Provocative Professions Collection (25 page)

Returning to my table, indignation radiating off me, I grab the attention of a different waiter and order my
own
stiff drink, tossing the balled up letter on his tray before he disappears into the crowd.

I can't help myself from scanning the room once more for any sign of my stalker, knowing I'll come up blank. He's
here
. A note written and delivered the second I walked in proves that much, and suddenly I'm not nearly as comfortable as I was on my trip here.

"Amelia!" A scantily dressed cop, guilty of indecent exposure herself, scampers over to my table. "I'm so glad you came!" The
officer
is Ashley, the sexy pirate with his arm around her waist Dylan Porter, her fiancé.

"Hey there. Wow." I give her a blatant once over, then shift my gaze to her man. "Hi, Dylan. You guys look amazing."

"We do, don't we?" Ashley beams, leaning up to press a kiss against Dylan's lips, quickly but definitely not chastely, then turns back to me.

A bubble of laughter erupts as I watch Dylan swing her around in his arms until she crashes into his chest, attacking her lips. She feigns a struggle—it
is
a work function after all—but I catch the way her hands grip his shoulders before she finally breaks free, gasping for air.

Thankfully, the waiter has perfect timing. I chug the champagne in a completely unladylike fashion, the jab of loneliness cutting deep.

Ashley's glued to Dylan's side again, cheeks flushed red. "Sorry, my pirate's a bit feisty tonight." She leans forward and stage whispers, "Not that I mind." She slaps a hand over her mouth, wide-eyed, apparently shocked at her boldness but alight with frenzied bliss. "I'm so inappropriate tonight. It's the costume! Brings out another side of me."

"One I love, by the way," Dylan chimes in, looking pleased as he sips his drink.

"I'm happy for you both," I say genuinely. "And great party. Gotta love an open bar." I hold up my drink in salute and finish it off.

"Then why are you just sitting here? Let's dance!" She's pulling me from my seat before I can politely refuse, shaking her leather-clad butt the whole way, handcuffs jangling on her belt.

I actually really like this song, "Sweater Weather," so I acknowledge the alcohol flowing through my bloodstream and cast aside all but the beat, "getting down" with my boss. It feels good to be all dressed up, laughing and cutting up to a great rhythm, surrounded by countless bodies who'd undoubtedly notice if a chloroformed rag was shoved over my mouth.

Unfortunately, as I do a sexy spin, I meet the sight of Max dead on, sucking the filler out of the lips of a naughty nurse.
How original
. Guess that means there won't be a second date…a quick chat about such woulda been nice.

A vibration tickles my sternum and I giggle, not expecting it. Ashley's head snaps my way, staring with a raised brow as she booty pops with two other employees. Yeah, the minx has come out to play tonight. I pull my phone from my stash spot and swipe across the unlock screen only to be greeted by a text from an unknown number.

I swallow, suddenly paralyzed when I open the message to find a picture of myself. My hands begin to tremble. He's
right
behind me, too close. He snapped a shot of me dancing with my ass shaking his direction.

Of course
he got a different phone to text me from. Not surprising me in the slightest.

My stomach lurches when another text pings to my phone.

Unknown: I have plans for the night, Beauty. Get ready.

With the fast song ending, I shove my phone away and force myself to spin around. Considering that the room is dark and most everyone is masked, I start looking at shoes. Army boots—would he wear them here? I rack my brain, searching for the visual of his build, more lanky then bulky. He was barely my height, so that rules out half the men in the crowd. His hair, look for that, I tell myself, fighting to squelch the panic.

I need to leave. Maybe Dylan will walk me to my car. I'm in the middle of the dance floor, adrenaline surging, when I spot Ashley being carried out of the room in Dylan's arms.

So much for that idea.

I could ask Max if he's wasn't dry humping Nurse Ratchet in the corner.

I have to start socializing with my coworkers more often. Let this be a reminder. Out of all these people, I know very few. Mabry should be here, but I haven't seen her yet, and she's not exactly the best bodyguard. I make a mental note to stock up on mace then snatch another flute of champagne from a passing tray, fueling up on liquid courage. I head off the dance floor, eyes set on the ominous hall leading to the parking garage, when my path is blocked.

"The honor?" A tall, broad shouldered man bows, then rises and offers his hand.

His immense build is the complete opposite of my stalker, relieving a shred of panic.
Maybe he can walk me out.
For the first time since the creepy text I can breathe evenly.

"Phantom of the Opera?" I blurt, unsure of his costume, all black, cape, and white mascare mask.

"Correct. Now…" He advances, taking me in his arms as my
very favorite
song begins, "Beneath Your Beautiful."

Immediately feeling safe with his touch, I allow him to embrace me. He holds me close and my eyes slide shut with a relaxed sigh. I have no idea who he is, but he's certainly not Reid and that's enough for me.

What I can see of his face
is
strikingly gorgeous. A strong, masculine jawline with a light dusting of dark stubble the same color as his thick, slightly wavy, russet hair. And his large, make that massive, body towering and overtaking me is a good 6'2" at least.

The arms holding me tight, as big around as the entire width of my body or say a tree trunk, make it clear he could effortlessly crush the geeky, creepy bookstore clerk.

"What's your name?" I whisper into his firm chest where my cheek currently rests, my mind blissfully clear.

"Doesn't matter," I barely hear him grunt into my hair.

"'Kay," I forfeit, soaking up the song and his fresh, manly essence. Unknowingly, I'm singing along, his low chuckle and vibrating torso alerting me.

"I like it too," he whispers, his low comment sincere.

"Sorry." I feel myself blush, pulling back some, tense rigidity setting back into my frame. I survey the room as our bodies sway and out of the corner, my eye catches on a camo-clad arm. My entire body stills, waiting as the commando moves closer out of the circle that hides him.

"Why on edge?" he asks, tucking me closer.

My jaw's locked tight, voice hiding, waiting until I see the military man step into view. He finally does, wearing no mask and definitely not Reid. I shake it off, but the lingering terror doesn't flee so quickly.

"It's nothing," I finally huff, rolling my eyes.

"You sure about that?" His fingers dig into my hips in the most delicious way, almost willing me to answer him.

The song ends but his hold remains strong and I still, praying for another slow song to immediately follow.

"One more?" he requests, looking down at me as though I'm about to step back, which I'm not.

Right now, I need the modicum of safety he provides, let alone the now playing…wait, same song again?
Fine by me
. I nod, nuzzling in closer.

"Now talk to me," he presses.

I look up and up, reassuring my brain that the large, burly man holding me so gently yet firmly, as though he doesn't want to break me but would
never
allow anyone else the chance to either, is normal. An aura of protection surrounds me and I suddenly feel the unrepressed urge to confess everything.

"Just men. Some too good to be true, some
not
too good and very real. The rest," I inadvertently glance over at Max, "plain ole assholes. But asshole I can handle. Other things, not so much." I shiver despite the warmth of his all-encompassing arms.

"What
other
things?" he asks, no, more growls. One that I feel rumble between us.

"I have a stalker," I admit matter-of-factly, waiting for his reply, which comes instantly.

"Continue," he responds just as candidly.

"He sends me letters, some kinda cool and even bordering on romantic, but most of them vulgar, controlling, and flat out frightening. He's this weirdo, reading serial killer books and sneaking up behind me. Somehow he has my phone number."

"Serial killer books?" His voice is strained, eyes betraying what looks like confusion.

I sigh, my arms prickling from the disturbing wave that crashes over me. "Jack the Ripper, to be precise. That's scary, right?"

"I can see where it would be, yes." His arms dip lower on my back and clutch me even tighter, not that I thought it was possible.

"My thoughts exactly. He works at my
old
favorite bookstore." I exhale, the burden of bearing the secret and fear alone alleviated. "Sorry, not your problem, but thank you for listening. And for the dance." I smile up at him and break from his grasp when the song ends…again.

He lets me go without another word. Turning, bladder full, I head toward the ladies' room, hesitating at the mouth of the deep, dark, empty hallway.

"Everything okay?"

I jolt, full of apprehension at his concerned question from behind me. I peer back, face heated. "Fine, I… never mind." I shake my head and walk briskly toward the door marked "Women."

Suck it up, Amelia, you're a grown woman in a packed crowd. You can at least use the restroom by yourself.

That bravado lasts a good two minutes, until the sound of the door opening, followed by heavy footsteps, slams foreboding bolts of alarm straight to my gut. I pee as fast as physically possible and stand in a rush, fixing my clothing and peeking through the crack in the stall door.

A woman's at the sink using the mirror to touch up her lipstick. I blow out a breath and emerge, moving beside her to wash my hands. She gives me a curt smile then walks out and I rush to follow right behind her.

And there he stands, the Angel of Music—yes, I've seen the play many times—leaning against the wall.

"Wh-what are you doing?" I stammer, my voice meek.

"Waiting for you."

Gorgeous, enigmatic, and above all, safe, chivalrously awaiting my exit because he knew I was antsy. The man's considerate, hot as hell…and I'm two drinks and one sip in. And let's not forget I'm closing in dangerously on
fifteen
months.

Let go, Amelia. Fly, fall. Those arms could catch anything.

One brave breath and I propel myself forward until I'm on him, hands as roaming and ravenous as my mouth. Needy and unorthodox, I beg him with my tongue and erratic heartbeat against his massive, solid chest to take me away from my reality, even if just for a moment.

He answers without words as well, his hands sliding down my back. His lips are soft but masculine and the stroke of his potent tongue soaks me to my core, my mind a flurry of lust and abandonment.

His mouth is demanding, unequivocally taking control as he leads us backwards in a tangled mess of limbs. One hand leaves my ass as he reaches behind himself to turn a knob, and we fall into a dark closet. The click of the lock is deafening.

"Please," I whimper, trying to climb the giant man.

"Sshh." He places a finger over my mouth. "Up," he barks, grabbing my hips and lifting me to sit on a shelf.

I collapse forward the instant I'm settled, digging my fingers into his hair and pulling his hot, scorching mouth back over my own.

"Yes?" he grunts, stepping between my legs and using his hips to spread them open, sliding one finger along the outline of material barely concealing my dripping pussy. I nod with wanton vigor, my face buried in his thick neck, where I suck like I'm starving.

He breaches the barrier, a rough, calloused fingertip tracing each moist lip before sliding up the middle, stopping on my clit, where he applies glorious pressure.

"Uhhh," I mewl, sacrificing the taste of his skin as my head falls back, landing against a box that might as well be a cloud. I feel nothing but him.

A bit incoherent, I
think
those pressured circles are now magically made with his thumb, because I'm abruptly penetrated far too deep for anything other than a finger, stiff and beautifully punishing. I grind in rhythm to his probing, selfishly seeking my own torrent of long-awaited release. But cognitive of the throbbing hardness, twitching against my thigh, I reach for his zipper.

My wrist is caught, a menacing but taunting grip of unspoken authority.

"No," he pants, unfailing in his assault at my core. "Only for you. Tonight I give, not take." He leans in, pressing light nips up my jawline until he reaches my ear. As his warm breath heaves faster, his thrusting in and out of me speeds and my clit is swirled, pressed, then pinched as he husks in definitive command, "Come now,
for me,
Amelia."

And I do, endlessly; longer, wetter and more whole-body-partaking than ever before in my life.

Oh God.
Fuck the fact that I'm in a closet with a stranger I work with, possibly for. I needed that orgasm like I need to sleep, eat and breathe. Tiny ripples of aftershock continue to assault me through the passing minutes as I try to calm myself.

When I'm collected enough to speak, my lazy, half-lidded, sated eyes peek up to his.

"But what about you? I can—"

Again, his finger, fragrant of me, covers my lips.

"In time, Beauty."

Chapter 11

The door slams with his abrupt departure. My initial reaction is trembling hysteria, my chest collapsing in on itself, lungs seized in hyperventilation.

That
was
him
. Him is…
him
!

Survival instincts kick in full throttle. There's no one else to help you, Amelia, you have to help yourself!

I grab at everything and anything in this no longer euphoric, now very much claustrophobic, closet of macabre, frantically shoving it in front of the door.