Game for Seduction
Page 7
In a flash, he had her up off the bar stool and hoisted over his shoulder, her sweet ass in his hands, her br**sts pressing into his shoulder blades. He expected her to scream, to insist that he put her down. Instead, she shifted her hips more firmly into the curve of his palm.
"Mmmm, you're strong," she murmured as he strode across the cement floor.
Several of the guys whistled, and some had the nerve to clap. "You go, Dom," one called, and Dominic scowled fiercely at them, making a mental note to kick each and every one of their asses for thinking dirty thoughts about Melissa.
Wilson smiled at him. "Thanks for taking her out of my hair. Watching over her ass was too much responsibility for me."
In less than sixty, they were out of the bar and he'd strapped her into his passenger seat. He tried to keep contact to a minimum as he leaned across her body to click her seat belt into place, but he couldn't avoid pressing his triceps into her br**sts. By the time he got behind the wheel, warning himself for the hundredth time to cool off, she was curled up in the leather seat, looking like a cat nestled in a comfortable blanket. Her eyes were warm honey as they raked over him. He'd never seen her like this, with her guard down.
She was all woman . . . and on the prowl for a man.
Deciding that his wisest bet was to play the role of concerned friend, he said, "I'm taking you back to my place for coffee. You're going to sober up, and then you're going to tell me how the hell you ended up in Barnum's."
Something must have happened between the photo shoot and Barnum's—probably something at work. As soon as she filled him in on the details, he would fix the problem.
He wasn't a fool, though. Women hated men who tried to solve their problems, so he just wouldn't let her know about it.
In a warm voice Melissa said, "I've always wanted to see your house."
She wrapped her forearms around her shins. He'd forgotten to grab her shoes on the way out, and his erection grew yet again at the sight of her red toenails peeking out from beneath her very sexy fishnets.
He cleared his throat, working to obliterate all signs of lust from his tone. "I'm taking you now."
She all but purred, "Goodie. I've been waiting a long, long time for you to take me."
Jesus, if she only knew all the ways he wanted to take her, she'd throw herself out of his car. She was innocent and pure, and had no idea about the dark side of life—or men.
He turned into his building's parking garage a couple of minutes later. Melissa was silent; maybe she'd fallen asleep, he thought. Sick bastard that he was, he wouldn't mind having an excuse to pick her up and carry her upstairs. She could have his bed. Potent images filled his brain: of her naked between his sheets, standing beneath the spray of water in his shower, drying between her legs with a towel.
Working to shake off the X-rated images, he looked over, surprised to see her staring right at him, her amber eyes wicked and wanting.
It was pretty obvious that she'd had a crush on him in her teens, but she'd never looked at him like this before—like she wanted to unzip his pants and throat his c**k right then and there.
Fuck.
"Stay there," he cautioned as he came around to her side. The last thing he needed was for her to fall out of his car and smack her head on the cement floor. He opened the passenger door and held out his hands. Once they got upstairs, he was going to make her a pot of coffee, then sit on the opposite side of his living room while she drank it.
She wobbled a bit and he instinctively pulled her into his chest to steady her. Her br**sts were criminal, the way their full weight settled against him.
"You know what?" she whispered as she slid an arm around him, gliding her fingertips over his triceps and lats. "I think I like doing things the hard way."
She lowered her face to his shoulder and her hair tickled his chin. It was killing him to keep his hands off her.
Purposefully ignoring the seductive intent of her words, he said, "You'll feel much better once you've had some coffee."
Her smile was lazy as he propelled her into the elevator. She relaxed into his body, and he was amazed, despite himself, at how well they fit together, her soft heat the perfect foil for his solid mass.
"I already feel better," she said with a soft smile.
If he hadn't been so attuned to her every heartbeat, to the way her ni**les had peaked beneath her black dress, he might have missed it when she added, "Now that you're here," in a near whisper.
His c**k grew another inch beneath the zipper of his jeans. She wasn't making this easy for him. He unlocked his front door and led her into his foyer. Dropping his keys on the front table, he guided her into his large kitchen. Both his kitchen and living room were fronted with floor-to-ceiling glass. Lights from cars, boats, and houses across the Bay gleamed into the granite-and-cherrywood-clad room. True to his Italian roots, Dominic prided himself on being a great cook. Not that Melissa was ever going to find out. If he could barely control himself over coffee, he sure as hell wouldn't be able to keep his dick in his pants through an entire meal.
Melissa moved out of his arms and headed straight to the windows. He put on a very strong pot of coffee, and when he turned back to her he nearly laughed out loud. She'd pressed herself up against the window, her palms flat against the glass. The laughter died in his throat as he imagined coming up behind her, yanking up her skirt, sliding down her stockings, and sinking into her wet heat. Her full br**sts would be heavy in his hands, her ni**les hard between his fingertips.
His famously steady hands were shaking as he brought over a large mug of coffee. Hearing his approach, she turned and said, "What a beautiful view."
She was far more beautiful than any view, and he couldn't take his eyes off her—couldn't stop the increasingly p**n ographic images of the two of them naked and sweaty from running through his head.
"Yeah," he finally replied, "it's nice." He took her hand and guided her to the plush couch. "Drink."
God, he sounded like a caveman. He'd never been nervous in front of cameras or out in a stadium playing in front of one hundred thousand screaming fans. So how could one curvy woman make it so hard for him to string more than two words together?
She tucked her legs beneath her and picked up the mug. Bringing the rim up to her lips, she took a sip, staring unabashedly at him over the mug.
"I really do like your place," she said, "but something's missing."
You're missing.
The words jumped uncensored into his brain. Because even with the views and the nice furniture and the gourmet kitchen, she was right: His house had never quite felt like home. Until now, with Melissa curled up on his couch, eating him up with her eyes.
"Mmmm, you're strong," she murmured as he strode across the cement floor.
Several of the guys whistled, and some had the nerve to clap. "You go, Dom," one called, and Dominic scowled fiercely at them, making a mental note to kick each and every one of their asses for thinking dirty thoughts about Melissa.
Wilson smiled at him. "Thanks for taking her out of my hair. Watching over her ass was too much responsibility for me."
In less than sixty, they were out of the bar and he'd strapped her into his passenger seat. He tried to keep contact to a minimum as he leaned across her body to click her seat belt into place, but he couldn't avoid pressing his triceps into her br**sts. By the time he got behind the wheel, warning himself for the hundredth time to cool off, she was curled up in the leather seat, looking like a cat nestled in a comfortable blanket. Her eyes were warm honey as they raked over him. He'd never seen her like this, with her guard down.
She was all woman . . . and on the prowl for a man.
Deciding that his wisest bet was to play the role of concerned friend, he said, "I'm taking you back to my place for coffee. You're going to sober up, and then you're going to tell me how the hell you ended up in Barnum's."
Something must have happened between the photo shoot and Barnum's—probably something at work. As soon as she filled him in on the details, he would fix the problem.
He wasn't a fool, though. Women hated men who tried to solve their problems, so he just wouldn't let her know about it.
In a warm voice Melissa said, "I've always wanted to see your house."
She wrapped her forearms around her shins. He'd forgotten to grab her shoes on the way out, and his erection grew yet again at the sight of her red toenails peeking out from beneath her very sexy fishnets.
He cleared his throat, working to obliterate all signs of lust from his tone. "I'm taking you now."
She all but purred, "Goodie. I've been waiting a long, long time for you to take me."
Jesus, if she only knew all the ways he wanted to take her, she'd throw herself out of his car. She was innocent and pure, and had no idea about the dark side of life—or men.
He turned into his building's parking garage a couple of minutes later. Melissa was silent; maybe she'd fallen asleep, he thought. Sick bastard that he was, he wouldn't mind having an excuse to pick her up and carry her upstairs. She could have his bed. Potent images filled his brain: of her naked between his sheets, standing beneath the spray of water in his shower, drying between her legs with a towel.
Working to shake off the X-rated images, he looked over, surprised to see her staring right at him, her amber eyes wicked and wanting.
It was pretty obvious that she'd had a crush on him in her teens, but she'd never looked at him like this before—like she wanted to unzip his pants and throat his c**k right then and there.
Fuck.
"Stay there," he cautioned as he came around to her side. The last thing he needed was for her to fall out of his car and smack her head on the cement floor. He opened the passenger door and held out his hands. Once they got upstairs, he was going to make her a pot of coffee, then sit on the opposite side of his living room while she drank it.
She wobbled a bit and he instinctively pulled her into his chest to steady her. Her br**sts were criminal, the way their full weight settled against him.
"You know what?" she whispered as she slid an arm around him, gliding her fingertips over his triceps and lats. "I think I like doing things the hard way."
She lowered her face to his shoulder and her hair tickled his chin. It was killing him to keep his hands off her.
Purposefully ignoring the seductive intent of her words, he said, "You'll feel much better once you've had some coffee."
Her smile was lazy as he propelled her into the elevator. She relaxed into his body, and he was amazed, despite himself, at how well they fit together, her soft heat the perfect foil for his solid mass.
"I already feel better," she said with a soft smile.
If he hadn't been so attuned to her every heartbeat, to the way her ni**les had peaked beneath her black dress, he might have missed it when she added, "Now that you're here," in a near whisper.
His c**k grew another inch beneath the zipper of his jeans. She wasn't making this easy for him. He unlocked his front door and led her into his foyer. Dropping his keys on the front table, he guided her into his large kitchen. Both his kitchen and living room were fronted with floor-to-ceiling glass. Lights from cars, boats, and houses across the Bay gleamed into the granite-and-cherrywood-clad room. True to his Italian roots, Dominic prided himself on being a great cook. Not that Melissa was ever going to find out. If he could barely control himself over coffee, he sure as hell wouldn't be able to keep his dick in his pants through an entire meal.
Melissa moved out of his arms and headed straight to the windows. He put on a very strong pot of coffee, and when he turned back to her he nearly laughed out loud. She'd pressed herself up against the window, her palms flat against the glass. The laughter died in his throat as he imagined coming up behind her, yanking up her skirt, sliding down her stockings, and sinking into her wet heat. Her full br**sts would be heavy in his hands, her ni**les hard between his fingertips.
His famously steady hands were shaking as he brought over a large mug of coffee. Hearing his approach, she turned and said, "What a beautiful view."
She was far more beautiful than any view, and he couldn't take his eyes off her—couldn't stop the increasingly p**n ographic images of the two of them naked and sweaty from running through his head.
"Yeah," he finally replied, "it's nice." He took her hand and guided her to the plush couch. "Drink."
God, he sounded like a caveman. He'd never been nervous in front of cameras or out in a stadium playing in front of one hundred thousand screaming fans. So how could one curvy woman make it so hard for him to string more than two words together?
She tucked her legs beneath her and picked up the mug. Bringing the rim up to her lips, she took a sip, staring unabashedly at him over the mug.
"I really do like your place," she said, "but something's missing."
You're missing.
The words jumped uncensored into his brain. Because even with the views and the nice furniture and the gourmet kitchen, she was right: His house had never quite felt like home. Until now, with Melissa curled up on his couch, eating him up with her eyes.
