“Pleading the fifth, counselor?”
“How ‘bout I throw myself on your mercy?”
She wet her lips, watching his gaze follow the path of her tongue. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
That low, sexy laugh reverberated through her body. His fingers smoothed the creases he’d pressed into her dress. “Maggie, Maggie,” he murmured. Those midnight eyes peered at her from under dark lashes. That playful smile flirted at his lips. “Don’t you ever want to be just a little bad?”
Oh, Christ on a cracker. Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? Want. It’s never been a question of want. She grabbed her glass and slurped greedily at her wine. Closing her eyes, she tried to block him out. It was a half-hearted attempt to think straight. But, oh, she didn’t want to think straight. She didn’t want to be smart, or sensible, or even borderline good. There had been too many safe dates for drinks with the possibility of dinner. She was too impatient to wait for the end of that first date for a dry, undemanding kiss, or the third date for an uninspiring tumble. She wanted more. Now.
She flipped the clasp on her evening bag and pretended to search through the sparse contents. The heat of his gaze warmed her cheeks. She wanted this. She wanted him. Just for one night. Maggie snapped the bag shut with a decisive click. No more waiting. No more wanting. Hadn’t she just decided to take action? Hadn’t she just spent the last week of her life tossing aside her hopes and dreams and cooking up plans and schemes?
In a few short months, the years of yearning might be a thing of the past. This time next year, the possibilities she thought were no longer possible could be a reality, and that reality would change everything forever. Being good had gotten her nowhere. Her cabernet-coddled common sense had long since passed out. She wanted everything a guy like Tom Sullivan had to offer, and what he was offering her was a night she would never forget.
Maggie drew on her bottom lip as she turned toward him again. Placing her hand high on his thigh, she leaned in and released her lip with a soft pop. His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingering there for a moment before they were caught in the gravitational pull of her cleavage. She laughed and gave his leg a slight squeeze. His gaze popped back up to meet hers.
Hot breath tickled her wet lips—hers, his, it hardly mattered which. She blinked slowly, and his eyes darkened with awareness. Raising one hand to cup his cheek, she smiled when the muscle in his jaw tensed and jumped.
She moved a little closer, her lips hovering a mere inch from his. “Oh, Sully, you have no idea how good I can be when I’m bad.”
****
Nothing like the smooth swizzle of
Chivas
to shift a guy’s worldview. Sheila wanted him to go for women more age appropriate? Well, he wanted to be inappropriate, and he couldn’t give a good goddamn how old Maggie McCann happened to be. This could be wrong. All wrong. But damn, following her out the door of that hotel felt damn good.
Looked good too. Her hips swayed, but it wasn’t the practiced swish of a runway wannabe. No, Maggie moved with the rolling grace of a woman born to have that killer body. She reminded him of the women in those old movies his mother used to watch. A dame. A broad. A woman with a capital ‘whoa’.
He stumbled off the curb and into the cab beside her. She laughed, rich and husky, more potent than the whisky burning in his belly and far more intoxicating. “Maybe I should just hand you over to your doorman.”
He struggled to straighten his suit coat. “Don’t have a doorman. Just a cranky old lady who lives in the apartment below.”
“Huh.” Maggie sniffled. “Definitely pegged you for the doorman type.”
Cracked vinyl creaked when he shifted closer, draping his arm over the back of the seat and nuzzling the tender, pink shell of her ear. “Maybe I’m not what you think.”
“I think you’re drunk, and I’m pretty sure the cab driver isn’t clairvoyant,” she retorted. “
Damen
and Division, please,” she called through the Plexiglas window.
“Clark and
Armitage
,” he countered.
“I’m going home.”
The stubborn tilt of her chin did him in. He pulled a pin from the sleek coil at the nape of her neck. “With me,” he whispered, brushing his lips to the corner of her jaw when she shivered.
“Which is it?” the driver snapped.
He met her wary gaze, holding it as long as he could bear without flinching. “Don’t break my heart, Maggie.”
“You have no heart.”
Her voice was thin and soft, but her jaw was delectably firm. He dove for the safety of sweet skin. He knew how to handle that. “Oh, I have one.” Pressing her palm to his chest he whispered, “Come home with me, Maggie.” The organ in question thrummed against his ribcage when she blinked her assent. He pulled those delicate fingertips to his lips and turned toward the driver. “Clark and
Armitage
.”
The cab shot from the curb, throwing her into his side. His arm closed around her, holding her close. He wasn’t a fool and he was far from immune to the soft, curve of her breast pressing against his chest. He also couldn’t help but notice she was damn close to wearing out the snap on the tiny little purse she carried.
“Maggie?”
“Hmm?”
“What do women put in these little things?” he asked, gently removing the purse from her fidgeting fingers.
“Lipstick. ID. A little cash…”
“I always wondered.”
She glanced at him from under her lashes. “Did you?”
Tom set the purse in his own lap and shook his head, crooking a finger beneath her chin. She gazed up at him, wide-eyed and wary again. “No. I don’t really give a damn.”
Her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. “Yeah, I know you don’t.”
He wanted to speak—to refute her claim, to prove she didn’t know jack squat about him—only the fear that she might be right spurred him into action. He did the one thing he swore he’d never do. He kissed Maggie McCann.
Good God, her lips were soft. Full and plush. The kiss lingered, unhurried and unending. The slick gloss she wore tasted like toasted marshmallow. He savored the corners of her mouth. His tongue brushed her full lower lip and those delicious lips parted. The tang of wine on her tongue made him hum low in his throat.
“Tom,” she breathed as they separated.
His fingers grazed the corner of her jaw and slid to the pulse throbbing in her throat. He scooted forward on the slippery seat, unable to resist pressing his lips to that delicious spot. “Yeah?”
She blinked. Her fingernails scraped lightly along his jaw. “I swore I’d never sleep with you.”
The words hit him like a splash of ice water. He’d never forced his attentions on a woman. Hell, he’d never even had to coax one. Much. Stunned, he pulled back and met her gaze. “Did you say
Damen
and Division?”
“Not that it was ever an issue before,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard him.
Flopping back against the seat, he pushed his hand through his hair. “Maggie, listen—”
“No, I get it. I’m not your type, and frankly, you aren’t mine either.”
His blood pounded in his ears. “I’m not?”
“I mean…no offense, but I’ve never been into the guys who are into themselves.”
A laugh escaped before he could corral it. The chuckle burned like acid on his tongue. “Okay, I’ll try not to be offended by that.” He tossed her purse into her lap and rapped on the cloudy partition, startling the driver from his Armenian Idol audition rehearsal. “Change of plans. Two stops. Drop the lady at Division and
Damen
first.”
Maggie slid to the far side of the cab, eying him warily as he tugged on his suit jacket then straightened his tie. “You have to admit, you have a bit of a reputation.”
“Oh, I’ll even admit I earned it,” he grumbled, turning his glare on the passing traffic. “The hard way.”
“So dirty,” she murmured.
Click…click…click. Again with the clasp on the purse. The damn thing would be worn out before they even made it out of the Loop. If he didn’t toss it out of the cab first. He glanced over and saw her gnawing that luscious bottom lip. A surge of anger and envy bubbled up inside him. “I’m not
gonna
jump you,” he growled.
Her eyes grew round as saucers. “I didn’t think you would.”
“No?”
“I don’t think you’re a complete asshole, Tom.”
Her tone made him want to prove her wrong, but he sucked it up. “You mean I only made partial asshole status? What do I have to do to up my score?”
She shot him a dark look. “You’re getting there now.”
“You know what, Maggie? You’re right. I’m an arrogant, self-absorbed, asshole misogynist suffering from a terminal case of Peter Pan Syndrome.”
“Wow. Someone beat me to the punch.”
“Many, many people have beaten you to the punch.” He stopped to give his scotch-addled brain a moment to catch up with his mouth. “You know what? It doesn’t really matter.” He blew out a tired sigh, propped his elbow on the door, and rested his head against the heel of his hand.
Maggie snorted. “Is it really that easy for you? That’s it? You move on to the next contestant?”
“No means no, Maggie. A guy doesn’t need a
G.E.D
. to learn that lesson.”
“I didn’t say no,” she pointed out, turning to face him.
“Well, hell, I don’t want you breaking promises to yourself over me. I think we both know I’m not worth it,” he said snidely.
She clammed up and turned her attention to the buildings and businesses whizzing past her window. Eastern European pop drifted through the speaker holes in the partition, saving them from total silence. Tom rubbed his forehead and wished he could switch it off.
“Fuck it,” she muttered.
His head swiveled. She turned back to him and he blinked, still trying to ascertain if he heard her correctly. “What?”
“I said fuck it,” she enunciated.
He couldn’t stifle his laugh. Snow White just dropped the f-bomb in the back of a smelly gypsy cab. He had to laugh, and his laughter sent her eyebrows winging for her hairline. Tom tried to muffle his mirth, but she was just so damn incongruous with her neat twist of auburn hair and evening bag clutched primly in her lap.
She stared at him, those green cat’s eyes light with a mischievous glow that should have warned him. “Fuck me.”
Those full lips deliberately formed both syllables and his laughter croaked in his throat. His mouth went dry. He had to remind himself to blink. “Huh?”
Yes, brilliant. He was a master of seduction. A regular fucking wordsmith. Luckily, she didn’t seem to care. Maggie slid across the cracked seat and winced. She raised her luscious bottom, rubbed the spot where a piece of cracked vinyl snagged her nylons, and moved closer, plopping herself down right next to him on the rump-sprung seat.
Tom pressed against the door, frantically trying to recall if he’d slammed it hard enough when he crawled in after her. Her thigh brushed his. The hem of her dress inched up over her knee. Black satin swayed with the weight of her breasts when she leaned in closer. She brushed her thumb over his bottom lip and his autonomic system went on strike. It would have been complete and total system failure if not for the telltale tingling in his crotch.
Her breath grazed his lips and his elbow slipped from the door. She held him still with one knuckle curled beneath his jaw, her thumb pressing into his chin. “Fuck me,” she whispered.
Tom would have swallowed his tongue if he wasn’t acutely aware he might need it soon. His dick practically jumped for joy.
“It’s perfect. I don’t need any entanglements right now, and you avoid them like the plague,” she continued. As if he gave a damn about her reasoning. “One night. You. Me.” Her thumb brushed his lip again, tugging it into a pout. “I’m
gonna
be bad this one time, and then I’ll be so good,” she promised.
Her lips touched his in the barest of kisses. The artful tendril that curled at her ear tickled his cheek. His lungs expanded, dragging in her cinnamon-tinged scent. His brain screamed at him, demanding negotiation. “What if one night’s not enough?”
“One night.”
She kissed him again, the tip of her tongue teasing the corners of his mouth. She traced the seam of his lips, and he was held captive by one of his favorite weapons. Sweet, slow seduction. She tried to pull away, but he caught her. His fingers sank into her hair, mussing the smooth coil. His thumb caressed her cheek. “Counteroffer…”