“I don’t want your money.”
“I don’t want your charity. Please.”
“It’s not charity.” Stubbornness is entering his voice, and I fight the urge to smile.
“It’s giving me something for nothing … that’s charity.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”
I sniff in a manner that would, most certainly, make my mother roll over in her grave. “For five minutes? Please.”
“Then let me accompany you the rest of the way to your room. Just to make sure you arrive safely.”
I sigh. A big dramatic one—one that gives no hint to the fact that I haven’t been laid in almost two years, haven’t been on a date in almost half that time, and have never looked into a face as gorgeous as this man’s. “Just to the door?”
His mouth twitches. “Just to the door. Then you will have properly compensated me for the slippers and will be forced to accept your hard-earned chips back.”
“They weren’t that hard-earned,” I grumble, heaving to my feet, suddenly aware at the height at which my yep-definitely-too-old-to-wear-this minidress has risen. I work it back down, looking up a moment too early and catching his eyes on my legs. My hands freeze, his eyes looking up and catching my own. He should brush it off, look away, but instead he holds my gaze and grins, a slow, sexy smile that grabs ahold of my arousal lever and pushes that baby all the way up. Damn. This man and his fuzzy slippers, his bad boy smile and roaring confidence … I don’t belong anywhere within miles of this man. My blistered feet and I are way too vulnerable for the train wreck to which we are headed. Because I know what will happen when we get through the long walk to my room. All he will have to do is tilt his head, grin that naughty smile, and my ass will tumble over itself in a haste to do anything and everything more that he wants.
I reach up and accept his outstretched hand. He smiles down at me, our heights thrown off by my lack of heels. Shit, my heels. I crouch, scooping up my heels, my eyes suddenly friendly to their sparkling straps, their impossible heights that I was naïve to think I could handle. I grip his hand and shuffle forward, the soft pat of the slippers quiet on the tile floor.
“Feel free to lean on me,” he says, looking down on me with a smile. “And if you need to be carried …”
“I’ll be fine,” I grin. “Promise.”
He tugs gently, and we move, through the shops, my hand foreign in another hand, and I release his arm and grip his bicep instead, marveling at the strength, fighting the urge to squeeze and test the hard muscle.
Feet, don’t fail me now.
Chapter 2
“Are you here alone?”
I glance over, our hands separating eight paces back, when the awkward contact had become forced. “No. There are six of us. Bachelorette party.”
I may be mistaken, but I feel as if he stumbles slightly, a hitch in his step. “Yours?”
The three martinis at dinner make that question much more humorous than it should be, and I giggle. “Me? No.”
“A boyfriend?” We reach the lobby, and he reaches out, placing a firm hand on my arm, making sure I make the journey down the short bank of steps without incident.
I shake my head. “No.” I look over. “Is there a Mrs. Brett?”
He chews on his bottom lip as he meets my eyes, the first bit of indecision that I’ve seen on his face. And damn, it is a hot look. He should rock indecision more. The bite of white teeth combined with a tight jaw, rough stubble paired with intense eyes. “I wouldn’t be escorting you if I was attached.”
I look away from his face, breaking the connection before I tackle him to the ground and have my Southern way with him. We reach the elevators and stop, his finger pressing the button.
Silence. Awkward silence. I shift in the slippers, trying to look anywhere but in his general direction. I should be better at this. I’m thirty-two for God’s sake. I’m not a fifteen year old girl with her date to the prom. “Are you here on business?”
He grins, his head shaking, his hand gesturing for me to go ahead when the elevator doors open. “No. I’m with a few friends. Blowing off some steam.”
I press the button for the eighth floor, leaning back against the wall, putting as much distance between us as possible. He takes my lead, settling against the opposite wall, his stance relaxed, the lines of his dress shirt falling perfectly over dark jeans. I raise my eyebrows, my mouth curving into a smile. “Blowing off some steam?”
Our conversation is interrupted, a hand shooting in and catching the closing doors, the action stalling and then reversing their close. Three men step on. Not really men. What appear to be twenty year old boys, the smell of alcohol pressing into the car with them, their glassy eyes and curses preceding their entry. I see Brett’s eyes darken, the space between us suddenly full.
“What floor?” I ask the question when the doors close and their attention hasn’t moved, no button pressed, the elevator already starting an ascent.
Mistake. Their eyes move as one, locking on me, and the man closest to me stumbles, moving into my comfort zone. “What floor are you going to?” he slurs, the question causing encouraging laughter from his friends, one who casts a quick look in Brett’s direction.
“Leave her alone.” The tightness in Brett’s voice surprises me, and I look up to his face, caught off guard by the hard line of his jaw, the heat in his stare, his eyes on the men and not on mine. I want to reassure him, not that we are close enough that I would assume his protection. But it seems, from the stiffness of his body, his push off the wall and onto the balls of his feet, the iron in his tone, that he is ready to fight, to defend, to do all the unnecessary things that this bevy of boys is not looking for.
The doors slide open, and I squeeze through the men, their steps slow to move, Brett’s arm knocking them back, grumbled curses following the action, a cowardly shout of rebellion sent out right as the doors once again close. We stand in the empty landing.
“Are you okay?” His eyes are dark, face tight. I glance down and see his fists clenched.
I laugh, press a light hand on his chest. “I’m fine. They were drunk. It would have been fine.”
He grips my forearms, walks me three steps backward, until I am against the wall, and he is close enough to kiss, his face tilted down to me. “Don’t assume that. Never assume that.”
Then he closes the gap, his fingers tightening on my arms, squeezing so tightly there is almost pain, his mouth possessive and rough at first contact but melting instantly, his hands loosening, running up my forearms until they reach my shoulders, then past that to cup my face. A sound comes from me, something between a sigh and a moan, and he catches it on his tongue, our mouths molding into a fire of hot debate, the fight of our tongues one that turns into a dance of seduction—him pushing, me pulling, the press of his body getting tighter and tighter to mine, until I am on my toes, and the weight of him is pressing me against the wall. In a moment of pause, our mouths taking a readjusting period, I speak, my voice gasping, my senses overwhelmed, the only thing I know is that I want him too much to think straight, too much to make a coherent decision right now. “Wait.” I place a hand on his chest, and he immediately drags his mouth off mine, his eyes fierce, tight to mine, as he takes his own ragged breath of air.
“I’m sorry. I’m not used to … restraint.” His hands suddenly release their grip on my hair, our connection broken, and I sink to my heels, my mouth raw, my body throbbing … wanting … more. He’s not used to restraint? I’m not used to touch, to the taste of another’s mouth. It’s been years since I’ve had a cock in my mouth, years since I’ve felt a man’s skin beneath my touch, much less his hands on my body. I need to step away from this man. I need to get in my room, away from his cocky smile, his eyes that eat my soul, his hands that burn like possessive fire across my skin. I can’t control myself in his presence, won’t be able to keep myself from yanking out his cock, pulling up my dress, and spreading my legs wider than the Panama Canal.