“Are you sure? There are pictures of him and Josie Pink together.”
“Let me guess. They are walking down the street together. Photoshop does wonders.”
“Are you good friends with Josie Pink? She’s here, isn’t she?” I ask.
“My turn,” he says with a smirk.
His voice is commanding and sharp. I wonder if this is how he became so successful. It’s sexy. “Is your boyfriend with you?”
“What?” I ask, startled.
“You heard me.”
“No…he’s… I’m working. This is a work thing.”
“Why didn’t you bring him?” His eyes are calm, but his stare is intense.
“He’s working,” I say.
“What does he do?”
“None of your business.”
His chin goes up. “Why won’t you tell me?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“Are you always this competitive?” Before I can answer, he drills on. “Do you have his balls in your purse right now?” I burst into a full laugh. Evan cocks his head, pleased with himself.
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, still laughing.
“He can’t handle you, can he?”
I drain my champagne at the thought of being handled, but not by Pete.
“If he was here right now, would I have to school him on how to handle you?” Evan continues.
My empty glass clinks on the table. “What makes you think you can handle me?”
He scoots closer. “Didn’t I handle you earlier?” he asks in a seductive whisper.
My nipples tighten and strain against my strapless bra. His eyes drop to my breasts, and his lips part, like he knows. I fight to control my breathing. I want to know who that girl was. “You mean when your ‘friend‘ walked in?” I smirk. That slow, wicked grin appears again. Damn, that dimple is cute. “I think the interview is over. Thank you for meeting with me,” I say, taking off my glasses and gathering my clutch.
“It’s not over,” he shoots back. “There’s one more thing.” Evan takes my face in his hands and kisses me deeply. I let my clutch fall to the floor and dig my fingers in his hair. It’s as soft as I imagined. His arms surround me, and his broad body angles me back a little, exposing my cleavage even more. His lips slide down my throat and play along the edge of my neckline, kissing the slope between my breasts and falling lower to brush a straining nipple through my dress. A second of clarity spikes me through the blinding need and arousal.
I don’t know this guy; I haven’t broken up with Pete yet; I can’t do this.
I grip his shoulders to push him away, but his lips remain close to my ear. He whispers how good I feel, how beautiful he thinks I am, and how much he wants to taste me. That does it; I inhale his ocean scent and melt into him.
He kisses me, and his hoarse groan rumbles in his throat as his hands slide over my thighs and cup my ass. My brain goes fuzzy when his fingers play at the edge of my panties. His body slides forward even farther, his hips open mine, and I lose my breath as his hard erection pushes against my soft inner thigh. His cock is like a steel rod.
I want it filling me, stretching me, and grinding into me. He’d be reckless in bed. I can feel it in the way his mouth has command of mine. He’d do the same to my body, and I whimper at the thought. The hard ridge in his jeans is teasing me, and a dirty begging plea is about to slip from my lips. I catch myself and rip my face from his.
“No. I…can’t.” I shove him off me, grab my fallen clutch from the floor, and rush through the door into the VIP room. As I turn the corner into the hallway, I glance back. Evan is standing in his office doorway, his eyes narrowed, staring at me.
With my heels on fire, I hurry down the hall and duck into a bathroom. My body is still pulsing, and my brain is muddled with should have, shouldn’t have, wanted to, and shouldn’t have wanted to. Fuck. I just hooked up with my source.
Way to go, Miss Professional
. I don’t know when I lost control, but there is one thing I do know—he was about to get it.
All of it.
At least I got some nice tidbits about Jared and Josie. And Evan definitely knows something. That’s for sure.
Hurrying to the first floor, I shoot Randy a text and navigate my way through the wild crowd. Above me, four bikini-clad girls fly through the air in cages. My gaze shifts to the skybox. Evan’s image standing in the office doorway is burned into my brain.
Randy is MIA, so I scout the downstairs VIP lounge for him when I am distracted by sparkles coming from the corner. Josie Pink’s pink-sequined bustier and black blonde-streaked hair is half concealed in the shadows as she is engaged in an intimate conversation with a man whose back is to me. She and her man are close, and he is whispering swiftly at her ear, but it’s not Jared. The back of the guy’s neck and his naked forearm suggest a lighter skin tone.
Holy shit
. I hold up my phone and snap a picture, the flash illuminating my position. I bolt. I text Randy, requesting he meet me outside, and I head toward the exit.
The bouncer puts Randy and me in a town car, and I swear as the door shuts, I hear him say into his walkie, “She just left, sir.”
Chapter Six
As always
, the Fiercest
started off the weekend in style, but this time in San Francisco! Randy and I flew west and checked out the hottest new club to open downtown. Muse, a warehouse turned nightclub by San Francisco entrepreneur Evan Cain, is a two-story mecca of decadence. With its artsy graffitied walls and hypnotic glowing dance floor, this downtown nightlife experience evokes a sexy sanctuary where pleasure is offered in abundance.
On the ground floor, slide over to one of four bars and splurge on a custom cocktail, then grab a hottie and grind your ass off while the deejay plays all your favorite hip-hop, funk, and soul mash-ups. Wanna chill? Lounge in the rows of half-moon private booths sure to impress your prospective client or romantic partner and order excellent tapas prepared by former Top Chef contestant Juan Alvarez.
On the second floor, blend into a celebrity entourage and sneak into the upstairs VIP speakeasy, which boasts dozens of top-shelf vodkas, whiskeys, and tequilas, along with well-known models, actors, and athletes. Can’t get in? Slink over to the red Moroccan room and toke on a hookah while the pole dancer weaves a spell of love and sex to chest-thumping music. Your smoke rings didn’t lead you to your soul mate? Head to the balcony, grab a hand-rolled cigar from the cigar roller, and take a seat along the open perimeter. Enjoy the unobstructed views of large groups, couples, and music enthusiasts, which keep the atmosphere fresher than at many other nightlife spots, ensuring that neither the socialite crowd nor the glitterati revelers overwhelm the varied scene. You know you want more. Keep a lookout for our full write-up about the club, the celebs we saw, and an exclusive interview with the mysterious owner. There is only one word for this club and this crowd: Fierce!
I’m home from da club by three a.m. and perched at my laptop in my pj’s, trolling the Internet for photographs taken by the paparazzi hours earlier at Muse. I flip through picture after picture of celebrities drunk, high, and in compromising positions, looking for Josie and her white lover. I’ve decided to go with the mystery man and take the speculation off Jared. The way Evan talked about him, I don’t believe he deserves to be gossip fodder just because he’s an athlete. I refuse to be responsible for ruining his marriage. Josie cheating on Big Skinny with some no-name white dude may not be the story Viper is looking for, but its breaking gossip—the type of sleazy, smarmy shit that they like.
As I continue to scroll, it occurs to me that if Viper buys Fierce, this celebrity stalking could be my new daily ritual. I grimace at the thought of regularly scanning for baby bumps, missing wedding rings, fresh bruises—anything speculative that could be turned into a crap gossip story.
A picture of Josie grabbing her pink-sequin-covered tits and sticking her tongue out at the camera pops on screen.
I can’t do this
. I don’t give a shit who this girl is fucking. I pull up the pic of Josie and her “boo” on my phone and stare at their shadowed forms leaning into each other. Her fuchsia lips are turned up to him and parted, as if they were about to kiss.
My screen goes dark as I continue to stare. I don’t care about this. At all. I want to write about the brown and black models that get passed over for white girls. I want to write about how fierce multicultural woman are. A yawn escapes me.
Unnaturally awake for hours, I bang out a short profile of Evan to follow my review of the club. I may have called him arrogant, overconfident, and autocratic, but overall I think it showed him and the club in a good light. He is all of the above, but it hasn’t diminished my attraction to him. Who wouldn’t get off on the combination of attractive, successful, and intelligent, with a smidge of cocky and a dash of arrogance? He’s like a savory man-cake—irresistible, but not good for you.
Guys like that are good at getting under your skin, but I’ll never see him or his vanilla frosting again
. Oooh, fun post!
Man-Cake Wars: Which ingredients will you choose to make the perfect guy?
I grab my phone and make a note.
Minimizing the essay, I scroll through a few more photos when a full-screen image of Evan takes over my screen. He’s sitting in his office, his arms spread across the back of the leather couch, his blue eyes steady and confident, and a lopsided smile on his face. That full, sensual mouth has been plaguing my thoughts ever since I returned to the hotel.
I press my lips together, remembering his kiss. I can still feel his tongue sweep over mine, and I wonder if he can still feel my breasts in his palms or the dampness of my panties against his fingers. I squirm in my seat, clenching my thighs together to fight the subtle ache that hasn’t gone away since Evan touched me there.
“Let me make you come.”
Those words are on a loop in my head, and I wonder who the lucky girl was who went home with Evan tonight. An unexpected pang of jealousy spreads through my stomach.
I copy Evan’s picture and paste it into the slide reel of Randy’s candid shots of the club, attach my write-up, and schedule it to publish. Done, I flop onto my California king and burrow under the 350-thread-count covers. Spreading my arms and legs wide, I let my head and shoulders sink into the down pillow. I’m never leaving this bed. Then I won’t have to deal with my life.
A film reel starts up in my head, and I’m back in the conference room with Mr. Khan and that shithead Lou. Then I’m in New York at the bar with Pete on the verge of telling him I want to break up. Then I am spread-eagle on a black leather couch staring into electric-blue eyes as he pumps hard and fast inside me.
Okay, that last part didn’t happen, but I wanted it to.
I let out a sigh and shut my eyes.
Shit, the lights
. I reach for the nightstand, which is very far away from my outstretched arm. I need to get closer, but my body refuses to move. King-size beds are great if you are on your honeymoon, or having an orgy. For one exhausted person, they just feel lonely.
After a half roll and a full-body stretch to the nightstand, I hit the Sleep button on the console and watch the lights dim, the drapes close, and the sleep machine power on. A soft trickling water sound fills the room. I need this setup in my apartment and vow to keep Fierce alive so I can get it installed. I let my lids drift shut.
What was that? I open my eyes, and I hear another low vibrating sound. It’s got to be my phone, but I don’t know where it is. Or what time it is. Did I even sleep? The clock says it’s after ten in the morning, so I got about six hours, but it feels like I closed my eyes seconds ago.
I roll endlessly toward the edge of the bed and spot my phone lighting up like Times Square on the desk. My room feels like Antarctica, and I quickly pad across the room, grab my phone, and slide back under the covers. I scrunch my face at the 415 area code flashing on my screen. It could be Khan.
Don’t answer it!
I clear my throat and press the green button. “Hello?”
“I have your glasses,” says a familiar, deep voice. It can’t be. His dimple flashes in my mind, and I prop myself up on my elbow.
“How did you get this number?”
“You gave your business card to my bouncer.” I must have dropped my glasses after he…we… Oh God. “Did I wake you?”
“Um, yes, I’m sort of still on New York time. Look, you could just toss them.” My brain explodes—those were three hundred bucks. Embarrassment is making me say stupid things. Plus I don’t think I can look him in the face after I almost let him fuck me on his couch.
“Really? They look expensive. Are you sure you don’t want them?”
“I do want them,” I say. “But I’m not sure I’ll be able to come to the club and get them today, and I’m sure you are busy, so…”
“How about I let you buy me brunch today as a peace offering, and I bring your glasses.”
“I’m making peace? Did I start a war?”
“I think calling me arrogant, over-confident, and, what was my favorite, oh yeah, autocratic could be considered slander-ish.”
My mouth drops open. Motherfucker. He saw the piece already?
“Google alerts are pretty cool,” he says. All my breath leaves my body.
“I also had great things to say about the club, and I think I called you intelligent.” I hope I called him intelligent. I can’t remember.
“Meet me at Baie at two thirty. I’ll text you the address. See you then,” he says. The phone goes silent.
Chapter Seven
The hostess leads me toward an umbrella-covered table, which is nestled away from the full house of patrons eating and gossiping under the afternoon sun. Evan is lounging in an Adirondack-style booth the same way he was last night—arms spread on the backs of the cushions, legs spread wide and bent at the knees. Confident. He’s sipping ice water and taking in the view of the bay through mirrored aviators.
I tell myself I’m here for my glasses and maybe a question or two about Josie Pink, not because I’ve been thinking about him on and off since last night.
Evan lays a full smile on me, and my insides turn to hot chocolate.