Sweet Sinful Nights

She trembled from head to toe. She burst with pleasure so intense it blotted out everything but his touch. She arched her back, lifted her hips, and rocked into him in a frenzy.

He’d always said that going down on her was like being fucked, too. That she’d get so into it, and it drove him wild. Her reactions, the way she moved her hips and grabbed his hair truly made it a face fucking, and he’d craved it just as much as she had. The evidence, the proof of how she loved his touch lay in the way she moved under his mouth.

“Shan, do that. Fucking go crazy,” he told her, and she was right there with his command, thrusting wildly, writhing and wriggling as he groaned and consumed her pleasure with his mouth.

Stars circled her head. The earth fell out of orbit. The sky split open.

She grabbed his hair, screaming in pleasure, calling out his name, as she came on his tongue.

*

That had gone better than he’d expected.

Better than his fantasies. And while he’d had countless dreams about her sweet *, he’d never dreamed that today his face would get reacquainted with his favorite location in the entire universe.

He scooped her soft, warm body into his arms. She was practically glowing, and masculine pride burst in his chest. “I was right. You are perfection,” he whispered in her ear.

She purred. At least, she made a sound that suggested utter contentment. He kissed her cheek. “Am I forgiven?”

She laughed, the sound so high it rang through his empty club.

“What?” he asked, furrowing his brow, as she pulled on jeans and shoes.

She took the scarf off her neck, wrapped it around him once, and held the ends. She looked him square in the eyes. “It’s going to take a lot more than one orgasm for that to happen.” She glanced at the scarf. “And that’s why I’m leaving this behind. So you can find me again.”

Then she walked out.





CHAPTER NINE


A patron sloshed beer on a table in the front row. Some dude snapped a photo with his cell phone camera from the back. A waitress circled through the tables carrying a tray, expertly dispensing beverages to meet the two-drink minimum.

Bob’s Beer Haven and Comedy Club in Soho didn’t change its rules when Brent stopped by. The dimly lit comedy club off Spring Street had a been-here-for-years vibe, a low stage, and merely adequate acoustics. The crowd didn’t show up for the ambiance—they came there because the owner was known for his taste. Over the years, Bob had scouted and promoted some of the leading up-and-coming comedic talent, who went on to big careers. Damn shame that the landlord had just jacked up the rent astronomically—quadrupling it, so Bob was shutting down operations soon, and the location had been leased to a chain restaurant.

Brent and Bob had a long history; the guy had booked him for a few sets at a Los Angeles comedy club when Brent was working on Late Night Antics. Those club gigs had led to bigger ones that had helped Brent to grow his reputation in the entertainment business.

Whenever he’d visited New York for business or to see his brother, he’d tried to pop into the Soho club. He could easily draw a big crowd now, and fill out a fancier theater in midtown no problem, given the time he’d spent on screen hosting his own show on Comedy Nation before he shifted to the nightclub business. But he had no interest in that. He wasn’t on stage tonight for the money. He was on stage for the fun of it, and for the farewell—bittersweet though it was, given the fate of this establishment.

But this wouldn’t be the last time they worked together—Bob was a solid businessman, and Brent had promised him a job managing his club in New York, provided he got the approval from the city to open it. With two kids in college now, the man had needed to find a new gig quickly, and Brent was glad to potentially offer him something.

“So let’s say that there’s this guy,” he began, pacing slowly across the creaky wooden stage. “I’m not going to name names or point fingers at who this guy might be.”

He stopped to roll his eyes around, as if he were somehow looking at himself, and somewhere in the audience he could make out the silhouette of his brother pointing at him on stage. Brent held up his hands as if he was innocent. “Like I said, I’m not naming names. But, for the sake of argument, let’s say this guy fucked up a situation with a woman. Because, let’s face it, every now and then, from time to time, the man will be in the wrong, right?”

“Every now and then,” a woman in the crowd called out sarcastically.

“Exactly,” Brent said crisply. “It’s rare, totally rare, that the guy is the one who messes up. Because men are usually on top of their shit in a relationship. They never forget birthdays, they always remember to bring gifts to their women, they never say stupid, dumbass, idiotic things,” he continued in his deadpan tone. “Men, generally speaking, are really evolved creatures.”

Several loud chuckles resonated from the audience.