Sweet Sinful Nights

“Put me down,” she shouted, pounding her fists against his back. Marching down the hall, he carried her away from the lift as she banged on him. “I mean it, Brent Nichols.”

“I will, woman. I will,” he said with a huff, setting her down carefully on her four-inch heels. She didn’t even wobble. She was born to wear stilettos. Pressing his palms against the wall above her shoulders, he caged her in. “Look, I forgot to say anything about the change in my flight. It happened this afternoon at four o’ fucking clock. This guy is running me around, working me over, and it’s not like I want to go to New York at midnight.”

She shot him a look that said she doubted him. “It’s always about work with you.”

“I am doing my best to manage it all. I want to spend every damn day with you,” he said, his voice hard and firm. “How is it not clear where I want to be right now?”

“Then why are you telling me now?” She sounded like a cross-examiner, punching holes in his argument. “Maybe when you picked me up tonight would have been a better time, not ten seconds before you try to bring me to a hotel room for one frigging hour, Brent. One hour before you have to jet out of town. You know how that makes me feel?”

“How does it make you feel?” he asked, dreading the answer.

Mercifully, she didn’t say whore. “Cheap,” she hissed.

“You are not cheap. You are classy, and gorgeous, and beautiful, and why can you not see that I would much rather spend the night worshipping your perfect body, and showing you how much I fucking adore you?” he said, his voice rising again. A door opened down the hall, and a man exited his room. Brent didn’t care if anyone heard him saying out loud how crazy he was for this woman. He dropped his hand to her shoulder, trailing the pad of his finger along her skin and down her bare arm. She didn’t swat him away, or bite him. That was good. “I meant to tell you that he’d called, and I was all set to say something about the change, but then I showed up at your place, and you looked like this,” he said, gesturing to her stunning figure in front of him.

Her lips quirked up. There, in that small crack in her anger, he had his chance. The door was ajar. He’d slink inside.

“Looked like what?” she asked, her tone segueing away from pissed, and towards that teasing seductress he loved.

“Like the only woman I have ever wanted this much,” he said, resuming his path along her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. He moved his hand to her waist, tracing circles with his thumb against her hipbone.

“How much?”

“So fucking much it consumes all my brainpower,” he said, relief flooding him as she began to relinquish her anger. “I swear, Shan. When I see you, I can’t fucking remember my name. I can barely figure out how to form words.” Her expression softened, and he inched even closer, pressing his forehead lightly to hers. “You’re all I see. You are perfection.”

She looped her hands around his waist. Ah, sweet victory.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For getting so pissed,” she said, her tone sweet and soft now, wafting over him. “I just hate the thought of this night ending.”

“Good. I’m so damn happy you feel that way, because I do, too.”

She wrapped her arms tighter around him, tugged him against her in the cool, air-conditioned hallway. “I was looking forward to spending the night with you,” she said in the barest voice, and it sent tremors of desire throughout his body. “And when you told me you were leaving, it made me feel like you just didn’t care. Like you care about work more than me.”

“I care about you so much more,” he said.

“Brent,” she began, bringing her hands to his hair. “Let’s go to the room. I owe you a dance, and I’m going to make it so good for you.”

That was music to his ears. And his dick. And his balls.





CHAPTER NINETEEN


Inside the room, she grabbed his shirt and furiously began unbuttoning it. She didn’t bother to glance around the room, to take in the surroundings, to comment on the thread count or the mood lighting, or the unparalleled view of the Strip from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Nor did he.

He saw nothing but her as they made their way to the couch by the window, where she pushed him down as she finished opening his shirt. She stood in front of him, bent forward, and let her long hair tickle his chest.

Fire burned in his blood. He needed her. Desperately.

“Forgive me,” she said. She was up to something. She had that twinkle in her eye.

“You don’t need forgiveness,” he rasped out as she began to sway, her hips moving seductively side to side. Oh holy hell of a hard-on. She was doing it. She was going to become his fucking fantasy. He loved nothing more than when she did her stripteases.

She trailed her fingernails down his chest. “How about a little music, handsome?”

He grabbed his phone from his pocket, and scrolled through his music at the speed of light. In seconds, Marcy Playground’s “Sex and Candy” blasted from his phone.