Wicked Dirty Page 12

  He wanted to argue with her. To tell her it was no big deal. That it actually gave him pleasure to spend the money he earned in Hollywood to help out women like her who were struggling.

  But he couldn't get any of that past that one simple word--Friends.

  "Is that what we are?" he said instead.

  For a moment, she looked confused. Then her eyes went wide. "Oh. Wow. Right--that was kind of presumptuous of me, wasn't it. But it's just that--"

  "Friends," he repeated, then hooked his arm around her shoulder. "And if I play my cards right, maybe even friends with benefits."

  As he'd hoped, she laughed.

  "Okay, friend," she said. "Your turn. Did you always want to act?"

  He shook his head. "Actually, I didn't get the bug until we moved here."

  "You were sixteen then, right? What did you want to do before?"

  Survive.

  It was the truth. But, of course, he couldn't say it. "I was a sixteen year old guy. I'm pretty sure my singular goal at that age was to get laid."

  She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Well, I'll believe that was a goal. But I think there's more to you than that, even back then."

  "Not really. I'm basically as shallow as they come."

  She rolled her eyes, and he resisted the urge to put an arm around her and pull her close for a sweet, gentle kiss laced with absolutely no agenda. Something he hadn't wanted to do with a woman in, well, pretty much forever.

  "What do your parents think of your skyrocketing fame?" she asked as they turned right at the next intersection. "They must be incredibly proud."

  His chest tightened, and he fought the urge to just chuck it all and tell her the truth. It was a battle he won--and why not? He had years of practice keeping his secrets.

  Instead of the truth, he said, "They have an entire shrine to me in the guest bedroom. Embarrassing, really. And lately I haven't won the good son award. I've been so focused on my career I don't visit or call nearly often enough."

  "I'm sure they understand. And speaking of careers," she added, nodding at the main door to Blacklist. "Thanks for walking me. And let me know if you ever need another girlfriend stand-in, okay?"

  "Actually, I thought I might hang out and walk you back. Unless you have plans after."

  Her brows lifted. "I got three hours of sleep last night. My plans after involve crashing facedown on my bed."

  "All the more reason for me to walk you home. It'll be late. You're tired. You'll be too exhausted to pay attention to your surroundings. And don't tell me the neighborhood's safe. Nothing's safe that late."

  She crossed her arms and cocked her head. "You realize my shift is four hours."

  "I'll have a drink, catch up on some emails on my phone."

  "You're determined, aren't you?"

  "You're very perceptive."

  She sighed, but he thought she looked amused. Maybe even pleased. "Suit yourself."

  He did, grabbing a seat at a table near a wall so that he'd have a view of the entire restaurant. He wasn't in her section, and his waitress--Nessie--spent the first few minutes fawning over him before Laine came over and told her to get over it.

  "I couldn't believe it when I saw those pictures of you two on Twitter," she said after he ordered a burger with fries and two shots of bourbon on the rocks. Riley would give him shit for the burger, but he'd deal with that later.

  "I mean, I figured it was some sort of stunt where you pay to have your picture taken with a celebrity."

  "No," he assured her. "She's my girl."

  "Wow," she said, then thrust a napkin at him. "Would you sign?"

  He did, fearing that would send a flood of other employees and patrons to his table, but that possibility was forestalled when David, the owner, plunked himself down in the seat opposite him.

  "You're dating our girl, Laine?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I don't want to hear about you pulling any Hollywood asshole crap with her, you got me?"

  "Absolutely," he said, meaning every syllable. "You have my word."

  David stared at him through narrowed eyes, then must have decided that Lyle wasn't tossing bullshit his way, because he grunted approval, then left the table, telling Nessie and the bartender to make sure that Lyle was left alone. "He's here to drink, not to put up with all of you."

  After that, Lyle wasn't bothered. And he spent the next four hours watching Laine, and completely ignoring his emails. She was graceful and efficient. She chatted with the staff and the customers, seemed to know most everybody's name, and she did her job with superlative efficiency.

  It obviously wasn't her passion. Just a job. But that didn't matter to her. She took it seriously. The way she took her life, her responsibilities.

  It seemed like a lifetime ago when she'd come to his hotel room, scared and determined. He'd seen only one side of her then, and he'd liked what he saw. But he'd been seeing through the eyes of sex. Of lust.

  Now, he was seeing the real Laine. A woman he admired. Who moved him in so many ways.

  A woman he could truly fall for.

  And, frankly, that made her pretty damn terrifying.

  13

  "You're really dating Lyle Tarpin?"

  It's ten minutes to closing, and Nessie has me cornered in the back, where we've both just finished helping with prep work for tomorrow's opening shift.

  "I really am," I lie. "Surreal, huh?"

  "Beyond surreal," she says. "How'd you meet him?"

  I tell her the story about the cookie dough ice cream, and she swoons against the walk-in fridge. "Wow. I mean, really, that is so wow. Is it serious?"

  I lift a shoulder. And then I say the only true thing that I've said since this conversation began. "I honestly don't know."

  I should know. I should be absolutely certain that whatever is between us is business as usual.

  But then I think about the way he kissed me on the porch. And the frustrated, almost angry look on his face when I mentioned money for sex as part of tonight's agenda.

  We're walking a very thin line, he and I. And I'm not at all sure where pretending ends and reality begins.

  "Well, I would totally love to watch part of the filming of M. Sterious. Do you think he could arrange that? I mean, they're starting filming pretty soon, I think. And I'm like the biggest Blue Zenith fan ever."

  "I'll ask," I say, and make a mental note to do that. Nessie can be a spaz, but she's sweet.

  "You're the best. And go ahead and cut out. I'll finish up."

  "You sure?"

  Her smile practically lights up the back room. "Sure. Just tell him I did him a favor. Maybe he'll toss in a few cast autographs."

  I laugh. "Right. See you next week."

  "Ciao!"

  I find Lyle leaning against the bar chatting with David. I don't know about what exactly, because I heard the words Formula One racing and just tuned right out. Not my thing, but I'm glad that Lyle gets along with my boss.

  I frown, because I'm genuinely happy they get along, and that's just one more bit of evidence in the case of Are They or Aren't They? The People v. Laine and Tarpin.

  I roll my eyes. Clearly, I'm not doing well on a measly three hours of sleep.

  "Hey," Lyle says, looking up at me with the kind of smile that sends sparks of electricity skittering over my skin. "You ready?"

  I nod, then tell David that Nessie is finishing up.

  "Night, kids," he says, and Lyle and I both laugh.

  "I haven't felt like a kid in a long time," I admit once we're outside.

  "No? Well, then we need to do something about that." He takes my hand and turns toward the beach. "This way. Unless you're too tired?"

  "What? Me tired? I got a whole three hours of sleep last night."

  "Fair enough. I'll take you home," he says, and when he starts to turn toward the short route home, I realize that he thought I was serious.

  I grab the lapel of his jacket and tug him back to me. "I'm fine," I say.
"And I get to sleep in tomorrow. I have a rare day off, and since I'm better than on track toward my payoff goal, I decided not to beg anyone to let me cover their shift at Maudie's in the morning. All of which means that I'm a girl without a curfew."

  "Very interesting," he says, as we head toward the beach.

  "You do realize it's after two in the morning."

  "And the moon is full and the breaking waves are glowing in the moonlight. And you and I are going for a walk. Take your shoes off," he says as we reach the sand.

  "You're still in a suit." I run my fingers over the lapel of his jacket. "A really nice suit, actually. Also, you remember the Pacific is freezing, right?"

  He takes off the jacket and puts it around my shoulders. "The wind's chillier the closer we get to the water."

  We leave our shoes and socks by a signpost--at this hour, I'm not worried someone will walk off with them--and once I've shrugged into his jacket, he takes my hand.

  I laugh as and we run toward the breaking waves. "What exactly are we doing?"

  "Playing," he says.

  And that, in fact, is exactly what we do.

  We kick waves toward each other. We dig in the wet sand with our toes. And we race down the beach and back, splashing in the surf, before I take off down the beach again, daring him to chase me.

  "Wait," he calls after me. "You have to see this."

  He's standing still, the waves coming in over his feet and soaking the hem of his trousers. I hurry toward him, my jeans damp around my ankles as well. "What is it?" I say, glancing at the sand that surrounds him, wondering if he's seen a crab or a starfish.

  "This," he says, and draws me close.

  I gasp, completely unprepared for the pressure of his mouth against mine, and when my lips part, he takes full advantage, capturing me with a kiss that is hot and open. A kiss so full of longing and need that it makes my knees go weak, and so full of sensual heat that electric sparks ricochet inside me until finally settling between my thighs, making me hot. Needy. Wanting.

  When we break the kiss, I'm breathing hard. "Wow," I say as his thumb gently strokes the line of my jaw. "Is this when you get your explosion?"

  "No," he whispers. "This is when you get your seduction."

  We hurry toward the house, fingers linked, pausing only once so that he can press me against a lamp post and take my mouth in his. "I want you, Sugar," he whispers. "I want you naked beneath me. I want you wet, your legs spread for me, your fingers clinging to my back. I want to lose myself inside your heat, and I want to make you come like you never have before."

  "Yes, please," I murmur, his words firing my senses and tempting me to pull him down to the sand and beg him to take me now.

  I manage to hold off, but by the time we reach my house, I'm mostly non-functional. All I want is him. All I know is him. My body burns with sensual longing, and I'm so completely rattled by the force of my desire that I can barely punch in key code.

  As soon as I do, we practically tumble inside, our mouths locked, our kisses frantic. I taste blood and don't care. All I need is Lyle. All I want is Lyle. The feel of him. The heat of him.

  "Too hot," I murmur, then reach for the hem of his shirt and pull it free of his slacks. He's still dressed for the opening, and my fingers fumble as I try to unbutton the shirt. He, however, has no problems with mine. He pulls the Blacklist Tee over my head, then tosses it aside.

  I'm still wearing my new La Perla bra, and he tugs the pretty lace down, freeing my breast. At the same time, he groans, the sound deep and passionate. "You're beautiful," he says, then holds my lower back as he bends over me, arcing my body as his mouth closes over my breast. He uses his tongue to tease my nipple, and I feel the sensation like a hot wire cutting straight through me, all the way down to my wet, needy core.

  "Bedroom," I murmur, which is about as much coherent thought as I'm capable of.

  He doesn't hesitate. He scoops me up, and I curl against him, my bare skin rubbing against the cotton of his shirt.

  In my bedroom, he puts me down gently, but there's nothing gentle about the way I grab his shirt, fisting my hands in the material so that I can tumble him down beside me. I roll over, then attack those damn buttons until he finally takes over the task and peels off his shirt.

  "Jeans," he says, his hands going for my waistband, releasing my button fly, and then finally tugging the denim down so that I have to quickly kick off my shoes or be tangled in a mess of clothing and sneakers.

  "Here," he says when I'm naked except for tiny lace panties. He pulls me onto him, and I straddle his waist as his fingers stroke me through the damp panties, then slip in under the thin satin to find my core. "Christ, Sugar, you're so damn wet."

  I am, and I writhe against his hand, wanting more.

  He knows exactly what I want, and his fingers thrust inside me, and I ride him, grinding myself shamelessly against this man who I can't seem to get enough of.

  I use my thighs to lift and lower myself, and he thrusts his fingers in time with my movements. "That's it, baby," he says. "That's so fucking hot."

  I'm like a wild thing, wanting more--him. I've never in my life been this turned on, and it's been far too many years since I felt a man's cock inside me. I want it now. Hell, I need it as badly as I need oxygen.

  Except.

  The thought is simple and fast and unwelcome. A slight hesitation. A gentle push.

  Now? Like this? After waiting so long?

  I want to push the thoughts away. To scream yes, yes, this is what I want. Who I want.

  But I know it's not right. It's not real.

  I like Lyle, probably too much. But this isn't the promise I made myself. And at the end of the day, he's going to leave, and I'm going to have to live with my decisions.

  I screwed up once and regretted it.

  I'm not going to do that again.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper, putting the brakes on so hard and fast he'll probably have whiplash.

  * * *

  "I'm sorry," I repeat, as I climb off him, completely mortified.

  He's watching me, and I can see the confusion. Thankfully, I don't see anger, and for some reason that makes me feel even more wretched.

  "I should never have let this get so out of control," I say. A tear rolls down my cheek and I brush it away. "It's just that I want to--I do--but at the same time, I don't. I can't."

  I squeeze my eyes shut to stifle a flood of tears. "Please don't hate me. I didn't mean to be a tease."

  "Hush," he says, pulling me close as I press my face against his bare chest. He strokes my back gently, so sweetly, and when he whispers, "Do I look like I hate you?" I break out into fresh sobs, unable to hold it all in any longer.

  He holds me until I'm able to breathe without choking, and then a little bit longer until I feel strong enough to let go and talk to him.

  Finally, I pull away, then lift my head to look into his eyes, certain I'll see frustration there. But all I see is concern and strength. "You don't have to say anything, baby. You never need an explanation for saying no."

  "Maybe not. But we met because you hired me to sleep with you, so it's only fair that you'd be a little surprised if I suddenly tell you to back off."

  "That was business," he says. "This isn't. Do you think I don't understand the difference?"

  I lick my lips, suddenly uncertain. "It's just that I like you. A lot. Probably more than I should."

  "I'm glad. I like you, too. Probably more than I should."

  I meet his eyes and manage a little half-smile. "If this was for money, I could justify it. Just business, right? But like this--because of desire and attraction and all that wonderful stuff ... well, honestly, I'm having a hard time remembering why I'm fighting it. All I know is that I don't want to be angry with myself in the morning. And if we do this, then I will."

  Even with the sheet pulled up to cover me, I feel naked and exposed and very, very vulnerable. And when he reaches for me, I hold my breath, certain that he's g
oing to touch me, and all my resolve will fade away.

  But he doesn't. Instead, he simply twists a lock of hair around his finger. "Can you tell me why you're fighting it?"

  I lick my lips. "I've never actually told anyone," I admit.

  He nods slowly, then releases my hair and takes my hand. "It's okay. Like I said, you don't ever have to give a reason--"

  "But I think I can tell you," I blurt. And as soon as the words are out, I realize I want to. I don't know why--honestly, I barely know this man, but I've seen enough to know that he's broken. So why the hell am I adding to the drama of my own life by inviting him in?

  I don't have an answer. Not a sound, logical one, anyway. All I know is that I like him and I trust him.

  Most of all, I feel alive around in him a way I haven't felt since I lost my mom and Andy.

  And, really, why should I care if it's fast, so long as it's right?

  I draw a deep breath, then start talking. "The day of the accident, we were supposed to go to Disneyland. Did I tell you that before?"

  He shakes his head.

  "We hadn't been in forever, and I haven't been back since. It was supposed to be a treat. The last day of my first semester. And then this cop comes to my door, and a day that was supposed to be special was ripped completely apart."

  He says nothing, and I'm grateful for the silence.

  "Something about that irony made it worse for me. The idea of the accident--that fucking drunk driver--destroying a moment along with three lives. I don't know. It ate at me, I guess. Then I met a guy at Blacklist who said I'd been in his English Lit class. I didn't remember him at all, but he asked me to go out dancing. I said yes."

  I'm clinging to Lyle's hand so tightly that my fingers are numb, but I don't let go, and he doesn't flinch.

  "Anyway, we got drunk, and I was a virgin, and I slept with him." I say it all matter-of-factly, even though it doesn't feel matter-of-fact at all. "And then I hated myself, because I had always wanted that first time to be--"

  "Special," he says as he cups my cheek with his free hand. "Of course, you did."

  "I was so angry with myself that I made a promise. And I haven't slept with anyone since. I've done everything but," I add with a wicked grin, "but I haven't gone all the way. And I won't until I know it'll be special."