Late Call (Volume 1) (7 page)

I don’t fight the twitch of my lips. “Again, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He laughs once and leans in, ghosting his lips along my jaw, barely touching my skin. “That pink thong you’re wearing—as fucking gorgeous as it is—doesn’t cover nearly as much of your pussy as you think it does.”

My breath catches when he wraps his fingers around my thigh, dangerously close to that thong. The phone rings and he presses a button on it without moving from me.

“Yes?”

“Your food is here, sir.”

“Send it in.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Food?”

“It’s almost lunchtime.”

I look at the clock on the far wall. “Ten thirty isn’t lunchtime.”

He smirks and answers the door. He locks it without saying a word and sets the paper bags on the desk next to me. “Maybe I wanted you here alone.”

“Really, Aaron, you don’t need to lock me in an office to fuck me. That’s why we have a hotel room.”

His eyes darken a shade. “As much as I’d love to lay you back and fuck you until you scream my name on this desk—and I will, one day—that’s not the reason I’ve locked you in here with me. You’re here because you’re going to talk to me.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Then tough shit, because you can’t run from me in this building.”

“You left the key in the door.” I glance over his shoulder. “I could easily leave.”

“You wouldn’t get past security on the door. They have instructions that you aren’t allowed to leave unless you’re accompanied by me.”

“Are you kidding me? You have me on some sort of bullshit office-arrest so we can
talk
?”

Am I hearing him right? Is he being fucking serious? I shove him away from me and stand. Anger floods my body, making my hands tremble from their resting place on my hips, and I bite the inside of my lip. There isn’t a single part of me that can believe this.

“Dayton.” He says my name slowly, and a hint of annoyance threads through it.

“No, Aaron. Don’t stand there and fucking
‘Dayton’
me. I don’t want to talk to you about anything other than the reason we’re here.”

“I want to know you again. Shit, I need to know you again.”

“You don’t get to do that. My clients don’t know anything about me.”

“I’m not your normal client.”

“Normal or not, you’re still my client and I’m still a call girl. My clients don’t know my real name, for God’s sake, and you have that. I don’t get personal on a job. The only thing that matters is the lingerie I’m wearing and how hard I have to fuck until the guy comes. Not my past. Not what I’ve been doing since you saw me last.”

Aaron chucks his jacket on the chair and eyes me as he rolls up his shirtsleeves. His gaze roams over my face until I feel like every inch of it has been scrubbed raw by the swirling mass of emotion in his eyes.

“Is that what matters? How hard you’d have to fuck me until I’d come for you?”

“I never said that.”

“Yes you did. We’ve already established you’re wearing very revealing, bright pink underwear, so let’s get part two over with.” His voice turns husky. “I’m easy, Day. You could fuck me hard and fast or you could fuck me slow, and I’d come for you. Inside you, over you… As long as you fuck me the same way I’ll fuck you, like you’ll never get enough of me being inside you, I’ll come for you.” He steps a little closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “Are we clear?”

Fuck yes, that was clear.
I swallow hard and fight the urge to squeeze my thighs together. Crap. I’m so turned on I think he just fucked me with his words.

“That doesn’t mean I’ll tell you anything. That just means I know how you like sex.”

His lips quirk and he sits behind the desk, the Vegas skyline stretching out behind him. He looks totally at home sitting there, a figure of power and pure sexuality who can word-fuck me like nobody’s business.

“I hope you like this office, because we’re not leaving until you talk, and I don’t care what self-erected walls you have to tear down so you do.” Calmly, like he can’t sense my annoyance, he grabs a bag and pulls out a Subway sandwich.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet the future CEO of Stone Advertising. And he’s eating fucking Subway.

He nudges the bag toward me, and I shake my head.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat it.”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

“And I said fucking eat it, Dayton.”

I clamp my jaw and grab the bag. Domineering asshole. This is why I do men in short doses. I can’t deal with the “do this, do that” crap. I’m too headstrong for it, and I like winning my battles too much to put myself in a situation where I might have to pick them.

I bite into the sandwich and the taste of club sandwich assaults my senses, the different meats mingling together in my mouth. And there’s extra cheese.
Toasted.
My eyes narrow and flit across to Aaron.

Never trust a guy who knows your favorite sandwich without asking you.

“Whenever we went for lunch at that little English café in Paris and it was on the menu, you’d ask for a club sandwich with extra cheese,” he explains before I can say a thing. “And you sent back three of them because they weren’t toasted, even though you’d asked for it to be. Since Subway doesn’t do those, I improvised.”

I lower the sandwich and perch on the corner of his desk. “How do you even remember that?”

“The things we remember the clearest aren’t necessarily the big, heart-stopping moments everyone expects. They’re the little things that add up. The little things most people look over but that mean the most.”

Silence hovers between us for a moment, growing steadily more tense and awkward.

“If I believed in romance, I’d be a puddle right now.” I take the last bite of my lunch and wad up the wrapping.

“You believed in romance once.”

“Once.” I cross the room and drop the wrapper in the trash can. “That was before I realized love hurts. I gave love up the day I signed the contract with my agent. Love hurts, but pleasure doesn’t and neither does power. I had to choose, and I chose pleasure and power.”

“There isn’t a part of you that believes in love? Really?”

I glance over my shoulder. “Do I believe it’s possible? That it’s real? Tangible? Yes. I believe everything you can tell me about love, but that doesn’t mean I have to believe
in
it. It doesn’t mean I have to believe—or want—it in any part of my life.”

I feel his thumb stroke the back of my neck before I realize he’s behind me. He drops his wrapper in the trash can in front of me and runs that hand down my bare arm.

“You loved me once. You loved me like I was the air you needed to breathe, like you needed my touch to keep you alive. You loved me the very same way I loved you. Obsessively. Insanely. Relentlessly. Don’t tell me you don’t believe in love when for six short weeks, all those years ago, you couldn’t possibly live without it.”

“And don’t tell me I do believe in love when for months after, all those years ago, I
had
to live without it.” I shrug him off me and walk to the door. “We’ve talked enough. I’d like to go now.”

I pinch my nose and take a deep breath as I drop beneath the water. The bathtub in this suite is a huge corner tub, and it’s currently so full with bubbles I can barely see the wall behind it.

Water. It’s my soother. My cleanser. Swimming, a bath, a shower—it doesn’t matter. Swimming is for frustration, a shower for a quick fix, and a bath when things are so fucked up.

The water ripples when I come back up for air. I lean my head back against the tiles and let out a long sigh.

I miss Seattle. I miss the certainty and structure of my days. The regular clients, the nights with Liv, the frequent calls and texts from Monique. In reality I’m only a few miles away, but it feels like a whole world. It’s been six days yet, it feels like a lifetime. I miss my lingerie room, my bedroom-come-closet, my client extension. I miss brusque texts and excited phone calls, and hell, I even miss Liv’s whining after work because the hot guy she works with
still
hasn’t noticed her, no matter how low she unbuttons her shirt.

I glance at the clock I brought in and sigh again. Business nights for Aaron mean business nights for me, and although we’re only going for a casual dinner and a couple of hours in the casino, I have to remember that I’m working. That’s it.
Working.

The cold air of the bathroom hits my skin the second I ease myself from the bath. I shiver and wrap the towel around me, savoring the fluffiness of it. What is it about hotel towels? God.

Empty. That’s the only way to describe the suite. Silent. Lifeless. Empty.

I grab my cell from the side and text Aaron’s number.
What do I wear?

The response is immediate. Something Vegas. But classy and sexy. Something that is so very you.

Another message comes before I’ve had time to finish unzipping my suitcase.

Something that makes every guy in the casino want to fuck you.

Now that I can do.

I whip a bright pink, white-spotted lingerie set out, remembering how he liked the set I wore yesterday. Fuck. Why does that even matter?

The dusky pink lace dress I pull out after makes all those thoughts disappear, and I slide it over my wet hair until it hugs my body to perfection. Bobby pins slide into my hair perfectly, holding it to one side the way I know Aaron likes.

The dress.
Classy
, he said. The hair.
Sexy
, he said.

White-heeled pumps fit my feet perfectly, and I grab a matching white purse. I slip my credit card, cell, and lipstick inside it.

You
, he said. White depicts innocence, but it’s also deceptive. That’s me all over. Deceptive.

Where do I meet you?
I brush some mascara across my lashes, making them curl at the ends, the perfect accent to my smoky eyes.

“Right here.” Aaron appears in the doorway, perfect and poised. His suit is crisp and tailored, and it hugs every part of his body from his shoulders to his ankles. His pants hug his fucking ankles, for the love of God.

I sweep my eyes across his face, his jaw that’s holding a hint of a perfectly trimmed five-o’clock shadow, and over his hair that’s swept to the side.

“That didn’t take you long.”

“I knew you were waiting.” His fingers brush mine as he hands me my purse.

I curl my fingers around the satin. “I’m ready now.”

The elevator suffocates me as he moves closer through our journey down. The air gets gradually heavier, more pressing, until I’m so focused on breathing, on the rhythmic in-and-out and the rise and fall of my chest. So much so I can barely feel Aaron’s hand curving around my waist and pulling me into his side.

“You have to kiss me tonight,” he says into my ear in a low voice.

“I know.” I tilt my body into him, a rare streak of vulnerability going through me. I take a deep breath. “Tell me what you want me to be.”

The door opens and he pulls me to the side. The bright lights and loud shouts of the casino melt into nothing at the hot sensation of his hand sliding from my side across my stomach. They fade into silence at the buzzing across my skin, at the absolute hum through my veins.

His fingers caress my cheek gently as they glide up it and around the back of my head. “Be you. The sexy, carefree, gorgeous you.”

I take a deep breath in. “Mia or Dayton?”

My skin tingles at the way his other hand trails down my side. “Be
you
, Bambi. Be Dayton. I don’t care a single bit for your alter ego. Be the gorgeous, amazing, and enticing woman I know is in there hiding.”

I don’t know if I remember how to be myself, even as the blaring noise of the casino surrounds us and envelopes us. The last time I was truly myself was the day I walked away from him, so what he’s asking is absolutely a challenge.

“Be the person you fight against every day.” His lips brush across my jaw. “For me.”

“That’s a dangerous thing you’re asking. For
both
of us.”

“What’s dangerous is this dress.” Appreciation fills his tone. I try to ignore the spark of pleasure that sneaks through me.

“I mean it.” I bring my eyes to his. “You’re playing with fire, Aaron. People who do that get burned.”

“I don’t play with fire, Dayton. I stoke it and make it burn hotter and faster until it consumes everything in its path. I’ll never take a spark where I can have a roaring flame.” Heat flares across my lips as his mouth hovers above mine. “Playing would imply I’m not being serious. I’m always serious when I want something. And right now, I want you. I want you, and I want you to go out there and act like you fucking want me.”

“Are you asking me or telling me to do that?”

“I’m telling you you’re going to go out there and act like you want me until you actually do. Until you want nothing but me and my body. Over you, under you, inside you… Go out there with me and don’t leave until there isn’t a part of your body that isn’t crying out for mine.”

He draws back and pulls me with him. His steps are stronger than mine, more assured, more determined. Try as I might, I can’t match them. My head is spinning too much. Not because of the request, but because I already want him. Because it’s impossible not to want him when he turns heated, darkened blue eyes on me. Because it’s impossible not to in the face of pure, unadulterated lust.

Even now with his hand at my side, I can feel sparks emanating from his fingertips and spreading through my stomach. They all head downward. God, they head downward until I’m afraid a mere glance from him will have me aching in desperation.

We approach the casino bar and Aaron steers us toward two other couples. Two sharply suited men and two beautifully done-up women. They reek of class and money. Of everything I pretend to be each and every day. Of what I’m pretending to be now.

Aaron introduces us, and the whole time pleasantries are being exchanged, his eyes flit to me. I avoid his gaze, instead flicking my eyes over his shoulder, to his forehead, at his lips. I ignore the tightening of his grip at my waist and sink into him a little farther, a faked yet convincing smile on my face. I pretend and pretend and pretend until my cheeks hurt and my stomach aches from laughing.

When Antony Barnes says that they’re leaving, I almost breathe a sigh of relief. Until Aaron lays a hand on my cheek and turns my face into his. Until his takes my lips with his, soft and gentle and full of too much realness for it all to be a show.

And I realize the ‘leaving’ refers to the guys. Now I have to sit here at a table near the restaurant bar with two women whose names I barely remember.

“So, Dayton.” The blonde turns a genuine smile on me. “What do you do?”

“Me? Oh.” I wrap my fingers around the stem of my wine glass.
Fuckfuckfuck.
“I’m all dot com. Design—websites, graphics, book covers, and the like.”

“Oooh, really?” The darker blonde—is it Abigail?—asks. “Anything we’d know?”

“Oh, no. Nothing big. Mostly for self-published authors. There’s a big market there right now.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. I don’t have much time to read these days.”

Thank you, Mom, for always making me believe in books. “That’s a shame.”

“Yes. I wish I did, but Antony is forever off on business and dragging me to functions like this.”

The light blonde rolls her eyes. “Yes, it’s a hard life.”

“Just because you enjoy traveling, Brea, doesn’t mean we all do.” She stands. “Excuse me for a moment.”

“Of course.” I give my politest smile and lift my glass.

How long do I have to do this shit? How many
times
do I have to do this? Small talk and pretending to give a crap about rich bitches wasn’t mentioned when I agreed to this.

I seriously need to get Monique to draw up contracts for jobs like this.

“Ugh.” Brea tops up her wine and holds the bottle over my glass. I nod in reply, and we sit in silence while she fills it. The empty bottle hits the table with a dull clunk, and a sigh leaves her dark red lips.

“I love this, you know? This lifestyle. The traveling, the dinners, the parties, the nights out… It’s not something I ever expected I’d have. I’ve been with Patrick since we were seventeen and I helped him build his business—from selling soap samples out of the trunk of my car. Some of us”—she nods in the direction Abigail left—“were born into a life of privilege.”

Oh, sweet Jesus. Is this my welcome into the Rich Bitch Wives Club? I want my invitation revoked.

“I know how hard our husbands work to give us this.”

Or they just buy you because they’re presumptuous bastards.

“And it riles me that she takes it for granted, you know? Not to mention she doesn’t work. At all.”

“Do you?”
Crap.
That came out bitchier than intended.

Brea laughs. “You sound surprised. I do, yes. I work in Rick’s company. We own it jointly. We started it together.”

Well, shit me. “That’s great!”

“It sure is. I do all the designing and fragrance testing, and I leave all the business stuff to him. I could never do what he does.”

“I don’t think I could do what Aaron does either. The amount of offices he’ll take charge of in a few weeks is, quite honestly, scary.”

“Absolutely.” She nods. “Have you been together long?”

I nearly choke on my wine but swallow it instead. Somehow. Why am I not prepared for this?

That’s right. I’m Dayton, not Mia. Stupid damn client orders.

“Um, not really. We knew each other a long time ago.” My lips curl into a small smile.

“A second-chance romance? Oh, how romantic!”

“Something like that.”

A second-chance romance with a tidy six-figure sum behind it.
Sweep me off my feet, baby.

“Are you in Vegas for much longer?”

“Only tonight. We’re flying to Sydney tomorrow afternoon.”

“What a coincidence! We have some new samples, so we’re taking a working vacation over there, starting Saturday. It would be great to catch up—you know, get away from the men for a few hours.”

Congratulations, Dayton Black. You’re the newest member of the Rich Bitch Wives Club.

Abigail never came back—not that it bothered Brea any. She filled the very awkward conversation with her life story.

She’s twenty-four, Patrick is twenty-six, and her severe allergies lead to the start-up of their business. When he unknowingly bought her a soap basket that sent to her the hospital, he set about trying to find a soap without the ingredient she’s allergic to. Failing that, he made one.

I think I just heard the greatest love story of the twenty-first century. I also think I need to vomit.

“You look tense.” Aaron steps behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs digging in at the bottom of my neck.

I bend into his touch, unable to help the sigh that escapes me. “So would you if you’d had the night I have.”

“Same again.” He nods at the bartender and sits me on a stool. “Let me guess. You got the soap allergy story too?”

I turn. A small smile plays on my lips. “For real? He told you too?”

“Oh yes. He wants us to do his marketing.”

“No wonder his wife was so far up my ass she could see my brain,” I mutter.