Pamela Yaye - Pleasure In His Kiss

“That’s ridiculous!” Morrison said, addressing Karma. “Why would you give my niece such a long shift? She’s just a kid. Did you work eight-hour shifts when you were a teenager?”

“Yeah, I did. In fact, I worked thirty hours a week, and maintained a 4.0 GPA.”

Reagan stared at Karma with stars in her eyes, and Morrison groaned inwardly. Damn. The last thing he wanted was for his niece to put the salon owner on a pedestal, but because of his blunder Reagan was gazing at Karma in awe, as if she’d just finished a death-defying stunt.

“I know Reagan is busy with school so she only works sixteen hours a week—”

“Sixteen hours a week,” Morrison repeated, folding his arms rigidly across his chest. “So, all the times you told me you were going to the library to study you were here, doing hair and nails? Why did you lie to me? Why didn’t you tell me you’d gotten a part-time job?”

“Because I knew you’d get mad. You always get mad when I don’t do what you want, but I love working here and Ms. Karma says I’m talented.”

Karma picked up a piece of paper from off her desk. “Here’s a copy of Reagan’s schedule for April, and May,” she explained, speaking in a soft, soothing voice. “Look it over, Mr. Drake. If you’re not happy with her shifts we can discuss it further.”

“But I want to work more, Ms. Karma, not less.”

Morrison scoffed. If I have my way you won’t be working here at all.

“Here you go.” Karma offered him the paper.

Morrison wanted to take the schedule and rip it to pieces, but he took the paper, folded it and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “Reagan, I’ll be back to pick you up at six o’clock.”

“You will?” she asked, the disappointment evident in her voice. “But I thought you were going out with your friends tonight.”

“Don’t worry. I’m going, and you’re spending the night with your grandparents.”

“Lucky me,” she drawled. “Can’t wait.”

Morrison kissed Reagan on the cheek. “Be good.”

“I will. Have fun at the sports club,” she said with a wave. “Take it easy on Uncle Duane. He’s a sleep-deprived dad of four, so don’t beat him too bad!”

Morrison chuckled, but as he exited the office and marched through the salon, he wasn’t thinking about his tennis match with his brother or his game strategy. He was thinking about Karma Sullivan—the sexy salon owner with the sensuous mouth and drool-worthy curves.

Chapter 3

An hour after leaving Beauty by Karma, Morrison parked his silver BMW X6 at the north entrance of the Hamptons Sports Club and took off his seat belt. He grabbed his water bottle and iPhone from the center console, and exited the SUV. Starving, he’d stopped at his favorite downtown café on the way to the sports complex and ordered the All-American breakfast. He’d left the family-owned restaurant with a smile on his face, a pep in his step and a full stomach. Now Morrison was ready for his tennis match, and confident he’d win.

A grin claimed his mouth. Duane was no competition; his brother would rather play video games in his free time, than sports, and Morrison suspected the only reason he’d agreed to meet up with him was to get out of the house. A brilliant software developer, with a hearty laugh and jovial personality, he’d quit his corporate job in the city so he could start his own business and spend more time with his family. Although he worked from home, Duane often joked about being a “househusband,” but it was obvious he adored his sons and his pediatrician wife, Erikah.

Morrison retrieved his Nike duffel bag from the trunk, tossed it over his shoulder and activated the car alarm. The morning sun was overcast, filled with dark, fluffy clouds, and the air held the scent of rain. Approaching the outdoor tennis courts, Morrison heard balls bounce, cheers and groans, and the distant sound of pop music. The sports complex had it all, manicured grounds, knowledgeable staff and instructors, and an outdoor snack shop that served coffee, sandwiches and fruit.

Taking a deep breath quieted Morrison’s mind, helping him to relax. He enjoyed the great outdoors, liked seeing the birds, the towering trees and the peaceful, picturesque views. Hearing his cell phone buzz, he fished it out of his pocket and read his newest text message. It was from his mom. Morrison felt guilty for not updating his family about Reagan. He should have phoned his mom from the car, instead of daydreaming about Karma Sullivan, but for some reason he couldn’t get the salon owner out of his mind.

Morrison relived their conversation, dissecting everything Karma had said and done that morning. He was a great judge of character, could size up anyone in ten seconds flat, and he suspected Karma was a party girl who lived life by her own rules. The salon owner was a magnet, the kind of woman who attracted male attention wherever she went, the complete opposite of the females he usually dated. Still, he was intrigued by her, drawn to her. In her office, it took everything in Morrison not to touch her, and every time she looked at him he felt the urge to kiss her hard on the mouth. An hour after leaving the salon his body was still throbbing with need, but it was nothing a cold shower and a shot of Bourbon couldn’t cure.

Typing fast, Morrison comprised a group text message to his family, letting them know he’d found Reagan, and hit Send. The complex was crawling with sports enthusiasts but he didn’t see his brother anywhere, and wondered if Duane had changed his mind about the game. Morrison played tennis three times a week, regardless of the weather, and was proud of his undefeated record. A fierce competitor with a passion for the game, he’d do anything to win, and he wasn’t going to show his brother any mercy.

Strolling toward the tennis courts, Morrison saw children running around in circles, and a group of British nannies chatting in front of the water fountain. The women smiled and waved, and Morrison nodded in greeting. Glancing at his Gucci sports watch, he realized he was ten minutes late to meet his brother, and broke into a jog.

“Morrison Drake in the flesh? This must be my lucky day!” shrieked a female voice.

A brunette, in a red, lace-trimmed mesh dress, that looked more like lingerie than tennis attire, appeared in front of him, doing the happy dance. Morrison tried to move away but the woman was too fast. Pressing her body against his, she kissed him on each cheek. Her sickly sweet perfume made his eyes sting and his stomach churn.

Morrison thought hard. What was the woman’s name again? She was one of his brother’s fiancée’s friends, and he vaguely remembered meeting her at Roderick and Toya’s engagement party last summer. After a whirlwind courtship, his brother had popped the question to the twenty-five-year-old blonde from New Hampshire, and the couple were sparing no expense for their dream wedding. Roderick was an entertainment attorney who spent money like a Saudi prince, and the last time Morrison saw his youngest brother he’d bragged about booking Adele and John Legend to perform at the September ceremony.

“It’s so great to see you again, Morrison,” she gushed, her hand grazing his ass. “You look as handsome as ever. How have you been?”

Put off by how loud and aggressive she was, Morrison stepped back. He wanted to run for cover but remembered he was a Drake, not a pubescent boy, and gave a polite nod. Morrison couldn’t believe how bold she was, and searched the grounds for the nearest escape route. “Great, thanks, and you?”

“Better, now that we’re together,” she purred, coiling a lock of frizzy hair around her index finger. “Join me inside for a drink. I just finished my private lesson, and my Swedish instructor worked me hard this morning. I could use something cold right now.”