Nicola Marsh - Sweet Thing / Make Me Want

‘Sparkling water if you’ve got it, please.’

‘For you, babe, anything.’ I flashed her a quick grin, surprised when she smiled back. Maybe all that dancing had loosened up her reservations? ‘Take a seat.’

But she didn’t. Instead, she strolled around the room, inspecting it. ‘What is this place?’

‘My hideout.’ I grabbed a bottle of mineral water out of the bar fridge, unscrewed the cap and poured it into a long glass, adding a sliver of lemon. ‘When hosting a bunch of selfish, spoiled brats in the VIP room, I need a place to escape, and this is it.’

‘It’s nice,’ she said, trailing her hand over the butter-soft black leather sofas, the small glass-topped desk in the corner, the display cabinet where I kept my awards. ‘These all yours?’

‘No, I mug every sportsman who comes in here and stash the loot in here,’ I deadpanned, handing her the drink.

‘Thanks.’ She took the glass and downed the mineral water in several gulps as I stared at the almost convulsive movement of her throat and desperately tried not to imagine her doing something similar to me.

When she finished, she handed me the glass with a sheepish smile. ‘I was parched.’

‘Want a top-up?’

‘Please.’ She turned back to the awards as I poured her another glass. ‘You’ve won a lot of stuff in the hospitality industry.’

‘Awards are ego-strokers.’ I handed her the glass, forcing myself to look away this time. I couldn’t be any harder if I tried, grateful that I’d installed a bathroom in here too so the minute I put her in a cab I could take a cold shower. ‘I prefer to see results in profit margins.’

She stilled, sadness creeping across her face. ‘My father used to say that a lot. Always about the profit margins.’

‘That’s what matters most to savvy businessmen. That and a healthy portfolio.’

She screwed up her nose and damned if it wasn’t the cutest thing I’d ever seen. ‘Is that what you’re all about? Because those tattoos speak more about rebelling against convention than caring about portfolios.’

‘What’s with you and my tats?’ I shrugged out of my jacket, flung it on a sofa and rolled up my sleeves. ‘Here. Look your fill. Then judge me some more.’

I had no idea where my outburst came from but I felt like a jackass the moment she blushed in mortification.

‘I didn’t mean to judge—I mean, I just haven’t seen tattoos up close and—’

‘And you still haven’t,’ I muttered, hating that she’d touched a sore spot without knowing it and I’d reacted accordingly.

My tats were more than art.

They defined me.

At a time in my life when I hadn’t been comfortable in my own skin, I took on a new one.

And having a woman like Abby judge me as just another deadhead rebel because of my tats really pissed me off.

‘This would be looking at them up close,’ I growled, trying to tamp down my anger and failing as I unbuttoned my shirt and shrugged it off. ‘Here. Take a good look. See if you can figure me out.’

I stood in front of her, hands on hips, defiant and oddly vulnerable. I shouldn’t care what she thought of me. After Remy was back on his feet, I’d be outta here and back on the road, heading to Bangkok or Ibiza or Munich, creating successful clubs that would define me more than my tats.

But I did care. And that was what pissed me off the most.

I shouldn’t give a flying fuck what Abby thought of me.

Yet I did.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her apology soft and uncertain, her gaze riveted to my chest. ‘I’ve offended you.’

My anger dimmed a little as she scanned my chest as if studying for an art exam. Her hungry gaze gobbling me up and coming back for seconds. She couldn’t look away.

I’d never been studied so closely, her scrutiny disconcerting. It felt like she could see through the tats to the real me beneath, the scared little boy I’d once been, desperate for approval.

‘You’re beautiful,’ she said, taking a step closer to study me, gnawing on her bottom lip a little, the innocuous action making me want to throw her down on the sofa and take her.

Not ‘the tats are beautiful’, but ‘you’re beautiful’, her simple statement deflating what was left of my resentment.

Had it been a slip of the tongue or had she meant it? Because no one saw past my tats and a few moments ago she’d been like the rest, judging me for them.

‘May I?’ Before I could react she touched me, the briefest brush of her fingertips skating across my skin, tracing every inch of ink.

The Buddha. The peace sign outlined in flowers. The phoenix.

Symbols of my past.

My search for clarity.

My quest for harmony.

Rising out of the ashes of my childhood.

I held my breath as she moved lower, skirting around the pirate. Her fingertips light as air but making my skin burn.

‘Seen enough?’ I said through gritted teeth, regretting I’d let my anger get the better of me and done this.

Because daring her to look and expecting her to blush and turn away was far different from having Abby touch me like she wanted to explore my tats.

All over.

Her gaze lifted to mine and the blatant lust darkening her eyes to indigo blew me away.

Fuck, I was in trouble. So much trouble.

‘Not nearly enough,’ she murmured before placing her hand flush against my straining cock. ‘All these pretty tattoos are an insult to your manhood, so you better show me that pirate’s peg leg so my faith in you is restored.’

Laughter burst from deep within me as I held onto the last of my self-control.

‘Abby, this is a bad idea. You’re Remy’s protégé and when this all turns to shit—’

‘It won’t,’ she said, stroking me lightly through my jeans, shredding the last of my resolve. ‘One night. That’s all I’m asking for.’

She removed her hand and I inwardly cursed my misplaced chivalry. ‘Though in fairness, I should disclose I haven’t had sex in over a year so I may break you.’

I could resist the snooty princess.

I couldn’t resist this playful, honest woman who stared at me like she could devour me in one gulp and come back for seconds.

‘Fuck, Abby, you’re making this hard—’

‘I sure as hell hope so.’ She cupped me again, firmer this time, and I lost it.

I dragged her forward and crushed her to me, grinding against her so she was in little doubt to exactly how this would go.

Hot, sweaty animalistic sex. Fast and furious and so fucking good.

She reacted like I’d set her alight. Slamming her mouth to mine. Pushing me against the nearest wall. Climbing all over me.

It was the hottest frigging thing ever, having someone like her want someone like me so damn much.

Her tongue stroked mine, shy and darting one second, bold and commanding the next, as her hand sneaked between us to touch me.

She kissed aggressively, long, deep sweeps of her tongue totally at odds with the aloof front she usually presented. It turned me on even more, the contrast between fire and ice. Hot and cold. So frigging hot.

She’d go off when I entered her, I just knew it, and my cock ached with wanting to be inside her.

I palmed her breast, rolling the nipple between my thumb and forefinger, drawing a deep groan from her. Sensitive breasts, I liked that. I needed to feast on them, to suck on those nipples until she screamed.

But my mind momentarily blanked as she slid her hand inside my jocks. Wrapped her fingers around my cock. And squeezed.

‘I want to see you,’ she murmured against my mouth, nipping at my bottom lip while continuing to squeeze me. Stroke me. Undo me.

‘Right back at you.’ I hissed out a breath as her thumb rolled over the head of my cock, and I stilled her hand, withdrew it before I embarrassed myself.