have a rain check on the two nights you were supposed to comp me for not having a room for me when I arrived?”
“I don’t see why not.” She pushed some buttons and then printed off a form, signed it, and handed it to Kinley.
“Thanks.” Kinley tucked the voucher in her conference bag.
Stepping away from the counter, she got a text and checked it.
Don’t remove the vibrator.
Her heart high-jumped a beat. “Too late,” she muttered. She’d removed that thing the moment she left the session, and she was only too grateful the bathroom hadn’t been crowded, because that particular pleasure device had a long range indeed. And she wasn’t putting it back in until it was time to go back to the room.
What Ian didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Between listening to a speaker instructing writers on how to write hot sex and how to write spanking scenes, and Ian playing loose and ready with the remote to the vibrator she wore, she was about to lose control in more ways than one.
She either had to flee the sublime torture or she was going to be reenacting the When Harry Met Sally scene that made the movie famous. Definitely not something a school librarian could pull off in a public place while hoping to keep her day job.
Her phone rang. Without looking to see who it was—figuring it was Ian, making sure she followed his instructions—she answered. “Hello.” Hopefully he was going to order her back to their suite for a late afternoon of passion.
“I can’t believe you didn’t call me back,” her brother said, sounding like a pissed-off army sergeant.
“I can’t believe you had
Ian pick me up at the airport like I’m an idiot who can’t make it to the hotel by herself.”
Her brother laughed, a noise more annoying than hell springing a leak in August in Dallas, Texas. “That bothered you, did it?” he drawled. “It was time for you two to make up. If I can forgive him, you have no reason to be mad at him. It’s been a decade, Kin. Seriously.”
“You forgave him because you’re a guy, and guys don’t know how to stay mad. You punch each other in the face, have a beer together, and get over it. If you knew how to stay mad, you would have never let him off the hook.”
“The way I look at it, he saved me from being married to someone who would cheat on me.”
She made a face. “It’s a male weakness. I’m simply looking after you by making sure he knows that what he did has permanent consequences. The fact that he saved you from Stacy is completely beside the point.” She didn’t add that part of her anger was based on Ian turning her virginity offer down.
“He did offer you representation, didn’t he?”
Kinley paced in a circle. “Why didn’t you tell me he was a literary agent?”
“Because out of the gazillion questions you nonchalantly asked me about him, thinking I’m not noticing, not once did you ask what he did for a living.”
“And you couldn’t have just said, ‘hey, by the way, since you’re a writer and all, I thought I’d mention that Ian’s an agent?’”
“You made me promise never to bring him up in conversation when you were around. All I was allowed was to answer your questions about him. Which was a bit childish to me, but since you are my baby sister, I didn’t argue.”
“Why did you send Ian my book without asking me first?” When her circle walking drew glances, she turned and walked down the Strip.
“Why wouldn’t I?” her brother replied in a well duh tone. “Your book’s freaking awesome. I was doing both of you a favor.”
“You should have asked.” Kinley knew he meant well, but she stood her ground. There had to be boundaries. “I’m an adult. I don’t need either of you interfering in my life the way you did when we were kids. My book wasn’t even ready.”
“Is that your way of saying ‘thank you, big brother, for getting me the best agent in the business’? And it was ready, you’re just too much of a perfectionist to let it go.”
Kinley stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk. Or that was her story if anyone saw her. “I told him I wasn’t interested in being one of his authors.”
“Damn it, Kinley.” Her brother never—well, almost never—swore. Only when he wanted to knock heads together, which was seldom. “Are you kidding me?”
“Who kids about something like that?” She avoided a peddler trying to hand her a flyer for a strip club—or maybe it was for a brothel. She avoided the next one by stepping inside a casino.
He made a noise of disgust. “You’re cutting off your nose to spite your face.” He used another one of their mom’s mom-isms.
Tension coiled in her belly like a cottonmouth snake ready to bite her ass. She didn’t like it when her brother was mad at her. “He gave me ideas on how to make my manuscript stronger.” That was true. Engage in kinky sex so you know what you’re writing about.
There was a deep sigh. “Like what? What in the hell is wrong with your book?”
She couldn’t tell him the truth. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. But even if they were in Mayberry, USA, their secrets weren’t going anywhere. “Like writer stuff you wouldn’t understand. I’m working on the weakness. I love that you want to help me, but you need to step back. I’ve got this.” She weaved her way through slot machines.
“Why can’t you two go back to being friends? It’s obvious you both miss each other. Why else would you both question me about the other? I used to think you wished he were your big brother instead of me. Then I thought you had a huge girl crush on him.”
“Never. And you’re the best brother in the world. You’ve just got to stop trying to take care of me. I’m a grown woman.” She stopped at a slot machine and put in a dollar.
“You don’t stop worrying about someone just because they grow up. Why do you think mom never remarried? I’ll tell you why. You don’t stop loving someone just because they’re no longer with you.”
Was that true? Did love not have an expiration date? Had she ever truly stopped loving Ian? Or had that love remained beneath her shield of indignant anger? Could puppy love survive a winter of hate? Absolutely not. “You do if you’re smart. Love is for suckers.” She pushed the button again and again lost.
“I think you’re afraid to let him represent you. I think you’re afraid you might like him.”
“God. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to matchmake us. Is that what you’re doing?” Was that hope she heard in her voice?
“Hell no. He goes through girlfriends like you go through tissues when you’re watching your sappy movies. He’s not hitting on you, is he?”
Just how many girlfriends did Ian have?
The answer didn’t matter. She wasn’t looking for a relationship. Just some fun. “For the last time, my sex life is my business. My life is my business. Don’t interfere.”
“Your sex life? Are you thinking about having sex with him?”
“Did you hear the part about no interference?”
“Damn right I’m interfering. What kind of big brother would I be if I didn’t?”
Chapter Twenty
Kinley sat in the Karaoke Lounge with Kim Killion, owner of Hot Damn Designs, a design and branding company “with an edge,” her assistant, Jennifer Jakes, and several babes and hunks who modeled for the romance book covers the company created. The two were known as the dynamic duo in the publishing industry: Kim, a buxom brunette with a ready smile and wicked sense of humor; Jen, a brown-eyed beauty with more attitude than the Joker and Catwoman combined.
Authors sought them out when it came to having covers designed for their books.
“I hope you guys design the cover for my first book,” Kinley said, taking a sip of her margarita and glancing around. At nine p.m., the place was packed with loud, laughing customers. Kinley recognized a lot of them from the sessions she’d attended so far at the conference.
“Hope is for those who have given up control of their destiny. If you want one of our covers, have it written into your contract,” Jen replied, her brown eyes flashing authority, her smile flashing snark.
The song that was playing ended. A female D.J. tapped the microphone. “I’m going to play one more song, and then it’s time to get our karaoke on.”
The crowd cheered.
Kinley wasn’t among those who were cheering. She couldn’t sing. The only reason she’d ventured into the Karaoke Lounge was because it defined hip, and she’d been in the mood to pretend she was hip. And she’d kind of, sort of, thought she’d seen Ian walk into the bar…with a woman.
She’d been wrong. But she’d stayed anyway.
From the outside, the circular walls of the bar looked like a Mardi Gras bead. Thus, when you were sitting inside, you felt like you were incased in a colored glass bead.
Ian, according to the last text she’d received from him, would be busy until late in the evening with clients and editors.
She’d been unwilling to go back to their room and sit and wait on him.
“What type of romance do you write?” Kim asked. She wore a low-cut dress that made the most of her assets.
“Erotic romance,” Kinley answered, trying to appear at ease while sitting amongst those who were well established in the industry versus her own beginner status.
How she ended up sitting at the cool table in Vegas’s it bar, she still didn’t quite understand, but wasn’t arguing the fact.
Okay. That wasn’t true.
She knew how it had happened.
She tripped over her own two feet and fell into their table…into the lap of one of the male models, an enormous man with beautiful black hair p
ulled back in a ponytail that hung halfway down his back.
The occupants were gracious enough to offer her a seat. Probably because the male model pulled out a chair and plopped her off his lap and down onto it before she could even get an apology out. And because she offered to buy drinks if they’d let her stay.
Conference somebodies kept stopping by their table to say hi and engage them in industry talk.
Kinley tried not to gape, gush, or gawk. She failed on all three accounts. “And I don’t give a damn,” she said under her breath, taking another sip of her drink. This was fun.
“I love a good, steamy romance,” one of the female models at the table said.
Kinley pulled her phone out. “I’m sorry to be such a nerd, but do you mind if I get a picture of you guys?” she asked the two male models, who were wearing kilts.
“Not at all, beautiful,” the sexy bald model said.
She raised her phone to snap his picture. She needed to feature him in her next book. He was just as hunky as he could be. Dumber than a box of rocks, but she could smarten him up in a book. Or maybe she’d feature Mr. Ponytail. Because of him, she had a seat at the cool table.
“Wait. You need to be in the picture,” Mr. Ponytail chimed in. He had beautiful legs. Like really, really beautiful legs.
“Here, I’ll take the picture,” one of the female cover models said, her red hair spiraling down her back in perfect ringlets, her wife-beater T-shirt hugging her perky breasts.
The two men stood. The bald one grabbed Kinley’s hands and pulled her into his arms, squishing her in a bear hug and pressing his stiff junk into her midriff. Is that real? Oh, wait, no, that’s his fake sword.
A flash of light indicated the picture had been taken.
The other model grabbed her and bent her backward in a dip causing her glasses to slide off her face. He leaned down as if to kiss her. His lips were inches from hers. Another picture was snapped, probably capturing the surprised look on her face when she caught a glimpse of Baldy’s real junk beneath his kilt. Dear God, no wonder he was a romance cover model.
“Have you ever thought about being a cover model?”
