Sweet Dreams (A Sugar Rush Novel) (3 page)

“Hi,” she managed.

Amusement flashed in his dark eyes.

“Hi,” he replied.

“How . . . um, how are you?” Polly stammered.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “How are you?”

“Peachy.”

Oh, God.
Peachy?

Polly looked desperately at Mia, who was watching from the bar. Mia gave her a nod of encouragement and a discreet thumbs-up. Obviously she had no idea what a ninny Polly was turning out to be.

“Peachy,” Mr. Hottie drawled, his beautiful mouth now joining in the amusement with a slight smile. “Good to know.”

His voice was like melted dark chocolate. Maybe if Polly just kept her mouth shut, he would forget she was there and she could just stare at him in awe. She’d thought men like him were a myth—the sexy, utterly masculine, controlling kind who made a girl want to drop her panties on the spot.

Mr. Hottie was no myth, though. He was all too real. She could even smell him—a tantalizing combination of soap, scotch, and some purely male scent that must have been testosterone or pheromones or something.

Whatever it was, it was making Polly all hot and damp between her legs. And strongly wishing she could drop her panties.

He nodded toward the shotglass still in her hand. “You like it sweet and strong.”

“What?” She looked down at the frothy, creamy shot, the glass rim laced with rainbow sprinkles.

“That’s a lot of sugar,” he said.

“It’s a birthday cake shot.”

“A what?”

“Cream, cake-flavored vodka, and chocolate.” Polly held up the glass. “Birthday cake shot.”

“It’s your birthday?”

She nodded. “I’m twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three, huh?” He raised an eyebrow. “Still a baby.”

A
baby?
She frowned, rankled at the idea that this hot, sexy man didn’t see her as a woman.

“Your go, man.” The other guy moved back from the pool table.

Mr. Hottie chalked his cue and stepped forward to take his shot. Polly backed away to give him room. He pocketed the yellow ball. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the redhead and her boobs slither out of the corner booth and start toward him, a predatory gleam in her eyes.

Before Polly could even think of what to do next, the redhead had sidled up to Mr. Hottie and put her hand on his arm. She leaned in to speak close to his ear. Though Polly couldn’t hear what she said, she was pretty sure it wasn’t
“Hi, how are you?”

Disappointment stabbed her. She had no idea how to compete with a woman like that, who wore her blatant sexuality like armor.

She turned and shuffled back to Mia, feeling like a whipped dog.

“What?” Mia darted a glance at Mr. Hottie. “What happened?”

“Slutty redhead happened,” Polly said morosely. She tilted her head back to down the birthday cake shot, appreciating the sweet burn of alcohol and hoping it would obliterate her disappointment. “Can we go now?”

“Oh, Pols.” Mia sighed. “Don’t give up so easily. Look, check out that guy over there.”

She nodded toward a younger, blond guy at the end of the bar. Polly supposed he was cute, but she couldn’t drum up any interest in trying again.

“I promise, we’ll find a guy who can rock your world,” Mia said. “And your headboard.”

The guy beside her, who was in possession of an impressive but fuzzy unibrow that crawled like a caterpillar over his eyes, leaned over and waggled his singular eyebrow at Polly.

“I can help you with that, little lady,” he remarked.

The fact that Polly was momentarily tempted was a measure of how much she’d had to drink, how desperate she was getting, and how bummed out she was over her failure with Mr. Hottie.

“Dream on, dude,” Mia told Unibrow Guy, rolling her eyes.

“I’m going to pee, then we can go home,” Polly muttered.

She set her empty shotglass on the bar and maneuvered through the crowd leading to the restrooms. After using the toilet, she washed her hands and checked her reflection in the mirror. Aside from being flushed and tipsy, she looked the same as always—curly brown hair falling past her shoulders, ordinary features, nice but nothing fabulous.

At least this time she was free of Cheetos dust and grape-soda stains. But even with Mia’s makeup artistry and clothing choices, she still looked like Polly Lockhart.

Not that that was a bad thing. She liked being Polly Lockhart. She just wished she was a more courageous, self-confident version of herself. A girl who was better at navigating the world alone. A girl who didn’t find it necessary to hide with a basement-dwelling lump because she was too scared to put herself out there.

Polly started back to the bar, reminding herself that she was no longer in a relationship with Brian and, therefore, she was no longer hiding.

A broad, male body was blocking the narrow corridor leading back to the bar. One look—actually, one leap of her silly heart—and she knew it was Mr. Hottie. His back was to her, and he had a cell phone pressed to his ear.

“ . . . yeah, he should have told me but he didn’t,” he was saying, his voice tense.

Polly stopped. Since she had no idea how long he planned to chat, she reached up and tapped on his shoulder. It was like poking her finger against stone.

He turned with a frown, the phone still at his ear. He looked at her, the crease between his eyebrows easing.

“Excuse me,” she mouthed, gesturing toward the bar.

“I’ll call you back,” he said into the phone. He ended the call and slid the phone into his pocket, his gaze rather unnervingly on her.

“Hello, Peach,” he said. “I wondered where you’d run off to.”

Peach?
Well, that made her feel all warm and tingly in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol she’d consumed.

Still, Polly scowled at him. A cute endearment wasn’t going to make her fall at his feet. Another shot would probably do it, but Mr. Hottie’s charm wouldn’t.

“Peach, huh?” she said. “What about
baby
?”

A smile tugged at his mouth.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he murmured, his deep voice like a rush of heat over her skin.

Polly tried, and failed, to steel herself against his charm.

“What happened to the redhead?” she asked.

“What redhead?”

“The one who had her boobs on you fifteen minutes ago.”

“I don’t remember any redhead,” he said. “I only remember you.”

Hottie charm definitely overpowering steel . . .

He reached out to flick his finger against Polly’s lower lip.

A bolt of electricity shot through her. She looked at him in surprise as he held up his finger to show her the pink sprinkle he’d captured from her lip.

“Sprinkle,” he said.

Polly flushed. How had she missed that in the mirror? She dashed a hand across her mouth and stepped backward, catching the heel of her shoe on an uneven floorboard. She gasped, feeling herself tilt horrifyingly off-balance. The floor swayed beneath her, and she caught a glimpse of Mr. Hottie’s very expensive-looking leather shoes.

“Whoa, Peach.” He grabbed her waist and hauled her upright. “Careful.”

Polly leaned back against the wall, heat blooming inside her at the sensation of being so close to him, his hands warm and strong on her waist. She could smell him again too, that potent combination of sex and masculinity that sparked a heavy pulsing in her lower body.

“You smell amazing,” he murmured, his voice deep and smoky. “Like a ripe peach.”

She was ripe, all right. So ripe she was about to fall off the vine. And she wished to heaven she
was
a peach. Then maybe Mr. Hottie would lick her, bite her, eat her . . .

Oh, lord.

She tilted her head to look up at him. His eyes glittered in the dim light. Though Polly’s brain was foggy, one sharp, clear thought shone through.

She wanted this man to kiss her. She wanted to feel the pressure of his lips, his body pressed against hers. She wanted to know what it felt like to be kissed by a man who radiated sexual heat and energy, who smelled like all sorts of manly things like spice and musk, a man who would know exactly how to treat a woman . . .

His gaze skimmed over her face and lingered on her lips. Her pulse sped up.

Do it, do it! Kiss me.

His hands loosened from her waist. He started to back away.

Without thinking, Polly reached up, grabbed his collar, and yanked his head down to hers. Surprise flashed in his expression the instant before she kissed him.

Or, attempted to kiss him. Because he’d started to move away at the exact same instant, she ended up smashing her lips against his chin. She sucked in a breath and pulled back, staring at his mouth. She took aim and went in for the kill.

Yes!

Her lips crashed against his, hot and damp. Omigod. She was totally kissing Mr. Hottie.

Moreover, she was doing it with her mouth open, and holy God, his tongue swept across hers, and he tasted like salt and scotch, and shivers of pure lust rained through her body, and she wanted to keep kissing him forever and ever . . .

Resistance suddenly coiled through him. His hands closed around her arms, and he pulled away.

A murmur of protest escaped her. She tightened her grip on him, her back hitting the wall again as she forced him closer. He lifted his head. His mouth broke away from hers, his breath still hot on her lips.

“Honey, I’m not going to . . .” he started.

“Oh, kiss me some more,” Polly breathed, standing on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his. “Please . . .”

Boldly, she flicked her tongue out to caress his lower lip. He groaned, bracing his hands on the wall behind her as he lowered his head again. Heat exploded through her. His kiss became deeper, more possessive, his arms caging her in and trapping her between the wall and his body.

She gasped in shock at the sensation of his muscled body pressed fully against hers, her breasts crushed to his hard chest, his powerful thigh edging between hers . . .

Oh God. Was that . . . ?

She whimpered, letting her head fall back as he plundered her mouth with his.

“Christ in heaven, you taste amazing,” he whispered, trailing his lips over her cheek and down to her neck. “So fucking sweet . . .”

Polly’s whole body was awash in feelings she’d never felt before, a richness like rum-laced buttercream flowing through her veins. She couldn’t believe she was doing this—her, Polly Lockhart, kissing an incredibly sexy man in the back corridor of a dive bar. And loving every minute of it.

Not only did she respond to his kiss with hot fervor of her own, she moaned and wiggled her body against his, even parting her legs to let him get his thigh between them. Her nipples stiffened against her bra, and she rubbed them shamelessly against his chest, sending tingles of heat right to her core.

Mr. Hottie put his hands on the sides of her neck, lifting his head from hers again. Though his eyes were dark with lust, that palpable restraint wound through him.

“It’s okay,” Polly bleated, unable to bear the thought of him stopping now, despite the fact that her head was starting to reel. “Come on, Mr. Hottie, kiss me again.”

He looked faintly amused. “What did you just call me?”

“Mr. Hottie. You know, cuz you’re so damned smoking hot. And, of course, a
mister
.” She reached out and rubbed her hands on his chest, marveling at how freaking hard he was all over. “Wow. How often do you work out?”

“Come on.” He grasped her wrist with one hand. “I’m taking you home.”

“Oh, yay!” She managed to clap her hands despite his powerful grip. “To your house, right? I’ll bet you have a huge fluffy bed. Does it have four posts? Feather pillows? I’ve always dreamed of getting laid on a four-poster bed with feather pillows.”

Mr. Hottie shook his head and pushed away from the wall. “We’re not doing this.”

“Don’t you want me?” Polly pleaded.

He laughed and grabbed her hand, pressing it to the very hard and impressive bulge in his trousers. Lust zinged through her, even though she couldn’t fathom how such a thing could ever fit inside her. But oh Lord, was she ever so willing to try.

“Hell yeah, I want you,” he muttered. “But not like this.”

“Well, if it’s not you, I’m going after that blond guy,” Polly warned him. “Or that biker dude over by the jukebox. I just got out of a relationship with a boy who—trust me on this—was more interested in spawning pigs than having sex with me. And you’d better believe I’m going to make up for lost time.”

His brows drew together. “So now you’re on a mission to get laid?”

She nodded as the lights dipped and swayed in front of her eyes.

“I’m twenty-three,” she said, a stab of self-pity hitting her. “I really want to have sex with a man who knows what to do, and God knows I’m ready to jump your bones right now, so I’d totally be into it. Especially if you have feather pillows.”

He breathed out a curse, his eyes darkening. “Be careful what you’re asking, Peach.”

“I know what I’m asking,” she said. “I’m asking you to fuck me. And if you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.”

“Christ.” He clamped his hand around her arm. “I’m taking you home. To
your
home.”

Polly didn’t want to go to
her
home. She wanted to go to
his
home. Just the thought of him spreading her out naked on his fluffy bed intensified her arousal.

Oh my, she was so incredibly warm. Hot and dizzy. The alcohol and sugar churned thickly in her blood.

“Come on, kiss me again, Mr. Hottie,” she pleaded, stepping toward him. “Pretty please?”

“You need water and sleep, not kissing,” he said, still holding on to her as she stumbled forward.

“What I
need
is to spread my legs and get fucked like a—”

She jerked to a halt and swayed. He stopped to look at her.

Horrified, Polly stared at him. His handsome features went in and out of focus. She clamped a hand over her mouth. Then she bent double and threw up all over Mr. Hottie’s very expensive shoes.