Test Shot (23 page)

“You aren’t serious,” she said, wiping her mouth. Her forehead furrowed at the streaks of soda on the napkin; then she glanced at him in reproach. “Did you really let me sit here with purple lips?”

“It was cute.” He took another bite. “And I’m deadly serious.”

“Damn, I want that brownie.”

He shifted closer, moving the remnants of their lunch aside, and playfully dangled the brownie over her mouth. Only the erection that pressed against his fly revealed his intent. “How bad do you want it?”

“Sawyer,” she said, her plea faint.

“Unbutton the bottom couple buttons of your shirt and leave it untucked.”

He figured she’d argue. This wasn’t even a “sanctioned” outing by Dr. Demented, and here he was, trying to get into her pants again. In a manner of speaking.

But she inched closer on the grass and did as he asked. “I can’t believe I’m risking a lewdness charge for a brownie,” she muttered, making him laugh.

“It’ll be worth it.” He broke off a piece and fed it to her. She glanced at him before taking the bite, her soft mouth grazing his fingers. “See?”

“It’s good.”

When she leaned in for more, he held the brownie away and grinned.

“Meanie.”

“That’s me. The mean brownie denier. You’ll get the rest once you trade tit for tat.”

“What, exactly, am I trading?” Wariness shrouded her expression as she looked down at his denim-clad hard-on. “I like brownies. Love sex. Hate jail.”

His grin widened. “Pull your skirt up just a little in front.”

“If I pull up the front, the back comes up too.”

He shoved aside the bag and wrappers from their lunch, then shook out his shirt. With a flourish, he draped it carefully over her hip and thigh so that it shielded her in the back as well. “With such delicate skin, you need to be protected,” he said, tone grave.

Her snort made him grin. “You do realize I’m not wearing panties.”

“Oh yeah, I realize. Hold the shirt in place and let me see.” His throat tightened when she pulled up on her skirt just a bit. Shadows, a flash of red curls, pink skin. “More.”

“You’re insane, you know that?”

“You know, you’re right. This is wrong.” He drew back and started to sit up. “I’ll just eat my nice brownie and—”

She chuckled. “Such a jerk. I’m doing it.”

“What, exactly, are you doing? Please describe. In detail.”

“Out here?”

“Oh, Layla, I really am enjoying this innocent routine. It’s hot, if unbelievable. You forget I saw your treasure trove of goodies. And that I know, intimately, some of your talents. Sucking cock, for one.”

Her pupils dilated, but she held his gaze. “What do you want me to do?”

“Well, I was thinking. Since you’re not even supposed to be here with me today, I shouldn’t touch you. Right?” He waited for her reluctant nod. “But there’s no law saying you can’t touch yourself. I want you to make yourself come.”

“Right here.”

“Yes. There’s a juicy brownie on the line,” he said, setting the spoils of victory aside.

“Juicy?” She frowned at the brownie.

“What I hope you’ll be in a few moments.” He moved closer so that he was the only one with a front-row seat to the activity between her legs. “Now stop stalling. Lunch is almost over.”

She rubbed her palm against the apex of her thighs. “Yes, boss.”

“Sorry, but I’m not buying that routine.” He cocked his brow at her tentative movements. “Make it happen for real, the way you started to the other night when we were watching the DVDs. Don’t hold back.”

Challenge fired in her eyes as she did exactly as he asked, widening her thighs just enough that she could blatantly stroke her clit. He reached out to steady the shirt, holding it in place on her thigh.

“Yeah, ’cause that’s not suspicious at all.” She jerked her chin at the placement of his hand.

“Stop worrying. No one’s near us or paying any attention.” He stared between her legs. Already her fingers looked glossy and wet. “Except me.”

Her chin quivered, but she made no sound at all. She didn’t even smile. She was focused on her task. A slave to her pleasure.

God, she was beautiful. Droplets of perspiration formed at her temples, and it took everything he possessed not to lean forward and collect them on his tongue. She picked up speed, fingers flexing, hips rotating in small, impatient circles.

They stared at each other while she brought herself to the precipice of orgasm. The dirty talk he’d planned to torment her with simply vacated his head. He couldn’t have looked away from her if he’d wanted to. The curls clinging to her neck, the harsh breaths she couldn’t hold back, the sweet smell of her arousal—all combined to draw his cock, full and hard, against his zipper. If she didn’t come soon, he was going to blow. Spectacularly.

And then she did, with a silent cry that rounded her lips. Hips flailing, hand on autopilot as she shut her eyes with a flicker of long, dark lashes.

“Amazing.” He couldn’t drag his gaze from the sight of her removing her glistening fingers. He wanted them in his mouth so badly he nearly spoke before sense returned.

Playfully, she wiggled them. “Want?”

He shook his head and wondered what the hell he was doing. And why. Who was he punishing? Aidan for suggesting he become her boy toy? Or Layla, because she kept drawing him back? “Put them in your mouth. Tell me how they taste.”

Again she complied, sucking them with slow pulls. His cock pulsed, the increased blood flow tightening his jeans. Especially when she withdrew them and brushed her fingertips over her throat. That spot of wetness taunted him.

“Good?” he asked hoarsely.

She flashed him a sultry smile and let her gauzy skirt fall into place. “Yes. You would approve.”

“You were supposed to tell me about the flavor,” he said as she handed over his shirt.

She did up her buttons and tucked in her blouse, then leaned in and spoke close to his ear. “Like…peach melba and whipped cream. Except not.”

He chuckled at the naughty-schoolgirl look she tossed him. If only she had on her glasses. “You screwed up my game.”

“Yeah, well, you screwed up mine too.”

“What game are you playing?”

He didn’t notice her hand wandering toward the brownie he’d set on the bag, but he sure heard her triumphant laugh. Some part of him was disappointed she’d bypassed an opportunity to delve into their twisted hookup. The rest couldn’t deny the satisfaction he got from her smile.

Besides, what was to left talk about? He knew where she stood. She was engaged. He was a potential agency client and a man she enjoyed having sex with. Beyond that, there wasn’t anything to discuss.

He studied his soda to avoid watching her make quick work of her dessert. “Delish,” she murmured, as if she knew he was avoiding her gaze.

“Told you.” He jolted when she lifted his face up to hers with a brush of her damp fingers. “What’re you doing?”

“Saying thanks.” She laid her mouth on his, her kiss as light as the breeze that drifted through the canopy of leaves above them. Then she slipped back. “For the brownie and lunch.” Her expression softened, and everything that had begun to relax in him strung tight once more. “And for you.”

His lips hummed. “You’re welcome. I’m glad we got some time.”

“Me too.”

“How are you feeling?”

Something passed through her eyes, and his breath caught. Every time she looked at him like that, he fell a little more in love. Soon he’d be neck deep.

“Much better. You have that effect on me, Sawyer Blake.”

That, he supposed, would have to do.

He gathered what was left of their lunch and rose. When she hesitated, he held out his hand and smiled as she linked her fingers with his. “C’mon, Ms Palmer. Let’s get you back to work.”

* * * *

Sawyer tipped back his beer and took a long draught. What a frigging week.

He’d participated in a second successful test shoot, been given yet another opportunity to sign with an agency that swore up and down they’d bring in the cash, and accepted a contract for a new Skyline commercial. Then there was his lunch with Layla, which might’ve been more fun had he focused on what he had with her—though that wasn’t much—rather than everything he never would.

One thing he’d learned due to recent events was to expect the unexpected. Even so, he never guessed he’d end up at a club called Bare Nekkid Friday night.

Better yet? He’d come with a guy who knew all about getting nekkid, and then some.

“Told you it was a classy joint.” Drew raised his brows and tipped his beer at the stage where two blondes were shimmying and swaying in G-strings and pasties. “Check out the feather boas.”

Sawyer had to laugh. Though Drew seemed to have more moods than suits, Sawyer couldn’t deny he liked the guy. When Drew had asked if he’d like to go out for a beer sometime, he’d figured it was just another attempt to give him the company song-and-dance. But since he didn’t have many friends in town yet, he’d decided he shouldn’t be choosy. And he definitely needed a distraction.

He just hadn’t counted on
this
kind of distraction.

“So you want another beer?” Drew pried out his wallet. “On me.”

“Haven’t finished the first.”

Drew winked at the closest blonde stripper, who actually seemed to do a double take as she glimpsed him sitting beside the stage. Then she winked back. “Two’s always better than one,” he murmured, motioning over the waitress.

Sawyer shook his head. “Watching you work is truly something to behold.”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve managed to get the attention of half the strippers onstage tonight. And they all look at you like you’re a fucking king.”

“That’s their job.”

“Yeah, but it’s different with you. They act like they’d beg for a chance to give you a lap dance.”

Drew placed their order before taking a long swig of his beer. “Pretty sure it’s you getting them wet in the panties. You seen the looks you’ve been getting, my friend?”

“Honestly?” Sawyer averted his gaze from Blonde Number Two as she sashayed toward him and Drew again. The club had a catwalk down the middle of the seating area, and naturally Drew had commanded prime seats. “No.”

“You’re oblivious. Thank you, baby,” Drew said to Pauline, the waitress, after flashing her a big smile. She leaned down to whisper something in his ear—and lick it, if Sawyer wasn’t mistaken—before she sauntered away.

“Here you go, man,” Drew said, sliding a bottle of Rolling Rock across the table, his gaze already firmly on Blonde Number Two as she pursed her lips and shook her ass.

“Are you fucking her?” Sawyer asked, unable to keep the awe out of his voice.

Drew never looked away from the stage. “Who?”

“The waitress. That stripper. About half the women in this club.”

Drew chuckled and uncapped his second beer. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

“Right now? A lucky one.”

“Please. Types like you are secretly disgusted by my kind.” Drew grinned. “Sometimes not so secretly.”

Sawyer gripped his beer. How many damn times was he going to hear what a sucker he was? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a good guy, Sawyer.” Drew clapped a hand on his back. “So, what’s the deal? You with someone?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Why do you reply to everything with a question?”

Sawyer shook his head and laughed. “Sorry. Guess I’m touchy lately.”

“See previous question.”

“No. I’m very single.” Sawyer swallowed the last of his beer. “Technically.”

“Ah, there we go.”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s the situation?”

“No situation. It’s just a temporary thing.”

“Yeah?” Drew leaned forward and slipped some money—tens and twenties, from what Sawyer could see—into Blonde Number One’s G-string. She gave him a grateful smile, then bent to shake her bare tits in Drew’s face.

“Thank you, honey,” she purred before stepping back.

“No, thank you.” Drew waited until she’d crossed the stage to murmur to Sawyer, “What that mouth can do to a dick…”

Sawyer coughed, violently.

Drew only laughed. “So why’s it temporary?”

The guy switched gears as easily as an Italian sports car. “It just is.” What the hell. “She’s married,” he added, enjoying Drew’s momentary surprise.

“Married?
You?
Paint me green and call me impressed.”

It felt good to laugh. This guy was truly something else. “She’s not exactly married. But close enough.”

“Really.” He drew out the word. “Nice. All the sex, none of the strings.”

“Too bad I’m not just in it for that.”

“No?” Drew sounded genuinely pained on his behalf. “That sucks.”

“Tell me about it.”

Cheers erupted around the stage. A new trio of strippers emerged, and this group had two brunettes and a redhead. Flaming red hair that swirled down the woman’s back in fat sausage curls. Not delicate, wispy curls like Layla’s.

Sawyer gulped more beer and winced at the high-pitched whistles erupting around him. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this shit. Though the noise factor eliminated any need for conversation with Drew, so it wasn’t all bad.

At the next lull in the action, Drew turned to him again. A smile stretched across his insolent mouth. If a prototypical bad boy existed, Sawyer was pretty sure the guy sitting next to him would qualify. “So how serious is it with the not-quite-married babe?”

Back to that again. “For me, serious. For her?” Sawyer shrugged and kept his gaze on the currently empty stage. “She’s still engaged, so I guess that tells you.”

“Doesn’t tell me much. Lots of people get married for shit reasons. Just as many stay that way.”

“Not where I’m from,” Sawyer muttered, rotating his beer between his palms.

“Where’s that? A Norman Rockwell painting?”

“Nebraska.”

“Ah. Oh hey, isn’t—” Drew stopped, his brows drawing together. “Oh. Shit.”

Sawyer started to deny the parallel Drew had drawn; then he banked the urge. He hadn’t said anything he shouldn’t, and this wasn’t his secret to hide. There was no ring on his finger. Besides, someone like Drew would understand.