Breaking His Rules (2 page)

Unfortunately, I found out the hard way that entry level positions in hotel / restaurant management didn’t pay the bills, and so I turned to bartending. Being behind the bar and exercising creative freedom to concoct new tastes and textures fulfilled a need in me I couldn’t explain. My mixed drinks could draw a sigh of pleasure from even the manliest of men. And when I served my delicious creations along with a brilliant smile, the tips added up nicely.

Around one o’clock in the morning, I finally caught a break when one of the couples lounging at my bar cashed out. My feet were beginning to ache because of Rule #3:
Dress to impress. High heels for ladies and dress shoes for men
. I used the pause to slice lemon garnishes and take stock of my surroundings.

As my gaze roamed from group to group, I was struck by the broad range of patrons. There were a few celebrities in the mix—professional athletes, local newsmen, and the sort. A lot of businessmen and the women who chase them. Both young and old. But they all had one thing in common besides the fact that they’d been invited to experience The Lounge; they all wore extravagant clothing and jewelry.

Gucci. Armani. Louis Vuitton. Fendi. Valentino. Dior. Versace. I clicked through the names as I scanned the crowd, and that was when I saw
him
…staring at me with an intensity that stole my breath away. One second gazing into his eyes told me he had already raked his mouth down my neck and suckled the sensitive skin between my breasts with his luscious lips. I could almost feel his mouth enclose around my hardened nipples and the sharp flick of his tongue.

The color of his eyes eluded me, neither dark brown nor light blue. His stance was bold. His custom-tailored suit had clean lines, and a stark white shirt hinted that he spent hours in an office. But the day-old stubble on his face proved he didn’t mind getting dirty when he felt like it.

Was he staking a claim with his direct stare? Because I already felt like he owned me. My heart fluttered in response to the raw masculinity he exuded. Confident. Brazen. Unapologetic. Everything I adored in a man rolled into one sweet package.

My tongue swept across my bottom lip, causing the corner of his mouth to curve up.
Sweet Jesus
. He could feel me mentally undressing him as well. Stopping was not an option. Not when I wanted to run my fingers through his thick hair, cut stylishly long on top and tapering down until the short hair hugged the back of his head, stopping right where it met the collar of his shirt. He was older than my usual type. But he was spectacular. And I knew right then and there that I’d break the rules for him.

With a tilt of my head, I smiled and then lowered my eyes to resume slicing the lemon that lay untouched in my hands, dismissing him. And then I waited for him to come to me.

Like I knew he would.

Temptation

A
fter wrapping the
lemon and placing it in the fridge, I made a quick sweep of the bar for new orders. With the proper glasses lined in a row, I poured liquor based on instinct. But I kept the jigger handy in case my boss dropped by unannounced. Rule #4:
Thou shalt use a jigger so as not to waste the house liquor
.

“One Manhattan and one Glenfiddich on the rocks,” I said, smiling at a middle-aged couple, and placing two extra napkins within easy reach. Having seen enough to know who wore the pants in the family, I avoided eye contact with the woman’s husband as much as possible, without being rude. Because if I wanted a good tip, I’d best keep my eyes on the lady. “I’ll put it on your tab.”

I entered their order in the kiosk, and it struck me that Midnight Blue must earn a fortune in The Lounge alone. Because if the main floor of the nightclub was the equivalent of Rodeo Drive, then The Lounge was most definitely Bijan. Only premium brands of liquor were offered. Every single man flashed a credit card of the black, the white or the palladium variety. Most people outside the service industry, or not in the top two percent of income earners, didn’t have a clue what that meant.

But I did.

My expired black card was prominently displayed in my apartment next to my bed. I kept it as a harsh reminder of my youth. And the life of privilege I spent twenty-three years trying to escape. After rinsing the bar utensils and straightening the liquor bottles, I turned to find Mr. Brazen himself sauntering toward an open stool at my bar. He had held out for over an hour. I was impressed.

He unbuttoned his black suit coat and lifted a questioning brow, silently beckoning me. His eyes bored into mine, and I could finally make out the unique color; the edge of the irises was dark blue and lightened several shades as they neared his pupils. Hypnotic was the best word to describe their effect on me. So vibrant and intriguing. Especially when he continued to stoke the fire between my thighs with his carnal stare. This man knew what he wanted. And so did I.

My knees grew weaker with every step that brought me closer. What was this madness that had me mentally dropping my panties before he’d spoken a single word? I tugged at my bottom lip with my teeth, deciding my fate. The slight lines around the corners of his eyes put him somewhere in his mid-thirties. One-night stand material. The first rule flittered across my consciousness…for about one second. How could I not make an exception to spend an hour gazing into those smoldering eyes as he ate my pussy? He’d lick it slow and long, savoring each lap of his tongue against my throbbing clit. I could sense it in his stare. Glowing embers of desire sparked at the apex of my thighs from the mere thought.

“He’ll fire your ass in an instant if he catches you dallying with the customers.”
Eric’s voice of reason rang through my head.

I blew out a ragged breath. Crap. I needed to get a grip on reality. The rules forbade me from satisfying my itch, and damn it all if I didn’t want this mystery man to scratch me all over with the stubble on his chin. With a deep sigh, I forced the yummy thought from my head. There would be no thumping against the headboard tonight, but nothing could stop me from enjoying a healthy dose of flirty banter.

“See anything you want?” I asked with a knowing smile as I slid a drink menu in front of him.

He ignored the menu, never allowing his gaze to stray from mine so there was no mistaking the meaning of his words. “Most definitely. Grey Goose martini.
Dirty
.”

His voice was as smooth and rich as aged brandy. It rippled over my body, sending delectable shivers across my skin. So he liked it dirty?

My lips twitched and I gave him a once-over. “That’s the best way.”

The darkening of his eyes at my thinly veiled invitation sucked me in further under his trance. How did he define dirty? Goose bumps erupted along my arms. Perhaps a little spanking? God, I hoped so. He had strong hands. Big, too. They’d leave a sharp sting in their wake. My breathing quickened as I imagined the burn of his slap followed closely by the rub of his palm against my aching flesh.

Reaching underneath the counter, I grabbed the necessary utensils and then collected everything I would need to rock his drink. I had to stop these sick thoughts…all this because he’d used the word “dirty”. What was the matter with me?

Dirty martinis were my favorite, though. That wasn’t a lie. Especially in a place like this where the Grey Goose flowed. I went to work on pitting four Mediterranean olives, thankful for a reason to pull my gaze away from his.

“You’re new,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, but a firm statement. Like he knew every person in the place except for me and that fact irked him. My head snapped up. His gaze raked across every inch of my upper body, leaving a warm trail in its wake. When his eyes finally returned to mine, he lifted one eyebrow.

“Yes, sir,” I said, ignoring his implied question. He wanted to know my name. Let him want. Names were not part of the deal. If I was going to fuck him—and I hadn’t unequivocally ruled that out yet—then there would be no exchanging names. It was a hard and fast rule I lived by. No names guaranteed an evening of unadulterated pleasure.

“And young.” He added after a moment, leaning one forearm casually against the bar. His gaze lingered on my face. “Too young to know what you’re doing behind a bar. I’m surprised they hired you.”

I accepted his comment at face value—a calculated move on his part to get a reaction out of me. Controlling and arrogant. Arrogance and confidence often went hand in hand. As long as it translated well in the bedroom, I wouldn’t complain. But what I could not abide was pettiness. Was he lashing out at me for refusing to play the flirting game by his rules? It was time to find out. “Why don’t you reserve your judgment until after you’ve tasted my martini,
old man
?”

Tilting his head slightly, he regarded me closely and then chuckled. The gesture softened the edges of his mouth, making him even more attractive, if such a thing was possible. Okay. He was not petty.

“How old are you?” he asked.

Taking up a muddler, I began to gnash olives in the bottom of a mixing jar. “At least twenty-one,” I replied with a cheeky grin.

A slight tightening of his square jaw was the only indication that he disapproved of my evasive answer. He was accustomed to receiving prompt and direct responses to his questions. That much was clear.

After pouring the gin, vermouth, and olive brine over plenty of ice, I stirred the contents in the jar thoroughly before fine straining the mixture into a martini glass. Three Mediterranean olives as garnish and his drink was served. “Taste that!”

Folding my arms, I stood back to assess his reaction. He lifted the glass to his full lips and sipped, letting the liquid fill his mouth and wash over his tongue. I could almost feel it gliding down my throat and taste the saltiness. The way he savored the drink and then licked his lips, showed his appreciation.

“That’s not bad,” he said, flicking his gaze to the martini. “But mine is better. Perhaps I can interest you in a drink?” A sudden sparkle gleamed in his eyes and I steeled myself against the words I knew were coming. “What time do you get off tonight? I’d like to take you to my place and show you how a pro makes it.”

I threw back my head and laughed, basking in the warmth of the moment. The man had some serious balls, and I wanted nothing more than to accept his offer so I could feel the weight of them against my tongue. The rule said no
sleeping
with the patrons. I had no intention of sleeping. Perhaps I could stay at his place for an hour. Maybe two.

I waited six months to score an interview here.

Why wouldn’t my conscience take a fucking break for the night? A riot of emotions exploded inside me. I was ridiculous for even considering his offer; for a man who had only spoken a handful of words to me. A man with a gaze that pierced my soul, and spoke to my body in ways that made it hum with life.

“Thank you, I’m flattered.” I leaned over the bar, sharing a healthy view of cleavage spilling over the top of my black satin bra. “But it’s against the house rules. No sleeping with the establishment’s patrons.”

“Who said anything about sleeping?”

I lifted an eyebrow.
My thoughts exactly
. He wasn’t going to relent so I needed to be bolder. “I was attempting to be polite. Let me rephrase that for you in no uncertain terms. Fucking our patrons is not allowed. I’ll lose my job.”

His eyes widened ever so slightly as he raised his hand to rub his jaw. My frank words shocked him. Threw him off guard. I took the moment to offer a final round of drinks to the guests still lingering at my bar. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning and the nightclub would be closing soon.

His steady gaze never left me as I prepared a Seven and Seven in front of him. He was rethinking his options. Devising a new plan to change my mind. Bastard. I’d already made it clear I wouldn’t accept his tempting offer. A small part of me delighted in shocking this splendid man, but a big part of me worried he still might succeed in luring me to his bed. I needed to make him think we would never suit.

“Even if it wasn’t against the rules,” I said, casually meeting his gaze. “I’m afraid I’d have to decline your offer. You see, I know your type. We’re like oil and water.”

A lazy smile spread across his lips and he leaned back in his stool, undaunted by my bold claim. “My instincts say you’re kindling and I’m fire.” The heat in his gaze lent some credence to his words. And as if to prove that the heat between us burned too hot and parched his throat, he paused to sip his drink. The way his lips caressed the rim of the glass sent hot flashes down to my core.

“Enlighten me,” he continued. “I’m curious. What is it you think you know about me?”

“Let’s start with the fact that you’re a player. You enjoy the chase, but never indulge in the pleasure of a lady’s company beyond one evening.” I bit my lower lip and then leaned in to whisper, “You’re a heartbreaker. I’d be a fool to get sucked into your web. And I’m no fool.”

“Really?” He sipped his drink. “I’d bet good money you’ve broken your fair share of hearts. You undressed me earlier with your eyes from across a crowded room. That tells me you enjoy an evening of pleasure, too. I’m in good company.”

I snorted and folded my arms. “You’re unchivalrous.”

“But honest,” he said with a wink. A sudden smile lit up his face and I felt utterly charmed. “I never promise more than I plan to deliver. I can’t break your heart if we agree to one night upfront.”

This wouldn’t do. My plan was backfiring. He was quick-witted and funny. And though I would never admit it to him, I found his blunt and honest approach attractive. I had a feeling I would always know where I stood with him, so I was a little sad to put an end to our flirtation. But it was time.

“It’s difficult to argue with that,” I said, pursing my lips. “But if I’m only promised one night, I want to know it’s going to be worth my time. And I can tell by your clothes that we’re not a match.”

“Excuse me?” he said with an arched eyebrow.

“Your suit cost more than the car I drive. Let me guess.” I assessed it with a practiced eye—fingered the velvety softness of the fabric—and inspected the stitching closely. “It set you back around forty-five grand. If you held a gun to my head, I’d put my bet on Brioni. Hand-crafted with white gold stitching?”