by Katy Evans
He brackets his arm around my hips and drags me to him. “I lied.” And his lips are hungry and possessive on mine. I’m gasping for breath and he’s my only air.
I don’t want to shop. All I want is this man. This man and his body all over mine. This man and his silver eyes watching only me.
We part as a viewing chair is placed on the other side of the curtain. The sales manager shoos Cullen away from me as her staff piles more garments on another chair.
Behind the curtain, I hear Cullen say, “There’s a white dress in the window.”
“The one with diamonds?” someone asks.
“That’s the one. Send it up to the room. It’s her size.”
How does he know my size? I gasp. And diamonds? Did he say diamonds?
I wring my hands and look at the lingerie and think this will be interesting. Maybe I could slip on another dress first.
And that’s what I do.
I pull on a floral mini-dress. It has a lace-filled neckline with whispers of lace around the hem, which cuts high on my thighs. The open back exposes my waist. I glance over my shoulder and decide it’s flattering.
The manager returns, quickly zips me up and whispers, “I think Mr. Carmichael was expecting something a little more risqué.”
She’s right, but he also likes the game. And I’m finding he’s a very patient man.
I pull back the drapes with both hands, teasing him as I step out like a showgirl might.
He slowly drags his thumb across his lip, stares at my legs, and motions me closer.
Working my walk, I close the distance between us. He crooks his finger back and forth.
I use the arms on the chair to lean in.
His eyes are dreamy and hazed over and filled with lust.
His hands are on my hips and he rasps, “I was expecting something more . . . telling.”
I laugh as his hands slide up and behind me. The zipper drops. His warm palms slide across my skin. “One of the black ones. Now.”
“You’re so demanding.”
“And you like it.”
I. Love. It.
“Only because you’re buying.” I push off from his chair and return to the dressing room, unaware that he’s behind me.
The curtain shifts and he enters.
“I can do the back,” I tell him.
“I could do you,” he whispers, his fingers skimming my arms.
His thighs brush mine as he leans over and runs a hand under my dress.
Probing fingers rub against my silk panties.
His expression changes and I gasp as I feel his finger slip underneath.
“Stop. You’ll make me . . .”
“Say it.”
“Horny.” My breathing changes. I can’t help myself. I want his fingers inside me. Enough semblance of sanity returns so I can whisper, “I can’t try on clothes if you . . . do that.”
His features tighten and he eases against me in a slow and tempting grind. “I’d like to finger fuck you right here.”
Now my nipples ping. My legs are weak.
He’s thinking about it. I can see it in the way his expression darkens, his eyes grow heavy, but before he makes his next move, he narrows his eyes and looks up.
“Damn it.” He slowly backs away as if it’s a chore.
I glance up too. They have security cameras in these dressing rooms? Really?
Considering what I’m now missing? I’m pissed.
He shrugs like he isn’t sure then winks, hands me a hanger with his choice, and walks out.
I lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath. Outside, I hear him say, “The dress she just tried on, see if you can get a seamstress to take another half-inch off the length.”
It was short enough, but I don’t object. He liked the access.
I like that he noticed the access.
Gasping at the sexy number he wants modeled, I brave the task of letting go of all inhibitions.
And I slip on the sexiest lingerie ever. And I can’t help but hope the man who’s waiting likes—loves—what he sees.
I’m dressed in the black number when a hand slides between the curtains and dangles a pair of black stilettos with gold straps.
“Really, Cullen?”
“Really, Red.”
His voice holds restraint.
And it’s a turn-on.
The black bodice is supported by lace and leather straps that cross at the apex and reach behind my neck. Torso is exposed. Sides aren’t. Back is out. The garters make me feel . . . sexy . . . but once the stilettos are on?
Oh. My.
I now see why couples shop for lingerie together.
I poke my head between the curtains and meet his curious gaze.
“Don’t be shy.”
“I can’t strut around in this.”
“You will,” he rasps.
“Okay, so I’ve tried it on.” I clear my throat. “And I think it’s a match. I’ll go ahead and slip back into my street clothes and we’ll be off in a few minutes.”
Ducking back behind the curtain, I hear Cullen’s quick strides.
He brushes the drapes aside and steps inside the dressing room, taking all the air with him.
“Jesus, woman.” He looks down at my breasts and his eyes flicker. He holds me at arm’s length and whistles. “You’re right. You have great tits.”
“Shh!” But I love the compliment. It’s raunchy and sexy and not at all what I would expect coming from him.
We stare at each other, the air between us on fire.
My body on fire.
Cullen’s gaze the most on fire of all.
He starts to kneel. At my feet. Going lower, and lower, down on one knee, his hand stroking upward, up my thigh, to part the bottom of the black bodice—and stroke my clit with his thumb.
I tense, arch toward him, gasping.
I want him now. At any cost. Without reservations and to hell with privacy.
“Everything all right in there?”
I freeze.
Okay, so maybe I’m a little too caught up in the moment.
Cullen looks up at me and laughs so hard, he falls forward, his face buried in my stomach.
“Um . . . yes . . . we’ll be right out.” I give Cullen a stern glare.
“Take your time, dear,” she says, amusement in her voice.
Cullen slowly rises. “You heard the lady.” He drags his hand behind my head and pulls my lips to his in a wicked kiss.
It’s brief. Way too brief. It’s hypnotic and delicious. Just like Cullen.
“I’ll leave you to it.”
I take his hand and pull him back for another kiss. As soon as our lips part, I say, “I like it when you can’t keep your hands off me.”
“Get used to it.”
Then he’s gone.
And I’m alone with my naughty thoughts . . . and they’re all secretly devoted to the hottest man I’ve ever known.
* * *
That afternoon, after I finish shopping and Cullen cashes his chips, we head outside.
“What do you want to do?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Surprise me.”
Cullen leads me to a black limousine. I’m keenly aware of people in a line outside watching him open the door for me and climb in behind me.
The chauffeur keeps a straight face as he sits behind the wheel and adjusts his mirrors.
“Where to, Mr. Carmichael?”
“Do you know everyone?” I ask, partly shocked and partly no longer shocked anymore.
His eyes glimmer in mischief. “I get around.”
“I bet.” I smile as he says one word to the driver.
“Summerlin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Tim? It was good seeing you.” He hits the automatic button and the privacy glass glides up.
“Same, sir.” The chauffeur’s smiling eyes are the last thing I see as we’re closed off from the rest of the world.
“What are you—�
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“This.” He strokes his hand down my hair and tips my face up, rubbing his thumb along my lower lip. “I want my hands on you. I want you to myself.”
I gulp, look at him. Wondering if I’ve ever seen a guy look so hungrily at me before.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
He drags his hand down my arm and takes my hand in his, his warmth enveloping me.
“What . . . time do we have to be back at the casino?”
“Work today is done.” He surveys me and keeps my hand in his. “The rest of the day, we’re having good, clean, wholesome fun.”
“You? Doing anything that’s clean and wholesome?” I laugh and shake my head, tutting at him. “Thank you for the clothes, jewelry, the best shopping experience of my life.”
He rubs his tongue over his upper lip. “That was your way of reminding me how hot you look in black.”
I grin. “Maybe a little.”
“Maybe a lot.”
I glance at his lips, unable to help myself before I jerk my eyes up. Cullen fists my hair with his free hands and lowers his head, grazing my lips with his before licking into me. I groan, and he groans in return and pulls back, releasing my hair. His eyes blaze in frustration.
“I’m sorry, I told myself I’d behave.”
“Really? You told that to yourself?”
“That’s right.” His thumb is doing little circles around the back of mine, and my lips crave him. My taste buds like him. “I’m behaving tonight.”
“Why?”
“I have a surprise for you.” He seems pleased with himself.
“Tell me.”
“I’ll show you instead.”
“What if I don’t like the surprise?”
“Then tell me what you will like.” He leans forward and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Since you’re being such a good girl, I’ll give you one wish.”
“Kind of like a comp?” I’m teasing him. I can’t help it.
“Perks are my specialty.” He drags his finger between my breasts. “You choose. But you have fifteen seconds. Then, I’m retracting the offer.”
“Just when I think I’m getting anything I want from you, you fold.”
“No games, Wynn.” He looks at me somberly.
My smile starts to fade.
“And the countdown starts . . .” Cullen glances at his watch and clicks the timer. “Now.”
“Cullen, you said no games,” I groan.
He looks at me. “What is it you want, Wynn?”
“I don’t know!”
“Yes, you do.” His eyes glimmer. He leans forward, waiting.
“I want to win this bet, yes, but that’s not why I want to win. It’s a matter of honor.”
“Eight seconds.”
“Ugh! I don’t know. You’re so greedy.”
“You have no idea.”
“Fine. Maybe I do want to win because of that too,” I relent.
“Say it. Three. Two. On—”
“Because I want your mouth between my thighs!” I yell.
He’s quiet. He’s trying to decide whether I mean it, his eyes glimmering. I bite down on my lip, not sure if I really just admitted that out loud.
“You’re a player. What’s your game?” I ask, suddenly scowling.
“You know what my game is.” His voice is almost deathly soft, a whisper in the closed confines of the car.
“Fine. You want the best oral of your life,” I whisper, exaggerating my talents. “But the game isn’t over yet.”
We both stare at each other, the air crackling between us, leaping in arcs from him to me, and from me to him.
His gaze falls to my mouth, and I can taste him there. Still. I want to taste him all over. Lick his skin.
He starts smiling, licking his tongue across his teeth. “Maybe,” he says when the car stops.
“We’re here, sir.”
The voice startles me.
Cullen smiles and jerks open the car door, stepping out and extending his hand. “Come here, Red.”
Flushing because Red is starting to sound oddly intimate, I give him my hand and let him pull me out of the car.
“What is this?” I gape up at the two-story mansion. The hissing sound of a sprinkler system draws my attention to a large, well-manicured lawn and the stone path that leads to the front door.
“My home.”
“What . . . ?” I’m confused, wondering why he’d bring me here. “You’re wooing me now?”
His lips curve slightly as he takes me by the back of the neck and leads me forward. “Maybe . . .”
* * *
Cullen leads me into his home. I drink in the black marble floors, elegant stairway, creamy wood-covered walls with exquisite moldings, and arched ceilings, and for the first time, I’m considering changing jobs.
There’s a formal study with grand furnishings to the left. Hardback books and hand-painted trinkets line the shelves. Contemporary paintings hang from the walls, which suggests Cullen may have been a collector long before we met. The pieces are showcased in black frames with nickel-plated picture lights mounted above each work of art.
Straight ahead, a white grand piano stands under a chandelier with frosted teardrop crystals. “Do you play?”
“No. It came with the house.”
I’m not sure if I believe him until he doesn’t smile. He’s telling the truth and I love that I’m beginning to read him.
“This is magnificent.” I twirl around happily and spot a huge lawn behind the arched living room bay windows. “Is that your backyard?”
“All mine. Every inch of what’s here.” He’s looking at me when he speaks, and my skin prickles under his gaze and words.
“Not everything.” I smile, tongue in cheek.
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
Acutely aware that I’m flushing, I shoot him a quick glance to hide the fact that every part of me wonders what it would be like to be his. He’s such a force. It would be overpowering, decimating, all-consuming. Incredible.
It’s intriguing to watch him, regardless of where he is. It’s what first drew me to him at the underground game. His physical presence houses all this power and influence. Even here, in a town known for stripping the average man of his net worth, he’s a giant. In a city known for separating a trust fund baby from his millions, Cullen’s a whale.
The casinos see him that way.
I see him that way.
But I also see him—Cullen Carmichael—the man who has it all but still seems, I don’t know, maybe lonely?
He holds all this compelling energy. It’s stored in his heart, and methodically released when he sits down to a game.
I shudder to think what he might do in the corporate world, but at the same time I’m already beginning to understand that his way of life is more like an artist’s than a businessman’s. An artist paints because she can’t sleep or eat or enjoy life until the paintbrush is finished stroking the canvas. She can’t leave her paints, the tools of her trade, until the art is complete. Once it is, she starts again, because only the art feeds her mind, cures her soul.
She lives for it.
Breathes it.
That’s why he plays poker. The game lives in his veins, but is it his life’s calling? Can a life-calling be answered by winning a card game?
Can it be found in my gallery? I want to know what he’s thinking when he takes his cards, places his bets, calls and raises. Does he cut himself off from the world on purpose and if so, why’d he let me in?
Why me?
I shake the thought aside as Cullen thrusts his hands into his pockets, watching me survey the living room.
There’s one silver mirrored picture frame on a side table. It’s of a little boy, no more than ten. With gorgeous silver eyes and hair a little lighter than Cullen’s. My red hair used to be a little lighter when I was young too.
“Is this you?” I pick it up and stroke my ind
ex finger down the photograph and spot another frame with the same boy in it. I set this one down, and go and look at the other. He’s playing in some sort of park, his hands on the ropes of a swing. “Where’s Callan? Do you have no pictures with your brother?” I laugh. “I’d be glued to my sister, if I had one. I suppose that’s why I have my friends.”
“That’s not me.” He takes the photo frame and sets it back down. “You hungry?”
“Actually, now that you mention it . . . playing all day wore me out. All that adrenaline.” I smile at him as he leads me to the doors overlooking the backyard. We step outside, and the gardens are fully lit. There’s a dining table set for two, with long white linens, and silver plates.
Orange, blue, green, and gold hues stretch across the desert sky, which casts a red tint on the jagged rocks peppering the open canyon.
The view is exquisite and it takes my breath away, but not as much as the man who seems to drink it in, too, as if he’s seeing it for the first time.
“Stunning,” I breathe.
A sidelong glance. “I know what you mean.” Delicious tremors slide down my spine.
“Mr. Carmichael.” A man in a black suit and white gloves approaches with a bottle of wine.
“Everything ready, Hollis?”
“Everything is ready, sir.”
“Wynn, this is Hollis. My—”
“Butler,” I say on automatic, unable to hide my disbelief.
Cullen lifts his brows in amusement when I basically just stare at his gorgeous cocky smile before turning to his butler.
Hollis and I exchange pleasantries. He’s originally from New York, but spent some time in Chicago while attending culinary school.
Cullen pulls open one of the chairs for me, and I take a seat, wondering if this is really happening.
I watch as Cullen sits across from me. Only the small rectangular table separates us. He slaps his napkin open. “I’m no chef, yet I may know a good chef around town . . . or two.”
“I’m sure. Are you certain you don’t know three?” I can’t help but tease him, then laugh softly, feeling almost shy. “You shouldn’t have gone to this much trouble.”
I would’ve enjoyed cooking for him. It’s a strange thought though, so I keep it to myself.
You’re being wooed, Wynn. Of course you’ll have these silly thoughts. Only . . . I refuse to think of them as silly.
