Something's Come Up (4 page)

It was her.

“I’ll go to the bar.” I felt the hostess’s eyes on me as I weaved through the faceless crowd.

Only one face mattered, and some Italian dude with a spray tan was inches away from hers. From the irritated look in her eyes, there was no way she’d shown up with that guy. Not her type at all. Even though I didn’t know her name, I knew enough about the way she carried herself to know she’d never
be with
a man who wore a tube of hair gel and overly branded clothing.

When I finally reached her, I slid my arm around her waist. “It’s been a while.”

She jumped, but that familiar blaze in her eyes returned when she focused on my face. She looked twice between me and the Vatican’s resident Oompa Loompa before arching her eyebrow and slapping me.

Across the face.

“You’re late, you son of a bitch.”

I took a step back, my eyes wide in confusion, pissed at being slapped in public. Without reason, for once.

“I’m…sorry.” I don’t know why I did it, but I decided to play along.

“You should be. Let’s go.” She slid that perfectly round ass of hers from the high barstool, gripping my forearm for balance on her unreasonably high heels.

The guy wasn’t going to give her up without a fight. Smart man. Stupid man.

“Come on, Cherry. Just one dance.”

I had the distinct impression that
Cherry
would be far from okay with her in terms of nicknames.

“Dude,” I stood straighter and spoke in the courtroom voice I’d been practicing for a year, “she’s leaving with me.”

“Yeah?” He was at least six inches shorter than me with an ego he’d hoped made up the difference. “Well, I’m trying to get her to leave with me.”

I felt a small but forceful tug on my hand, but I wasn’t going to back down. I had the urge to punch him into the floor, but instead I stared plain-faced at him until he shifted his eyes to the side.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s go, Red.” Lacing my fingers with hers, I led her into the lukewarm autumn air.

She shook her hand free as soon as the door closed behind us. “Thanks.”

“Who the hell was that? Not exactly your type…” I slid my hands into my pockets to resist the urge I had to grab her hand again.

“Some Jersey Shore douchebag. DJ Gnocchifun, or something.”

“Jersey Shore as in the beach?” I stayed in step with her, and damn it if I wasn’t having a hard time keeping up with her speed.

“Jersey Shore as in the downfall of MTV. I’m pretty sure he didn’t follow me out, though. Guido pride and all that. You can go back in and eat.”

Oh hell no
. There was no way I’d let her escape into thin air again.

“Let me just walk you home, okay?”

She stopped in her tracks. “Are you trying to be a gentleman?”

“No,” I held out my arm, “I
am
one.”

For a few seconds I stood there like an idiot on the street holding my arm out to a woman who stood as still as a statue. For a moment, she seemed to suppress an amused smile and I thought for sure she was going to laugh in my face. After she seemed to study me enough, she spoke.

“Fine. But put your arm down. You look stupid.”

I held my hand out as an alternative.

“I’m not holding your hand, either. I don’t…do that.”

I sighed in relief. “Thank God. Let’s go.”

I turned on my heels, but didn’t miss the sexy little grin before she fell in step next to me.

“How far do you live from here, Red?” I asked as we turned onto Central Park West.

“Just up here a bit. And don’t call me Red. I haven’t given you permission.”

“There are few things I ask permission for.” In my peripheral vision, I saw the side of her mouth curl at my firm delivery. Seems the little lady could dish it out
and
take it after all.

I looked around at the buildings built with brick and money, wondering where the hell she lay her head at night. “You haven’t given me your name, either.”

“So?”

“So, I’ll just have to come up with something to call you if you don’t like ‘Red.’” I gave her a sideways glance. “Let’s see...you look like a pissed off Strawberry Shortcake.”

She’d been walking a step ahead of me, but she stopped again, nearly making me trip over her. “I beg your fucking pardon?”

“You know. Pink hat, red hair, freckle-cheeked—”

“I do
not
have freckles. Look closer.”

Taking advantage of her opening, I stepped closer and brushed my thumbs across both cheeks. “You’re right. Smooth. Flawless. Still, you’re like Shortcake after she rolled around in hot peppers or something. You’re spicy. I can tell.”

I assumed she’d use that opportunity to slap me again, but this time for real. Instead, she placed her hands over my wrists and tightened her tiny fingers around them.

“Are you for real?”

“One hundred percent.” My voice stayed as serious as her eyes.

She gave me on decisive nod. “All right. Let’s go.”

She grabbed my hand urgently and raced us across the street onto West 72nd. She stopped at the first building and made her way up the stairs. My feet stayed planted in the concrete.

“What?” she snapped, turning to me impatiently.

I looked around, holding out my hands. “
The Dakota
?” Sure as shit, I was standing the foot of the steps of one of the most exclusive buildings in all of Manhattan.

Now, I hadn’t planned on going into real estate at that point, but upon moving to New York, I made it my business to learn the most expensive places to live—things like that matter in New York, and it was good to have goals. In this city, prime real estate was a goal. I knew more about that building than I was betting Little Red did standing there with her hands on her hips.

“It’s a family apartment. You coming or not?”

“I’m coming.” Something in her voice made me forget all about the historical affluence of the German and French-inspired building.

As we passed the white-gloved doorman, I was thankful I was still in the clothes I’d worn to class. Had I changed into my jeans, as planned, I’d have felt thoroughly out of place.

Without hassle, we were suddenly inside the elevator, alone, and I made a mental goal addition—live in a building with a white-gloved doorman.

As soon as the doors closed, her hands were on my chest and my back was pushed against the far wall of the elevator with a loud thud.

“And then I did a little something like this…” Steph’s hand rode up the inside of my thigh, stopping an inch away from where I hoped she was going to stop.

I shook my head and blinked twice. Was she really in my building in Boston, making the first move in an elevator again?

“And you smiled at me like a dirty old man. Unlike now.” She stepped back, her eyes growing dark. She slowly cocked her head at an angle. “What’s up, Pace? Are you married or did you finally come out of the closet?”

I was on her then. For Stephanie, a taunt like that was an engraved invitation to fuck her on the spot. My hands gripped her heart-shaped ass and my lips found hers instantly, knowing exactly how she’d taste, how her tongue would move against mine, and loving it like it was the first time.

She fumbled with the button at my fly. I’d lost the belt the minute Kym—with a y—left my apartment, knowing I wouldn’t need it for the duration of Red’s stay. It would simply get in her way and piss her off. And when Red ain’t happy, ain’t no one happy.

She had me out and dropped to her knees within seconds—I swear to God—seconds. I realized I hadn’t hit the emergency stop and tried with what little blood was left in my head to remember if there were security cameras in the elevators.

“W-wait,” I stammered, grabbing the material of her top and yanking her to her feet. I stuffed my rock hard dick back into the tortuous confines of my pants and pulled my shirt down to cover the bulge.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she complained, her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink. “Don’t tell me you’ve become a prude in your old age.”

“Security cameras.” I nodded to the spot on the ceiling.

Steph stepped closer to it, her face rosy with arousal. Her eyes sparkled with intrigue, her lips curling up in a wicked smile. “Maybe we should put on a show for them.”

“Haven’t you had enough public attention lately?” I asked, watching her for a response. Parts of my anatomy practically danced at her suggestion, but I had a reputation to protect. Red...well...she’d been in the spotlight a lot lately. And not in a good way.

I expected her to glower at me menacingly or give me her patented husky laugh. Either would be a typical reaction. Instead, she blushed profusely and glanced at the floor, looking incredibly uncomfortable. This was a rare sight and had I had my phone out, I might’ve snapped a picture for posterity. She would have choked me out and stomped my phone into a hundred tiny pieces, so it’s for the best that I’d left it in my apartment. Seeing vulnerable Red was something I treasured, yet after all these years, it made me more than a little sad to see her that way. I knew she could take plenty good care of herself, but knowing she’d been hurt still made me want to track the overly entitled rat bastard down. Before either of us had a chance to speak, the elevator chimed and door slid open.

I put my hand on the small of her back, but it quickly traveled to her ass and directed her toward my place. I couldn’t wait to show it off. It wasn’t The Dakota—I mean, how many people can say their parents were neighbors of John and Yoko?—but for Boston, The W had similar status and prestige. As I pushed the door open for her, I fought the urge to watch her reaction. She had a legendary appreciation for beauty—an occupational hazard, I suppose—and she wasn’t easily impressed.

“Fancy, Cary,” she chirped, using the heinous nickname to undermine the compliment.

Stephanie Brier, ladies and gentlemen. No nicety is ever delivered without the immediate crack of a riding crop. “Law school seems to have paid itself off tenfold.”

“Sort of. I’m in real estate. I work for the company that owns this building.”

She whipped around with a skeptical look on her face. “Real estate? I thought you were going to take down—”

“I am,” I cut in. “I just have to get all of my ducks in a row, gather funds …” I trailed off, not wanting to talk about
that
tonight.

She nodded, tossed down her purse and started unbuttoning her shirt. I was thankful that she rarely required more information than was given. She didn’t pump people for information, she said it tended to make them feel like she owed friendship to them. And, frankly, two friends were plenty for Steph.

I smiled. “Want a beer?”

“Is it a day ending in ‘y’?”

I made for the fridge and pulled a bottle of beer out for her. When I turned around, she was standing behind me, pushing me against it. Tiny but spirited. Her angelic face was such a contradiction to what I knew lay beneath. Those bee-stung lips curled in a crooked, impish grin.

“I meant
after
, Pace.”

She dropped to her knees for a second time, pulling my pants to my ankles in one fluid movement. I looked down at her, groaning as she flipped back her flaming hair and peeked up at me from under those naughty dark eyelashes. My semi-flaccid dick sprang to attention as if he was an infantryman and she was blaring Reveille. Her warm, wet tongue taunted me, and I relaxed back against the cool steel of the fridge.

Her swirling acrobatics caused my eyes to roll back involuntarily. I’d had my share of blow jobs, but Red’s enthusiasm and attention to detail were unmatched. She applied just the right amount of pressure and when she moaned against my flesh, the vibrations were maddening. I gripped her hair with both my hands and thrust myself further down her throat.

“Damn, Red. Get that sweet ass up here.”

She paused, slowly and theatrically releasing me from between those insane lips. The moment the cool air hit my cock, I regretted interrupting her. She pressed my pelvis further against the fridge.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped, her grip around me never faltering.

Then that mouth was back on me, though much less aggressively this time. Her approach took on a leisurely pace, as if to say “how ya like me now?” She was punishing me for interrupting her and damn if I didn’t love it. It was unadulterated agony, and I couldn't stop myself from grinding against her face. When she predictably pulled me out of her mouth for the second time, I forcefully pulled her to her feet, stepping out of the restraint of the jeans still around my ankles. She tried to object, but my mouth silenced any petulance. She tried to push me away, but I soon felt her tongue undulating rhythmically against mine. I was done playing.

With one expert motion, her bra was undone and my palms were enjoying the familiar sensation of her ripe, pink nipples. She gasped—arguably the hottest sound I’ve ever heard—and I spun her away from me and bent her over the island. I stroked my fingers gently over her flawless ivory skin and worked at undoing the zipper of her jeans, all the while planting wet, wanton kisses on her shoulder, her side, her lower back. I yanked down the denim blockade between me and that fleshy ass of hers. As I knelt down to pull the jeans from around her high heels, I nipped her ass cheek hard. She gasped again and I smiled like a fiend.