Wanted By Him (The Billionaire Black Sheep Book 1) Page 4

  “Okay, but what about the rest?”

  She stares off to the side for a minute, like she’s figuring out what to say. “The friend would never do anything to hurt the heroine. And the heroine wouldn’t do anything to hurt the hero. So…” She shrugs, drains the rest of her beer. “The friend knows how to keep her mouth shut.”

  ”There’s a lot riding on it.”

  She sets her empty beer bottle down on the table. “The friend knows how to keep her mouth shut,” she repeats.

  “Okay.” There’s nothing else to say. Either she can or she can’t, but what am I going to do about it? Rough her up?

  But maybe I’ll keep an eye on her for the next few days anyway. Just to be safe.

  “Is that all?” Brigitte asks.

  I swallow the rest of my beer, set the empty bottle beside hers. “That’s all we needed to hash out about the screenplay. Why don’t you go get us a couple more beers?”

  She squints at me. “For what?”

  “For drinking, what else?” I stand up and dig in my pockets, wondering if I have any quarters. “We’ll drink some beer, play some pool.”

  “I should warn you,” she says. “I’m exceptionally good at pool.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  She heads off to the bar for more drinks, and I put in my quarters and get the balls racked. When she comes back and hands me another Stella, I nod toward the table. “Your break.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m also exceptionally good at pool,” I tell her. “So I’ll give you first shot at it.”

  She laughs, eyes sparkling. “Oh, I’m going to punish you for that.”

  And she does, dropping two solid balls at break, then three more in quick succession before being betrayed by the six ball, which runs out of steam just shy of the corner pocket she was aiming for.

  I take my shot, acquit myself decently by sinking two in a row, but I miss the third shot. I’m just so fucking distracted. Every time she passes by me, I can smell her. My whole body is on red alert, and I’m so hard I’m aching. I can’t stop looking at her, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst.

  There’s no danger right now, no one to worry about or save. There’s all the time in the world just to look at her. So I do.

  After two more carefully-considered—and successful—shots, she’s got the eight ball set up in a dead easy cross-table side-pocket shot. She slams it home, then smiles triumphantly at me, rocking her body in time to the heavy bass of the dance song that’s currently blasting over the speakers.

  “One more,” I say. “You have to give me a chance to redeem myself.”

  She comes around to my side of the table and takes my beer out of my hand, taking a long swallow and watching me over the bottle as she does. Her eyes are laughing at me.

  “Okay,” she says. “But if you think I’m gonna go easy on you, think again.”

  I let her rack while I go fetch our third round, and when I come back it’s my break. I sink absolutely nothing.

  “Nice,” she says.

  “Hush.”

  She laughs brightly, then casts a critical gaze on the table. “The four, down there,” she says.

  “Stripes look easier.”

  “I know.” And she makes the shot, because of course she does.

  I take a seat, figuring there’s no reason to assume I’ll get a turn any time soon, and watch her as she sinks ball after ball effortlessly, with that perfect body bent over the table in ways that are attracting more and more of the male eyes in the room.

  Well, honestly, not just the male ones.

  And who could blame them. The ass, perfectly round in those skin-tight jeans, with the inexplicably sexy back pocket phone thing she does. The spectacular rack, almost spilling out as she calls shot after shot. That wasp-thin waist that I’m almost sure I could get my hands around. I’m certainly willing to give it a try.

  As she moves around the table, her hips and shoulders keep time with whatever song is playing. The Rolling Stones. Eminem. Nine Inch Nails.

  “Three, corner.”

  I look at the line of her neck, and think about how it would taste. The three ball drops into the corner pocket.

  “Six, back here.”

  She pats the side rail in front of her, and I think about her wrapping those fingers around me. The six bounces off the opposite rail and rolls obligingly back and into the side pocket.

  This time, she literally runs the table on me. I don’t even get a single shot.

  “You’re a pool shark,” I say, dumbfounded, as she comes to sit beside me. “So much for letting me redeem myself.”

  “If I were a pool shark, I wouldn’t have told you how good I am.”

  “You did say you were good.” I reach out and move a lock of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. My fingers graze the skin over one high, dramatic cheekbone, and I swear they tingle. “I guess you were right.”

  There’s a long silence, then she says, “I have to get home.” Her voice is just the slightest bit blurry. Three beers in not quite two hours, so that checks out—not enough to make her sloppy, but maybe just enough that she shouldn’t be wandering the streets alone right now.

  “I’ll take you home.”

  “I just bet you will,” she says, looking at me through long, dark eyelashes.

  “Only if you want me to,” I say.

  And the possibilities hang almost visible in the air between us, as I wait for her to say yes.

  10

  Brigitte

  “You don’t have to do that.” I check my phone. Not quite 9:00. “It’s very nice, but you don’t have to.”

  “What if I want to?”

  “This is my neighborhood. I’m fine.”

  “You know … it’s been a rough couple of days. Let me walk you home.”

  It’s chivalrous and kind of sweet, but it also sends a shudder through me as I think about what happened last night. Was it really only last night?

  Maybe having some company would be good, after all. “Okay.”

  On the walk home, he’s silent, just looking around at the businesses as we pass them, giving no indication of what—if anything—he’s thinking about.

  It’s not what I’d call awkward, but I’m a little unsettled, because I keep having to stop myself from making some kind of inane small talk to break the silence.

  We didn’t have silences like this at the bar. We had silences, sure—and I know damn well that there was a tension there that neither of us was willing to acknowledge—but now I’m just unsure what, if anything, I should even say. Walk you home can be code for Go home with you, which is an entirely different proposition. Which one is he trying for, here?

  I’m not going to bed with him. He smells like … like sandalwood, and apples, and somehow, in the center of New York, like the ocean. He’s been looking at me all night like he could just eat me up, the thought of which sends a shiver through me. And as the evening has passed, I’ve become more and more convinced that no man has ever had a more kissable mouth.

  But I’m still not going to bed with him. Not when he’s just going to be gone back to California as soon as he can.

  Finally, we’re at my building. I climb the steps and turn to find he’s followed me. My front stoop is small enough that I can smell him again. It makes my heart beat a little faster.

  “Well,” I say, fishing my key out, “thank you for walking me home. As you see, the kidnapper and murderer count is pretty low around here.”

  He takes the key from me and unlocks the door, briefly touching the small of my back to usher me inside. “Let’s make sure there are none in the elevator, either.”

  The door closes behind us, and despite the tingle left where his hand touched me, I know it’s time to put the brakes on.

  I reach out and pluck my key ring from his hand. “This is starting to feel like maybe you plan to strong-arm your way into my apartment,” I tell him, holding his gaze with my own, “w
hich makes me far more nervous than the imaginary street murderers of the Lower East Side.”

  He smiles. Damn it, that smile is so disarming. “Fair enough,” he says. “You can take your chances alone with the potential elevator murderer, then. But first—”

  He steps forward. In the narrow entryway of my building, two steps is all it takes. One hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, the other finds a resting place on the curve of my hip.

  His touch is gentle. There’s plenty of time to stop him. I don’t want to.

  I hold my breath as his mouth descends to meet mine. His lips are soft, every bit as kissable as I’ve been thinking they would be. I let the kiss take me over, sink into it like drowning—which is a bit what it feels like. Deep, overwhelming. A little scary. His hands come up to cup my face, and the kiss gets deeper, darker. There’s an edge to it now, a fierceness. A possession.

  There’s a demand there, one I very badly want to give in to.

  I pull away. I can feel my pulse pounding in my throat, at my temples. I can feel it in my lips, which are just a little bit tender from being so thoroughly kissed.

  “I’m not going to invite you upstairs,” I say weakly.

  “Okay,” he says. “Can I change your mind, or is that a definite no?”

  It’s a charming question—and one I respect. It acknowledges the complicated dynamic between us. It doesn’t back down entirely, which is flattering, but it leaves me in control, which any woman will tell you matters. A lot.

  This guy is good.

  “I’ve got work tomorrow,” I say. The excuse sounds ridiculous, even to my ears. It’s not even that late, and anyway, I don’t even go to work until noon. “And I just… No, you can’t change my mind.”

  “Okay,” he says again. But then he moves in for another kiss.

  I can’t help it; my whole body goes pliant against him. He presses me back against the wall, his body hard against mine, his mouth hungry, devouring.

  I sigh against his mouth. Oh, how he makes me want to break my rules…

  He pulls back after a moment, just a bare inch, resting his forehead on mine.

  “I want to just drown in you,” he says, breathing hard. “Are you really going to send me back to the Baccarat to jack off on their expensive sheets?”

  Oh, God. I feel my knees go wobbly. That shouldn’t be sexy. It should be borderline offensive. But it’s not. It’s tantalizing. I can see it in my mind’s eye, and it’s a showstopper.

  I clear my throat. “That sounds like a you problem,” I say, “not a me problem.”

  “Either way, it is indeed a problem.” He steps back, and his fingers tip my chin up. His direct gaze has me swallowing whatever it was I was going to say. “I’m not a subtle person. If I want something, I ask for it. I’m asking you now: is that no forever, or just for now?”

  “I haven’t decided.” I have to clasp my hands together to stop myself from pulling him in for another kiss. “I don’t sleep with men I’ve just met. If I did, maybe I’d be in more of a hurry to decide about you. But I don’t.”

  “That’s fair,” he says. “When should I pick you up tomorrow?”

  I squint at him. “What are we doing tomorrow?”

  He lets go of my chin and puts both hands in the pockets of his jeans. “It would seem that I’m asking you on date.”

  I smother a laugh. “I don’t put out on the first date, either. Just so you know.”

  “And that’s fine. But I’ll be here at 7:00.”

  My head is swimming. I’ve had too much to drink, too fast—and on an empty stomach, at that. “I already told you, I won’t say anything about … the thing.”

  He shakes his head. “This is nothing to do with that thing. This is a whole different thing.”

  Weakly, because I can feel that he’s right, I say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do.” He leans forward, hands still in his pockets, and brushes his lips over mine—just a brief, sweet touch. Like a promise. “Tomorrow.”

  I should tell him no. I don’t have room in my life for a fling with some spoiled, rich surfer boy. I really don’t.

  “Okay,” I say. “7:00. Where are we going?”

  “I’ll figure it out,” he says. “Dress up. Wear something that shows off all those killer curves I want to put my hands on.”

  “I told you, I don’t—”

  “I know,” he says, and flashes a megawatt grin that leaves me speechless. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t look.”

  He turns and slips out the door of my building, bounds down the steps two at a time, and is around the corner before the door slams.

  When it does, I just stand there for a minute, touching my bottom lip with shaking fingers.

  To be continued…

  Coming 9/4/19:

  Miles & Brigitte’s story continues in

  Taken By Him - The Billionaire Black Sheep Episode 2!

  If you’d like to know when Taken By Him is released you can sign up for my newsletter at

  tessablakewrites.com.

  About the Author

  Tessa Blake lives in Central Maine with her kids and pets—and the hot men in her imagination. Her books include The Billionaire’s Contract, Big Mistake, and the upcoming The Billionaire Black Sheep.

  Join her in her Facebook reader group, Book Tarts, or find her at:

  tessablakewrites.com

  fb.me/TessaBlakeWrites

  twitter.com/TessaBlakeToo

  tessablakewrites@gmail.com