His Invitation

by Tanya Gallagher

  This season’s Mr. Eligible was a commercial pilot with the personality of chewed bubblegum and the inability to comprehend why a woman would want to have a career. Kind of a dick, actually. But Emma loved watching him fumble his way through dates with women who were smarter, prettier, and more fun to be around than he ever would be.

  Deacon shook his head. “Not going to happen.”

  “Why not? The Mr. Eligible cast is going to Paris this week. Between the wine and the carbs, things are bound to get wild.”

  “You’re twenty-five years old, and you live in Las Vegas. You need to seize the day. And it’s my civic duty to ensure you don’t turn into a crazy cat lady.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  His smile grew. “I’m working an event at The Griffin tomorrow night. I insist you come.”

  Her and Deacon and lowered inhibitions? That was a recipe for disaster. “Deacon…I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Come on, Sass. Live a little.”

  His imploring grin softened her resolve, and she sighed. “I guess I shouldn’t get between you and your civic duty.”

  “No,” he said. “It would probably be bad for my health.”

  “You’re bad for my health.”

  “If I remember correctly, at the donut shop I did propose an activity that was good for your heart.”

  Emma’s mouth dropped open. Sex. He meant sex. Of course he did.

  Deacon swept his eyes over her tight yoga clothes, and her whole body heated.

  She shook her head. “Do you think I’m going to fall for that just because I have a vagina?”

  “Fall for what?” he asked, all innocent.

  “Dammit.” She huffed out a sigh and gestured up and down his body. “That. The whole charismatic man-whore thing you’ve got going on.”

  “Nice to know you think so highly of me.”

  Her lips twitched as she held back a smile. “I’m not saying it doesn’t appeal to a big percentage of the population. Just not me. Especially not my roommate.”

  “Ah, so there’s the barrier.”

  “There it is.” Emma’s cheeks heated. “I just moved in a few weeks ago, and dating your roommate is a recipe for becoming ex-roommates.”

  “Who said anything about dating, sweetheart?”

  Emma rolled her eyes, but part of her was tempted. She’d heard the sounds Deacon inspired from his other lady visitors. “I’m not a fling type of girl, and you’re not worth breaking my rules. I need stability and security in my life. And moving is too big of a pain in the ass.”

  “I’m pretty good at overcoming obstacles, Sass.”

  He probably was. Especially when he was shirtless.

  She shook her head but didn’t look away from his gaze. If he asked her enough times, she might just break down and say yes.

  Chapter 8

  Deacon sat on the living room couch and waited for Emma to emerge from her room. Out the wall of windows, the Las Vegas sky tumbled from pink into darkness, the neon lights of the bars and clubs and restaurants down the street outshining the early evening stars. Tonight was going to be a good night. He could feel it.

  “Come on, Sass, we’ve gotta go,” he called.

  “I’m here,” she said, closer than he’d expected.

  Emma was still barefoot, with a pair of high heels dangling from her hands. Must have been how she’d sneaked up on him.

  She perched on the edge of the sofa next to him and slid on her heels. Then she stood, smoothing down the front of her tight purple dress. The top was cut low enough to show off her generous breasts, and the pale skin of her chest called to him like a siren song.

  “Okay. What do you think?” She smiled at him and spun once, for effect, which gave him a view of her tight, pert ass.

  “I think you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  A small, pleased smile graced her lips. “What do you mean?”

  He couldn’t let her know that the real cause of the heart attack was all the blood rushing away from his heart and straight to his cock. He shifted his pants and tried to recover. “I mean, those shoes scare me. They’re like eight inches tall. You won’t be able to walk in them.”

  She pouted. “They’re pretty.”

  Deacon stood and reached for her hips. Emma drew in a quick breath, then leaned into his touch as he whispered in her ear. “Sass, in that dress, no guy is gonna be looking at your shoes. And if he is, all he’s doing is picturing them around his neck.”

  Her face lit up again. “Well, see? I don’t need to be able to walk in them after all. They just need to look good.”

  He cleared his throat and dropped his hands, already empty without her. “Will you please change them? I don’t want to have to be worrying about you breaking your neck while I’m supposed to be working.”

  She giggled. “You’re only going to be worrying about who’s drinking what.”

  Did she really not know the effect she had on him? He shook his head. “Nah, you’ll be right next to me, helping me rake in the customers.”

  “So I’m just bait for them? You don’t want me for me?” She laughed at his frustrated expression. “Relax, I was kidding. I’ll change the shoes, but only because now I can’t help but think of them as safety hazards.”

  They were a hazard—to his health. Or, at least, the hard-on they caused were. “Thank you.”

  Emma grasped his forearm to balance while she slid them off, then padded barefoot to her room to change. Come to think of it, she looked pretty damn good barefoot, too.

  She strode back out of her room, her smile like a beacon. “What are you waiting for, Tater Tot? Let’s go.”

  “Damn, Deacon. That’s a good drink.”

  Emma smiled at him over the rim of her margarita glass, her lips still a little wet. Deacon fought the urge to lean over and kiss her. Instead, he smiled back. “That’s what makes me the big bucks.”

  “How long have you been mixing drinks?” she asked.

  “Since before I was legally allowed to.”

  She grinned and took another sip. He’d set up his little stand in one of the dark corners of The Griffin to hand out tiny sample margaritas, but for Emma, he’d rustled up a whole glass. Over her shoulder, The Griffin patrons moved around in a swirl of activity, some leaning on the wood-topped bar to order drinks, some warming their hands around the indoor fire pit, and others settling into the tufted leather booths.

  “Pináculo Tequila.” Emma smacked her lips. “Not bad. Although if I had an alcohol brand, I’d call it Tequila Mockingbird. Get it? After the book?”

  “I get it. You sure do like your novels. And your wine and yoga and trashy TV shows.”

  “Let’s not forget my affection for scented candles.”

  “You’re such a girl sometimes.”

  She wrinkled her nose in an adorable way. “I know. Isn’t it tragic?”

  A couple approached Deacon’s table, and Emma lifted her glass. “I’ll leave you to it.” He watched her trail to a table near the back of the room, then turned his attention to the couple.

  “Are these free?” the woman asked, pointing at the sample cups branded with “Pináculo Tequila” in a glossy gold font.

  Free, man. Sometimes Deacon had to wonder if free diminished the value of the real thing, but tonight this was exactly the point.

  “Yes. Try anything you like, and you can order a full-size drink at the bar.” He’d convinced the bar manager to stock a full selection of their flavors at the bar—everything from lime, to coconut, to pineapple jalepeño. Hopefully, the couple in front of him would have a little brand loyalty when they ordered the real thing.

  Deacon pointed out a few of the flavor options and wasn’t surprised when the woman reached for a pomegranate margarita. Chicks always went for the fruity flavors. Then the guy leaned forward to grab a cup, and Deacon noticed a movement over his shoulder.

  A man the size of a linebacker stood over Emma like a mountain, and Deacon
could see her frown even from here. She shook her head, but the guy advanced, sliding a hand up and down Emma’s bare arms even as she cringed away.

  What the fuck?

  “Excuse me,” Deacon muttered to the couple. “Help yourself to as many samples as you’d like.” He stepped out from behind his table and strode through the crowd to get to Emma.

  “Everything okay here?” he asked.

  The linebacker turned with a leering smile. “Who are you?”

  Deacon ignored him, searching Emma’s face. She pasted on a tight smile, her fingers frozen around the stem of her glass. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “I’m okay, Deacon. Mario was just leaving.”

  “Not without a number,” Mario sneered.

  “Seriously?” Deacon spat. “Come on. Surely you’re not so desperate that you’d continue to hit on a girl who clearly isn’t into you.”

  “Who says she’s not?” Mario growled.

  Emma’s eyes pleaded with him, and she shook her head, but Deacon couldn’t help himself. “I do. I didn’t know it was BYOA night. Bring Your Own Asshole.”

  Whoops. That might have been too much.

  Mario turned and bumped his chest against Deacon’s. Screw it—the guy wasn’t built like a linebacker. He was built like a fucking wall. He towered a good six inches over Deacon, and his breath smelled like booze and a McDonald’s fryer at the end of the night.

  “An asshole, huh?” Mario’s face landed somewhere between tomato and strawberry on the red spectrum.

  All the eyes in the room pulled toward the source of the raised voice, and Deacon’s stomach dropped. He darted a quick look at the table he’d abandoned. He’d fucked this up, big time.

  He spread his hands and took a step back from Mario. “I’m not trying to make trouble here. I’m just trying to show everyone a good time.”

  “Then mind your own fucking business.”

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  Deacon winced as a hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned to face Patrick, the bar manager.

  “We’re good,” Deacon said.

  Patrick’s frown said they were not. He glanced back and forth between Deacon and Mario and finally squeezed Deacon’s shoulder. “Come with me.”

  Deacon dropped his hands and followed dutifully to the corner of the room. The bar manager crossed his arms over his broad chest. “What’s going on here?”

  “I was defending a friend,” he said, gesturing at Emma.

  Patrick looked over his shoulder and nodded. “I see that.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I still think it’s better if you pack up shop for today, anyway. Give everyone a chance to cool off.”

  “Right.” Deacon ducked his head, his face stinging. “I’m on it.”

  His shoulders crackled with tension as he stormed back to his table. He slammed a bottle of Pináculo into his duffle bag, along with some clean cups. The rest of the table had been wiped out by greedy patrons anyway. Fuckers.

  Emma reached him as he slung the duffle onto his shoulder, her sweet perfume a tiny balm.

  “We’re leaving?” she asked gently.

  “I’m leaving,” Deacon said. “But stay if you want to. I don’t want to fuck up your night.”

  Emma shook her head. “You didn’t fuck up my night. You saved it.” She linked her arm in his and tugged him toward the door. “Come on, Tater Tot. Take me home.”

  Chapter 9

  Emma and Deacon stepped out into the night, her arm still locked on his. At first, she held him for balance, but the farther they walked toward their apartment, the more she held him because it felt good. Deacon’s biceps strained under his button-down shirt, hard and huge under her hands. He was warm, and even though the June night was still about seventy degrees, his heat was reassuring.

  Deacon bumped Emma’s shoulder with his, and her core tightened. “I told you I was going to be worried about you,” he said.

  She swiped her free hand across her forehead. “I’m sorry I proved you right. And here I thought it was going to be the shoes that did me in.” The ones she’d changed into were shorter than the originals, but still a good four inches high.

  He grinned. “You’re still standing in them. I’m impressed.”

  She smiled back at him, and her stomach did a flip. He’d looked so damn protective in the bar. Possessive. Like she was his, and no one was going to touch her. He had no idea how much that meant to her.

  “Thank you for what you did in there,” she whispered, squeezing his arm. He covered her hand with one of his, and her heart pounded. “You made me feel so protected.”

  Deacon’s eyes flickered with doubt, but he pulled out a cocky grin so fast that maybe she’d imagined it. “Can’t let my meal ticket get hurt. Who would pay the other half of my rent?”

  “There it is,” she teased. “For a minute I thought you were being chivalrous. Now I know you have an ulterior motive.”

  But what he had done was chivalrous. No matter how he acted with other women, with her he seemed to be different. She could feel it in his heated gaze.

  Deacon’s voice scraped low. “Paying the rent’s not my real motive with you, Sass.”

  Her skin flushed, and a breath puffed out of her.

  Oh.

  Not that he hadn’t implied it before, but…

  Emma took a shaky step forward, so distracted by the thought of Deacon’s body pressed against hers that she missed the curb.

  “Shit!” she cried as she pitched forward. She clung to Deacon’s bicep, and he grabbed her by the hip to stop her fall.

  Deacon pulled her upright, and her cheek landed against his chest. She could hear his heart pounding through the crisp material of his shirt. Could feel it pulsing in her own veins. Maybe he wasn’t b.s.ing her about wanting her.

  Deacon moved a hand from Emma’s hip, tracing it from her shoulder to her jaw to tilt her chin toward him. His eyes searched hers, and his hand was so warm on her skin. “You okay, Sass?”

  Her throat went dry, and she turned her cheek into his palm. She licked her lips and nodded. “I’m okay,” she whispered. “Sore ankle. Bruised pride.”

  Deacon’s smile burned away all her senses. “I’m pretty sure trouble follows you wherever you go.” He dropped his hand and used it to shift the duffle bag on his shoulders. Before she knew what was happening, he looped his arms around her body. He scooped one hand under the back of her knees and braced her shoulders with the other hand as he lifted her against his chest.

  “Not that I’m counting, but this is the third time you’ve been in my arms, Sass.”

  “Don’t get too used to it,” she grumbled. But he was strong, and he smelled nice. Like tequila and lime. Like possibilities. “You don’t need to carry me all the way home.”

  Deacon flashed her a magnetic smile that showed off his dimples. “You’re a hazard, Sass. You really leave me no choice.”

  Emma stepped into the warm water of her bathtub, and the scent of lavender bath bubbles curled around her face. She smiled and lowered herself further until the soapy water slipped over her breasts and lapped at her collarbones. After last night with Deacon, her body was wound tighter than a virgin’s hymen, and a bath seemed like a perfect way to escape. Deacon was over at Noah’s house, and she guessed she had at least an hour to relax and unwind before he came home.

  The water soothed her muscles, but she still shifted, anxious. The memory of Deacon’s hands on her burned through her body, heating her skin even more than the bath. So what if she had fantasized about him every second since he’d rescued her in the bar? What she’d said to Bex was true—a fantasy was just a fantasy.

  But there was no reason she couldn’t use it to her advantage.

  Emma smiled to herself and reached for the vibrator she’d set on the bathroom counter. Even though Bex was one of the primary toy designers at X Enterprises, the company had opened up a design contest to all of its employees. Emma had surprised everyone by winning last year’s contest, and now
her final design was in the prototype phase. She held her winning toy in her hands, the purple silicone warming at her touch.

  Why shouldn’t she test it?

  She was the Quality Control Manager after all, and no one was going to know she was thinking about Deacon’s naked body while she was doing it.

  Emma closed her eyes and lowered the toy through the water, turning it on just above her skin.

  Good thing she’d made it waterproof.

  She sighed as she held the toy to her clit, flicking the button to send it into one pulse pattern after another.

  Oh god.

  She’d done well.

  Her nipples tightened, and heat gathered in her core. Her body begged for release, and she parted her legs to work the vibrator against her sensitive skin.

  She should have done this before.

  This was a very, very good idea.

  “Everything okay?” a voice called.

  The bathroom door swung wide, and Emma’s eyes flew open. The steam from the room escaped out into the hall.

  “Deacon!” she shrieked, and the toy slipped from her hands and fell under the cover of the bubbles. It buzzed against the porcelain like a wind-up toy on steroids as he grinned at her.

  “Don’t stop on my behalf.”

  “Get out of here!” She blushed furiously and sank deeper into the water. Thank god the bubbles hid her body from his eyes.

  Deacon threw up his hands. “I thought you left your hairdryer on or something. I was trying to make sure you didn’t burn the place down.”

  “Oh my god, it’s not that loud.” Emma reached for the toy and finally managed to turn it off.

  “It is.”

  She bit her lip. “Maybe the components were installed wrong.” She shook her head. “Dammit. That’s not the point. Can you just go?”

  Deacon’s eyes flicked to the tub and back up to her face, a cocky grin replacing his original expression of surprise. He leaned a hip against the doorframe, looking perfectly content to stay there while she squirmed.

  “You sure you don’t want an audience?” His eyes were two hot stars burning through the galaxy.