by Katy Evans
My stomach caves in, and I don’t want my disappointment to ruin my evening. I inhale deeply, trying to feel calm and happy. Proud of myself, which I am. Never mind that I wanted him to be proud of me too, for some reason. I wanted him to watch me work this room and admire me the same way I watched him work those cards and admired his savvy.
“Thanks, Isaac,” I whisper, thinking he probably didn’t hear me. I should’ve pushed him off on Saint. Malcolm is great at making his friends throw down the plastic.
My back is against the wall and I notice a shadowy figure at the end of the hallway, talking to Rachel and Saint. He moves away from them and starts across the room, and my eyes widen. Disbelief and excitement streaks through me as I register the height of him, the breadth, the shade of his hair, the features of that figure.
All free eyes land on him.
But his eyes are on no one else but me. He runs them over my figure in blatant appraisal as he strides forward. My knees start wobbling.
Sensations tangle together as I try to continue on as if nothing monumental has happened. Is happening. I’m not sure I can do this right now—melt for Cullen right here, in my real world, in my gallery.
I don’t move. I can’t move.
Cullen.
My heart is near exploding.
Cullen-fucking-Carmichael.
Our eyes hold.
The hammering in my heart turns to thunder. Impossible to soothe.
He frowns at a point in the darkness, and I know Cullen is frowning at Isaac behind me.
Damn him.
I want to yell and scream for making me lose control of myself but my body is already too defiant. I’m not in control here.
He is.
It makes me angry, it makes me rebellious, it makes me feel fierce and like challenging him for making me feel like this.
I don’t speak. I shouldn’t have to. Cullen stops before me, his scent making me dizzy, his gaze roving over my face as he tips my face back to study me.
“So is this how it’s going to be?” he finally asks, quiet but harsh, towering over me, his hands on my shoulders. He’s looking down on me. His poker face on.
I clench my fists, dig my nails into my palms. He tilts my chin up. “Red?”
I look into his eyes, those hot silver eyes, the eyes that I love watching as he’s thrusting inside me, eating me up, kissing me madly.
This man is my ruin. He’s my ruin because no other man will ever compare enough to even make the sliding scale.
“Answer me.”
“What do you want me to say exactly?” I’m tempted to tell him about the shower sex he didn’t enjoy, about the fantasy sex, the my mouth on his cock dream that he didn’t get to experience.
“Is this the way it will be if I don’t do what you want me to do, you’ll what—find the next big Vegas whale and do your damnedest to make me jealous?”
“Are you?”
His lips twitch.
“What I thought.” I duck under his arm, but he stops me . . .
“Come here, Watson, we’re not done here . . .” His hand lands on my hip. He pulls me closer, his warmth surrounding me.
“I’m jealous. All right. I don’t want anyone to share your days with you . . . only me . . . What you do to me, Wynn . . . Don’t you see what’s going on here? My game is off. I can’t focus . . .”
“That’s what I am to you,” I remind him. “We’re playing a game.”
“You’re playing a game.” He shakes his head somberly, his poker face gone, his eyes livid with heat. “I’m playing for keeps.”
“What?”
He nods, ever so slowly, as his hand lands on my hip. He pins me to the wall, gently kicking my ankles aside so he can stand between my legs.
I’m dying now. Dying when he rests his arm casually against the wall then places a kiss on my forehead and says, “Think the press will mind if I give you a little kiss?”
“Go for it,” I whisper.
“Game. On.”
Before our mouths meet, I already know I’m in trouble. I’m in trouble when his lips crash against mine and my body arches to his. I’m struggling to catch my breath as our tongues duel. We’re both looking for the lead and if it’s the lead we want, it’s one we’ll easily have.
Flashes of light explode around us as reporters move closer. The room falls still and quiet before the timeless energy is absorbed by a round of clapping and laughter.
I press my lips together and sort of fall forward, my hands balling in his shirt, more of an effort to hang on to him rather than push him away.
Malcolm Saint is a LIFESAVER when he stands in front of us and steers the onlookers back to the heart of the gallery. Tahoe hangs back long enough to smirk and says something like, “Damn, kids, get a room.”
I blush because that’s probably what we’ll see in the headlines tomorrow, but embarrassing news is better than no news at all.
At least this embarrassing news will be decadent and true.
I look up at my smoking-hot gambling man and whisper, “Now look what you’ve done.”
He drags me forward a little bit and whispers back, “Wait until I have an hour alone with you then talk to me.” He starts to saunter off but then hangs back for another axis-tilting kiss. His mouth is a whisper away when he says, “And Wynn? Don’t taunt me . . .”
“Cullen,” I groan, flushing.
Exhaling, I meet his gaze. The last thing I want to do is break this moment, but if there’s anything as important to me as Cullen, it’s my artists. I tug him around. “I promise we can pick this up later and then some, but right now, I have to introduce some incredible art to you, as well as to all my guests.”
His eyes gleam with pride.
“Carmichael,” Tahoe and Saint call out to him. Cullen pulls his gaze away from me and greets them. “Saint. Roth.” They slap each other’s shoulders, and Cullen glances at me as I let them have their space and get busy winding around the room.
I can’t help but FEEL Cullen looking at me as I greet my guests, and I’m working it extra hard for some reason. Not just for my artists and me. It’s as if I need him desperately to see what a bigwig gallerist I am.
* * *
I can’t believe he came.
He’s driving me home after the last customer leaves and Pepper and I are able to close. I’m aching for my gambling man so hard that when we arrive at my building, I tell him where to park and lead him upstairs as if someone’s chasing us. Maybe our hormones. Maybe all these days without him. Maybe our hearts. I sigh when I’ve finally got him inside my apartment. All mine. All for me.
Though Silver Eyes looks at me as if it’s vice versa. Like I’m all his. All for him.
“This is my place. It’s a little messy . . . with the whole gallery opening . . .”
I realize Cullen looks terribly masculine in my feminine space. The space seems too small. The scent of his cologne fills it right up.
I flush.
He notices.
His stare is teasing as he reaches around me, pulling me close to him.
As soon as I gasp, he brushes his mouth over mine, dropping one kiss on my lips. I sizzle as if I’ve been set on fire. I go up on tiptoes. Cullen leans down for another kiss. This one he finishes with a small, delicious bite on my lower lip. I squeeze deep inside with longing, parting my lips, inviting him to do more damage.
He repeats this kiss—biting me again, pulling back my lower lip from my teeth, sucking gently, causing damage to my whole being. I groan and slip my hands around his neck, then slide them down the front of his chest, aching to touch him.
His hand roams up and down my back while he hungrily nibbles on my mouth and removes my silky gold top. My lace-clad breasts are revealed. He lets my top fall at our feet and his eyes smolder on me. “So gorgeous,” he growls, covering my breasts with his bare hands. Sending that same heated look to both my nipples as they salute him.
He tweaks both peaks at the same time. And he wa
tches my expression as he does. I gasp in delight, the pleasure like streaks of white thunder shooting up my veins. His eyes darken as he takes in my reactions. His lips curl, and he does it again, tweaking.
“Oh god. Cullen!”
I nudge him, but when he doesn’t budge, I grab his ass, fill my hands with the muscles there, and pull him toward me.
He growls and dives down to bite my lips again, kiss them. Suck them.
This kiss becomes more heated, less controlled. We’re both breathing hard. I can feel him getting wilder, more possessive, more alpha.
He unfastens his belt buckle, his button and his zipper.
His muscles ripple with his movements and I clutch all over when his belt clatters to the floor. I’m imploding with desire and yearning and something so fierce, I don’t even understand the feeling.
I look at Cullen and want to press so close that we’re literally one.
I’ve jumped from guy to guy my whole life, knowing what I need, but never finding it, never feeling like I get it. Now this man is here and he is all I want. I’m so hooked on him that all I want is to give him everything I’ve got and then some.
I kiss his lips. He kisses mine. He smiles down at me with my favorite smile, masculine, arrogant, elusive—the smile that makes my heart turn in my chest.
There’s a question in his eyes as he removes my hairclip. I nod in answer as my hair tumbles to my shoulders. He looks at the red strands with appreciation.
“You don’t want him,” he murmurs, and then his fingers move under the fall of my hair at the back of my neck.
His eyes are possessive, challenging, as if daring me to keep taunting him with Isaac. With any other man.
My breath catches as his fingers slide under the front of my chest. Fingertips on my skin. The surprising tenderness in the hot, hungry lips on the side of my neck break through all my walls.
I turn my head, parting my lips for him. His palm opens on my cheek. Pinning me in place. And his lips seize mine. I gasp.
He unfastens my bra, and then he yanks it away. I clutch his head at the soft swirl of his tongue over my nipple. “Fuck, oh . . .” I gasp.
His breathing changes, desire clouding his anger.
“You’re angry but it isn’t me you’re angry with,” I breathe.
“Trust me. I’m angry at you. I’m fucking pissed at you. You were trying to make me jealous on purpose, Wynn. I don’t like it when people play games with me.”
“Yes, you do,” I groan.
I grab his sweater and pull it over his head. His chest beneath my fingertips is smooth and strong. His mouth more voracious over mine. Cullen pulling me closer. Cullen boosting me up in his arms. My mouth on his jaw, neck, fingers on his chest. Muscled, gorgeous chest.
His lips sucking my earlobe. Him whispering, “You gorgeous redhead.” Fingers easing under my underwear, stroking my folds. Entering me. I’m gasping in his throat. “You beautiful, sweet redhead, don’t you know you’ve been claimed already? Fucking marked already. You’re fucking owned already.” He inserts two fingers, then three.
I groan, out of breath, out of my mind.
He presses me up against the door, pushes my skirt up higher and opens my thighs wider, pushes his fingers in deeper, his thumb rolling my clit.
I’m thrashing.
The addictive noises he makes as he licks, bites, and nibbles on my skin undoing me even more.
His warm breath on my cheek. Holding my head and kissing me more, the kiss painfully raw and bruising and slowing down into one that’s achingly hungry and slow.
The sound of him dropping his pants. His gaze rises and lashes into me. His erection stretched to its fullest length.
Every touch burns.
The slow surge of his body into mine—his chest as hard as the wall. My hands empty at my sides, I fill them with the hard planes of his muscles as I open my thighs wider.
The increase in his speed. Faster and faster. Pulsing, surging waves crash through me. I smell him, all around me, cologne and soap.
My gasping sobs in his ears.
Holding his jaw and pulling him, closer and closer. The sound of me, crying out. His heavy breaths, as fast as mine. And the moment I lift my eyes to find him staring straight into mine with a look of wild tenderness in his eyes.
* * *
We spend the night all over each other, and late the next morning, I crave to feed my man my best recipe. I cook him my famous cauliflower hash browns, along with Applegate’s turkey sausages. Organic and the best. He devours them and I smirk, thinking, hmmm, he needs the energy to keep his stamina up. As if he reads my mind, Cullen sets down his utensils. He pushes his chair back with a screech, and crooks his finger.
Just like that. He summons me to his chair.
My heart skips. I can’t resist him.
Rising from my seat, I cast my breakfast aside. I settle on his lap. Then I’m kissing him and he’s kissing me. Slow but deep. Within seconds, neither of us can breathe.
He makes me weak. I’m trembling with need, but luckily, he’s not weakened. He lifts me up and carries me to bed, where we spend the rest of the morning.
“I have lunch with my father,” he says when we’re done, pecking my lips as he forces me to uncurl my body from his.
“Awww. That’s sweet. I’ll see you later?”
“It’ll have to be night. I’ve got a packed day. Meeting with an architect to discuss my plans for a hotel in Vegas.”
I sit up, wide-eyed. “What? Cullen, that’s amazing.”
He grins. “I know.”
He walks forward, setting his lips on mine. “I’ll see you tonight?”
“My friends said there will be a get-together to welcome the honeymooners back.”
“How about we meet there?”
“But everyone will notice . . .” I halt when he looks at me as if he doesn’t care.
Feeling myself flush as I smile, I devour him with another kiss before he leaves, then I lie back in bed, smiling from ear to ear, never feeling so sexy and delicious in my bed.
FULL HOUSE
I’m at Rachel and Saint’s with the gang that evening, and I’m annoyed that Isaac is here because it’s almost like my friends are pushing something that would be a disaster from the beginning. There isn’t any chemistry there and I’m not sure why no one can see this except Isaac and me.
I grab a glass of champagne and head for my girls, ready to address the pending never-gonna-happen arrangement when the elevator dings.
Turning to greet the next guest, I sip from my glass and nearly choke on a bubble when the doors part and out walks Cullen.
He’s not a surprise entirely. I mean, we said we’d see each other tonight. But he surprises me every time he keeps his word. And he’s been keeping them non-stop.
My heart skips when he walks into the room and looks at me while I look back at him, not even concerned of anyone noticing. His stare is dark and openly admiring, a smile touching his lips.
I feel beautiful under his gaze.
“Do you know he’s always happier when you’re near?” Gina watches him.
“That can’t be true.” I shake my head.
“It’s totally true. When he walked through these doors, there was this smile on his face. He’s into you.”
The way he looks at me, that’s something I won’t ever forget.
I exhale as I hold his gaze, admitting, “Emmett never made me feel like this. Cullen though . . .” I trail off, shaking my head in awe.
He continues approaching, and my mouth goes dry and I nervously gulp down the rest of the champagne, wondering if he’ll brush off the others and make his way to me.
I don’t wonder long. He nods at Gina and Rachel. Maybe he says hello but I don’t hear him.
He’s looking at me like I’m his and I can’t help but feel an inkling of possession. He looks like he belongs to me as much as I belong to him.
I realize I shouldn’t go there, I shouldn’t let my mind
go to this place, but it’s no use. I’m already so drunk on this feeling of belonging to him, of being his girl, his woman.
“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” he says, wrapping his strong arm around my waist and pulling me against his side. He kisses my forehead and whispers, “You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”
And just like that, the anxiety I was feeling slips away. It’s gone. Replaced by happiness and warmth and a sense of homecoming.
“You look nice,” I say, refusing to leave his embrace for a while.
“Just nice?”
“Fucking amazing. How’s that?”
“Better.” He grins.
I bite down on my lip and glance down playfully at his crotch, knowing he likes our intimate little games. “I could’ve said, what do you say we leave this party behind and go fuck until sunup.”
He tightens his grip at my back and whispers, “I’d rather stay between your legs, licking you from one orgasm to the next.”
I gasp and hope no one hears. My tummy tightens. His words sound too much like a ravenous promise that I wouldn’t mind him keeping.
“You wanna play? My turn.” I stand on my tiptoes and whisper, “I’d rather have you stroking your length between my lips.”
I walk away then, certain his eyes are on my hips as I rejoin my friends who are talking about Rachel’s mothering skills. Apparently, little Kyle loves reading his mother to sleep and once she closes her eyes, he’ll give up the story and close his as well. Their little game has allowed Rachel and Saint more alone time.
“Just what you two need,” Gina says. “More time in the bedroom. You’ll be pregnant within a month.”
“Not happening,” Rachel says, turning to me. “And what are you doing over here with us when your man is over there looking like he wants to drag you off to the nearest bedroom?”
“We’re mature adults,” I tell her. “We can wait until we’re alone.”