I smile. “Good. Can you be ready to leave by six in the morning? That way, we’ll get there in enough time to clean up before I have to meet them at night.”
“I can be ready. Should I bring anything specific?”
“Something kinda hip and sexy maybe.” I give her my most lascivious grin. “But not for me. For these record execs. I figure bringing some eye candy can’t hurt my chances.”
“So I’m eye candy? Is that it?”
“Oh you’re eye candy, all right. But, to me, you’re mouthwatering in a lot of other ways, too.”
I see the color hit her cheeks. And I feel it, all the way to my groin where it’s making my pants tight.
“I’ll see what I can find,” she says, still holding my eyes.
“Then let me get you home. Tomorrow will be a long day. But I hope to make it up to you tomorrow night.”
Her smile says she’s down with that. I just wonder if she’d be as agreeable if she knew exactly what I have in mind.
TWENTY-NINE: Violet
I don’t know what I expected a long car ride with Jet to be like. Quiet. Brooding. Introspective. Whatever I imagined, I was wrong.
Although the trip did start a little more sedate, it quickly picked up after some breakfast and coffee on the go. Jet treated me to a musical montage of some of his favorite songs, as well as some of his songs, all of which show me what I already knew—Jet has some major talent.
I don’t ask and he doesn’t mention the song he sang last night. It gives me a little thrill, a little jitter in the pit of my stomach just to think about it. Even though I only heard it the one time, I can’t forget the words. I probably never will.
About halfway there, we stop for lunch.
“So tell me,” he begins, turning down the volume on the stereo, “what does a beautiful woman such as yourself like to eat? I know you must get hungry.”
He’s not looking at me, so I can’t tell if he’s taunting me or not. It sure feels like it, but that could just be my mind, my body, and my imagination, all working overtime.
“I like all sorts of things. Depends on what I’m in the mood for, what I’m craving.”
“And what are you craving today?”
An ache, one that’s becoming all too familiar, is forming in the lowest part of my belly, making my appetite for real food take a backseat to my desire for . . . something else.
“I’m open to suggestions. I’ll go along with whatever you want.”
Now Jet looks at me. And I see that it wasn’t just my imagination that took off in the wrong direction. Or maybe it’s the right direction.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he admits, his eyes dark and steamy.
He says nothing else, just leaves me to my thoughts as he steers the car off the highway and onto a secondary road that’s lined with restaurants.
When he stops in front of a seafood place with an outdoor patio that overlooks a stretch of river, I have to wonder why he chose it. He answers my question before I can ask it, though. “Since we’re on a pretty strict timetable, we need to be quick.” He cuts the engine and removes the key from the ignition. Before he climbs out of the car, he turns those hot eyes to me and says, “Just so you know, though, ‘quick’ doesn’t mean ‘less satisfying’ when you’re with me.”
He leaves me with that sentiment as he gets out and walks around to open my door. When I slide my fingers into his, I feel the friction in every nerve of my body, like his touch is rasping along each one, bringing them to screaming life. He says nothing more as he closes my door and places his hand at my lower back to guide me inside. And I’m glad. With Jet touching me, I don’t think I could concentrate on what he was saying right now anyway.
Jet requests the outdoor area, so the hostess leads us to a table in the corner of the patio. The day is already very warm, but the ceiling fan helps keep the area cool.
Our waitress brings some water and two menus. I look at mine with unseeing eyes, every bit of my attention focused on Jet’s knees where they’re brushing mine under the table.
“Have you ever had raw oysters?”
“Like on the half shell?”
“Yeah.”
“Ummm, once.”
“And?”
I shrug. “They were okay.”
Jet grins. “Well, today they’re going to be delicious. Because I’m going to show you how to eat them the right way.”
“I’m game,” I reply, still feeling a bit dumbstruck by the increasing tension that seems to permeate our every look and word.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says again, his grin devilish.
Since they don’t have to be cooked, the waitress returns with our food within minutes of Jet placing the order. She sets two flat platters on the table, each filled with ice and topped with oysters sitting prettily inside the bottom half of their shell.
I watch as Jet loosens each of the two dozen oysters from its shell and then grabs the hot sauce. It’s sitting on the table with the salt and pepper, like it’s a normal condiment. Of course, in a place that serves raw food, it might be a normal condiment.
He sprinkles a few drops on one of the oysters and then looks up at me to ask, “Would you rather eat it out of the shell or with a fork? If you eat it from the shell, don’t be surprised if you get a little bit of grit from it. But don’t worry, it’s nothing that will hurt you.”
I don’t know how, but I manage to keep my top lip from curling up in a sneer of distaste. Proud of my self-control, I give him my answer calmly. “Fork please.”
Jet uses his fork to stab the oyster and then hold it out to me. “Come here,” he says huskily, his smoky eyes telling me that he’s looking forward to putting something in my mouth. And, if I’m being honest, now I’m looking forward to it just as much.
I rise a little from my chair and lean forward, just enough that I can easily take the food from his fork. I watch his eyes as I do. They are dark and sensuous, and glued to my mouth.
I’m barely aware of the salty, spicy, slimy oyster sliding down my throat. All I feel is the heat of Jet’s gaze. I lick my lips and Jet does the same, as though he’s wishing he could taste mine instead.
Finally his eyes rise to mine. “Good?”
“Delicious,” I respond, not in any way referring to the oyster.
Jet lowers his fork as I resume my seat. He says nothing for a few seconds as he watches me. “As much as I would love to feed you every oyster on this damn table, I’m not sure we’d make it out of the parking lot before sunset if I do.”
“Why is that?” If I weren’t so entranced by him, I would be surprised at my curiously brazen question.
“Because,” he says, reaching across the table to wipe my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, “I can’t watch your lips close around my fork or watch your tongue lick them without remembering what you taste like. And then wondering what you taste like everywhere else.” Suddenly, the air seems warmer, thicker than it was a few seconds ago, and I feel a flush flood me from my cheeks to my core. “I hope you don’t mind.”
I’m breathless and completely mesmerized by his words and the images they bring to mind. “No, of course not,” I say automatically.
“That’s kind of a shame, because if you really, really wanted me to continue putting things in your mouth, you are the one thing I’d miss this meeting for.”
Pleasure races behind the gush of heat that moved through me, pleasure that he’d blow off something so important to be with me.
“I couldn’t let you do that, not even if I wanted to.”
Jet’s grin is devilish. “The fact that you might want to gives me something to look forward to.”
I say nothing. I can’t admit that I would even consider it—but I am. Not only am I considering it, but I doubt I’ll be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the trip.
Finally, when the silence drags on and the tension is nearly unbearable, Jet speaks. “Eat,” he says. “You’ll need your strength.”
It’s a promise. Not only the words, but the look in his eyes. And as often as I’ve told myself that this is a mistake and that I shouldn’t get involved, I know there’s no going back now. It seems that as much as I tried to avoid it, as much as I’ve tried to explain it away and lie to myself about it—just like an addict would—I’ve finally found my weakness.
It’s Jet.
THIRTY: Jet
I don’t know how the hell I’ve made it this far without putting my hands on Violet. It has to be the anticipation of tonight. It’s keeping me going. That has to be it. If I didn’t believe relief was right around the corner, I don’t think I’d have made it this far.
But here I am. Standing in the lobby of a posh, historic hotel in the heart of New Orleans, waiting to get checked in.
After watching the clerk frown and tap furiously at his computer before picking up his phone and speaking softly into it, I’m not surprised when I see the concierge approach, wearing a smile that says he’s ready to kiss ass.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that something’s wrong.
“Mr. Blevins, while the suite that Kick Records reserved for you is prepared for your arrival, there was a problem with the second room. Since it was reserved in your name and not associated with the suite, the dates were entered incorrectly, showing a vacancy when, in fact, we have none. I apologize for the inconvenience. I would be happy to make arrangements for another room, upgraded to a suite, at one of our other hotels, if that would be suitable for you and your guest.”
“So you’re saying you’d find her a room at another hotel?”
“Yes, sir. I’d be happy to.”
I look over at Violet. “It was not my intention to bring you here and leave you at another hotel all by yourself. I hope you know that.”
She wrinkles her brow. “Of course I know that.”
I turn back to the concierge. “Just cancel my suite here. I’ll get a room wherever she’ll be staying.”
“Yes, sir,” the concierge nods.
“Wait,” Violet says, putting her hand on my arm. “Don’t do that just because of me. I don’t mind staying somewhere else. Kick put you here, so you should stay here.”
“Absolutely not. If you can’t stay here, then I won’t stay here either. We will be staying at the same hotel.”
“Well . . . you have a suite. How many rooms does it have? I mean, how many beds?”
I look to the concierge, who is discreetly observing our interaction. He glances at the computer screen. “Sir, the suite reserved for you is a two-bedroom.”
“Great!” Violet exclaims. “If you don’t mind I’ll just take the other bedroom. Unless you were expecting company.”
Her eyes sparkle with mischief and her grin says she’s teasing. God, how I’d love to cart her upstairs and watch that grin turn into a soft smile followed by a long, luxurious moan.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I mean, are you sure?” I wonder if she gets that my question is about so much more.
She meets my eyes, hers smoky and sexy, and she holds them. Calm. Steady. Resolute. “Yes, I’m sure.”
She doesn’t look away. She just watches me. I can see that she knows exactly what she’s signing up for. She’s ready. And so am I, as witnessed by the blood that rushes south. I grit my teeth against the sensation.
Hating to look away, but needing to, I glance back to the concierge and nod. He smiles and taps furiously on the keyboard. A minute later, something is printing and he’s slipping two credit card-looking room keys into an envelope with the hotel logo on the front and our suite number scribbled on the flap.
“The elevators are directly behind you. Insert your card and press the S1 button. That will give you access to the suite’s floor. I’ll have your bags sent up straight away, sir.”
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“If there is anything else we can assist you with, please don’t hesitate to ask. We are here to serve your needs.”
I smile and nod, thinking to myself as I guide Violet to the elevators that the only thing I need right now is the girl at my side. Naked. And wet. And begging for me.
I try to focus on mundane things as the elevator rises. Neither Violet nor I speak until I am unlocking the door to our room and holding it open for her. Although she doesn’t say much, I can tell that she’s impressed.
“This is . . . this is very nice,” she remarks. I smile from behind her. It is a very nice suite, which is great. But I’m a guy. This is hardly the kind of thing I get excited about. Seeing Violet’s reaction, however, pleases me. I like seeing pleasure on her face—any kind of pleasure, although I’m very much looking forward to seeing a better kind of pleasure there. But for now, I’ll take this.
We stroll through the expensive accommodations. From the lavishly appointed living room and dining room combination to the master bedrooms on either end, this unit oozes quiet money.
“Which is which?” she asks as she comes out of the en suite bathroom of the room to the right of the foyer.
“I don’t think it really matters. You can take whichever one you like best.”
She smiles up at me. “Are you always this agreeable?”
“I can be. I can be even more agreeable than this in the right circumstances.”
Her laugh is light and airy, like she’s a little breathless. That, along with practically everything else she has said and done since lunch, is tearing me up inside.