Playing Her Cards Right: Choose Me

This having-sex decision was more complicated than she’d thought. Thank goodness she hadn’t given in to more champagne.

She wasn’t wearing a watch, but Charlie really had been gone a long time. She pushed off the couch and went toward the kitchen, hoping nothing had gone wrong. Two steps later, the door swung open and Charlie came in carrying a silver tray. On it, he’d put a pot, an actual teapot, made of fine china decorated with flowers and vines. There were matching cups, two, and saucers, also two. A little cream pourer, a bowl of sugar lumps, tongs, TONGS, lemon slices, a strainer, and she had to get closer to see that the tins were actually different varieties of tea. She looked up at Charlie, and he looked back. It was a … moment.

Part of her wanted to laugh, but a bigger part of her wanted to know what the hell?

“Seems I have a tea service,” he said, his voice low and wickedly deadpan. “I never knew that. I don’t do a lot of cooking, and someone else put my kitchen together. But I thought, why not? I may never be asked for tea again.”

“I see—oh, that one isn’t tea. That’s biscuits?”

“English shortbread cookies,” he said. “Fresh, according to the package.” He put the tray on the coffee table after she’d scurried to clear off some magazines. “My guess is that my housekeeper is the tea aficionado. She comes in three times a week, and I don’t pay attention to her snacking habits. Makes sense, though. She stocks the fridge. The tea set looks like something my mother would own, and expect me to own.”

“And here I was thinking a mug and a Lipton’s tea bag. But this will do.”

“It will, huh?”

Bree nodded. “So many different kinds,” she said, busy investigating. There was chamomile, Earl Grey, Darjeeling and one she had never heard of called British Blend. She pointed to it. “Shall I make a pot?”

“Go for it.”

She was very glad she’d used loose tea before as she poured the leaves into the hot water, then left it to steep. In her cup, she used the tongs to put in two lumps of sugar, poured in a hint of milk and waited nervously as she realized how close together they were on the couch.

This wasn’t like having his arm around her at the party or even sitting pressed up to him in the limo. A bedroom was now involved, only steps away.

She could take one of two approaches to the next minute: she could bring up the decor and keep wondering what was going to happen until he did something obvious, or she could put on her big girl panties and ask if they were going to share more than tea. “So,” she said, “you like art deco.”

Charlie glanced up at her, his own sugar lump tonged and hovering above his cup. “Yes. I do.”

She barely heard him over the cursing in her head, which was frankly not very nice. She wasn’t a wimp and hated to think she was a chicken, but the only way to prove she had cajones was to act like it. “Is the whole place art deco?” she asked, trying to be sexily coy, not creepily stiff. “Your bedroom, for example?”

She winced. She couldn’t help it. A fifteen-year-old could have done better.

The sugar fell into the cup with a soft plunk and Charlie smiled. “Perhaps, after tea, you’d like to see it?”

Bree nodded, then busied herself with straining the leaves and pouring. She decided she’d said enough already, but Charlie didn’t pitch in to fill the silence. He might have been watching her or gazing out the window; she didn’t know because she didn’t dare look up. It was enough to will her hands steady and her thoughts calm and composed. Something had happened in the past few seconds; maybe it was how his voice had lowered and how the husky murmur slid over her skin like a warm vibrant promise—she had no idea.

No, he was definitely zeroed in on her, she decided, as the weight of his stare seemed to change the very air around them. She could actually feel him watching, waiting, missing nothing. She set down the pot, picked up her cup and took a sip, barely tasting more than the warmth as the quiet stretched between them. The element of surreality, what with silver tongs and it being two in the morning, made time shimmer and slow. She drank again, the delicate cup insisting she raise her pinkie.

She finally glanced over and saw that Charlie was, in fact, staring. He also lifted his cup to his lips, drank silently, his hand large and his fingers long, his eyes never leaving her, never wavering.

She was acutely aware that he could have glanced down to the tops of her pushed-up breasts, to her barely covered thighs. If he had he would have noticed the intermittent tremors, the pink skin she felt sure was not just on her cheeks but the tips of her ears.

It was unbearably sexy, that stare, his dark eyes so large, unblinking. As if he could see more than she wanted him to.

As every second ticked by, the heat intensified, until she couldn’t take it any longer. She blinked. “The tea’s good,” she said, surprised her voice was steady.

He swiped his bottom lip with the edge of his tongue; barely a swipe really, only enough for the light to catch on the moisture.

“Although I have no idea what makes it a British blend. It tastes like … tea.”

He lowered his cup. “I’ve got a window in my bedroom,” he said, his voice—still low and rumbly—moving through her like distant thunder. “I want to take your dress off slowly. Let it fall down your body. I’ve been wondering for hours what’s underneath. I’m guessing black, maybe lace, maybe silk, but definitely black. You’ll look incredible standing by that window with the lights of the city as your backdrop.”

Bree almost dropped her cup, clumsy and awkward as a surge of wet heat flowed through her. She’d been so together, too. All calm and reasonable and thinking things through. And then he had to go and say that.

She was officially in another plane of existence because there was no one in the world as she knew it who could have said those words in that tone with that look in his eyes. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought there was someone sitting behind her, some model or actress or virtually anyone who wasn’t Bree Kingston.

“Bree?” His smile was slow, controlled, while she hesitated.

God, why was she hesitating? A few more seconds and maybe she could get her legs in working order.

He stood and held out his hand for her. Heart beating flamenco style, head swirling in a cloud of lust and weirdness, she rose without spilling, tripping or making any unfortunate sounds.

Instead of pulling her closer, Charlie stepped into her personal space, then into her. His body touched her from chest to thigh, and he was warm and big and he smelled as if he’d just walked in a forest. Looking up was nothing new, but meeting his gaze so near, feeling his tea-sweet breath caress her lips, that was stunning. As he bent down, her eyes closed at the last possible second, and then, and then …

6

CHARLIE SHIFTED HIS BODY as he kissed her. He’d been getting hard for a while now, since he’d put down that ludicrous tea tray. Bree wasn’t his type; there was no question about that, but she was something—

Something.

So small. Not thin, thin was ubiquitous, a thing to get over, not to enjoy. At least the kind of thin he was used to. Bree was diminutive, delicate. How he wanted to hold her completely in his arms, lift her from the floor and carry her off to his bed. More absurd than the tea service because there wasn’t a romantic bone in his body and also not enough booze to let his imagination get away from him, and yet, his hands moved down her black dress—which had to go—to cup her hips, her bottom.

Instead of giving in to his urge, he walked backward, pulling her with him. He didn’t need to look, not yet. It was a straight line to the hallway, where he would have to make sure to turn them, then another straight shot to his bedroom.

They kissed and walked in their odd shuffling gait. He touched wherever he could, mostly the parts that were bare, and warm, and pebbled with goose bumps. He hoped those were from him, not the temperature. Decided not to ask.

The bedroom was obscenely large for Manhattan, but the building was prewar and the place had been remodeled to make it expansive. He’d put in plush carpet for the pleasure of it, outrageously fine sheets, condoms and water bottles near the California king. Bree broke away from his kiss with a gasp. Not at the luxury of the room, she hadn’t looked at it yet, but for breath. To give him a smile.

He nodded toward the wall, all windows, the electronic shades up and hidden to capture the view. “There,” he said. “I want you there.”

She turned. This gasp wasn’t for air. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”

“It pales.” He took her hand and guided her closer to the windows and kissed her again, sneaking his tongue between her lips as his fingers found the zipper pull. He heard nothing but breathing and blood flow, but he followed the zipper with his left hand on her bare back until he reached the end. He touched the strip of elastic that was the line of her thong. The touch was enough to pull him away from the gorgeous heat of her mouth. He needed to see.

The dress fell, puddling at her feet, and it was better than he’d imagined. The thong wasn’t black, but red. Dark red, tiny. Seeing it against her pale flesh made his cock harder, his desire intense.

Odd, so odd, this reaction of his. She was pretty, she really was, but she wasn’t architecturally beautiful. Perfectly proportioned, yet not so slender she didn’t have curves and a little bit of a tummy that made him want to rest his head right there for a week. God, her breasts. They were mouthwatering, with pale pink areolas and firm little nipples, puckered and waiting.

Bree stepped out of her dress, and oh, that was something. Her in nothing but a ruby thong and high heels. Stunning, delicious … for Christ’s sake, the woman was two feet in front him, willing and eager.

He worked his clothes off in a controlled frenzy, flinging things away as he multitasked, toeing off his shoes and socks, moving closer to Bree as he unzipped, hissing as the silk of his boxer briefs brushed against the underside of his aching cock.

He kissed her again, but she was trembling and just chilly enough for him to bow to the nonsensical urge to scoop her up into his arms—she was a featherweight of soft flesh and hitching breaths—and dammit, he should have pulled the bedcovering down. She huffed a laugh as he stood her up, and together they got rid of the extra pillows and pulled down the duvet.

He waited, and when she sat and bent to take off her heels, he made a noise. It wasn’t a squeak or a whimper, but it was close on both counts. Bree grinned, rose from the bed. There was a wicked sparkle in those lust-darkened eyes of hers, and when she turned around and went onto all fours on the mattress, Charlie made another noise, but this was a groan that came straight from his balls. She crawled across the bed, her hips swaying in invitation, giving him flashes of red between her thighs.

When she got to the second pillow, she made a show of lying down, grinning at him, flushed and breathing hard as she posed for him. Hands behind her, clutching the teak headboard slats, hair dark against the white pillowcase. Her legs came up, one canted over the other, like a pinup from the forties, like a siren, like a dream.

Miraculously, he didn’t come right there and then. He made it onto the bed, took his time but he had to close his eyes before he touched her. Because, God.

When he licked a trail up the inside of her thigh, she trembled on his tongue.

BREE STOPPED BREATHING as Charlie’s mouth inched up her thigh. The sexy pose wasn’t like her, but then, she wasn’t the same Bree tonight. Thank goodness her hands gripped the slats or she’d have floated straight up to the ceiling. She wanted to hurry him, his hot breath teasing her so near the creases where thigh met thong but not quite there.

He’d caught her left ankle in his hand, holding her leg aloft as his other hand smoothed up the front of her right thigh. She watched him, her excitement mounting, but the angle of her head was tricky to maintain with the firm pillow smooshed awkwardly under the top of her back. As much as she wanted to let her head loll back, her eyes close, let out the cry trapped in her throat, she couldn’t do anything but stare at him, naked, crouched low on the bed between her knees. So she kept watching, urging him to move up, let that hot breath of his sneak under the silk, let his tongue follow.

Every inhale expanded her chest so her breasts, too small for her long erect nipples, came into her line of sight. When he looked up, he smiled at the same broken view, but from below. Okay, so maybe her breasts weren’t too small. From how he groaned, never letting his tongue lift from her flesh, he seemed to like them. A lot.

Despite the groan, the stubborn man refused to move. “Charlie,” she whined as she lifted her hips. What did he need, an engraved invitation?

His low chuckle dialed up her frustration.

“Patience,” he whispered, his mouth moving closer to where she needed it. But instead of his tongue, he slipped his nose in that crease, nudging the thong over. He inhaled as if she were a bouquet of roses, and oh, God, he lowered her ankle as his teeth gripped silk. The tug was forceful, but not enough to snap the G-string panties, only to push things to the side, to let her feel a brush of cool air on her naked flesh.

When she let go of the slats, her hands ached. She was sure they were dented from the pressure, but she didn’t care. It was necessary to touch him. She was shorter than any one of her friends, but the distance between the top of the bed and Charlie’s body seemed to stretch on for miles. Yet she reached him with no strain, touched his dark, soft hair, her fingers tracing his temples.

He moaned, inches away from a different crease. Then that artful tongue of his started exploring and Bree’s body arched with the shock of it.

The battle with the awkward pillow was lost in an instant. Her head lolled back, her eyes shut as he licked and sucked and flicked until she had one leg pressing down on his shoulder and a grip on his hair that had to hurt like a mother.

He didn’t let up, not when she whimpered, not even when she turned his name into a pitiful plea.

She came with a jolt, another full-body arch and a cry that started low and ended so high only bats could hear it.

Charlie held her through the tremors, kissing his way up to her belly button, to her chest. Soft kisses, hard kisses, some wet and filthy, then chaste and sweet. His teeth scraped her skin, making her gasp, but the licks afterward soothed her into a sigh. When he reached her breasts, he settled in for a while. Bree quivered beneath him, every nibble and suck on her sensitive nipples sparking aftershocks.

She ran her hands across his shoulders as she whispered his name over and over, tugging him up, closer. But the obstinate bastard had other plans. He abandoned her nipple with a long swipe of his tongue and met her gaze, his eyes darker than ever. His lips were wet with her moisture, his smile three steps past sinful.

“You need to reach over there,” he said, nodding at his bedside table. “Open that drawer.”

“I do, huh?”

His smile widened and she felt his hand sneaking down her tummy. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, and she could have sworn his voice had lowered a full octave.

“Charlie, what are you doing?”

“I’m not finished being in you,” he said. “So I’ll just amuse myself until you think you might like more than fingers.”

“Maybe I’ve got a thing for fingers.”

“That’s okay,” he said. But he was pushing himself up to kneeling until she could see him. See his very hard, very ready cock.

The hand that wasn’t petting her pussy, toying at the very edge of her lips, encircled his erection. It was a handful and he looked like he knew how to use it.

She swallowed and clenched her muscles as he squeezed up his length until just his glans peeked out, a drop of precome beading obscenely.

Bree hated to look away, but it couldn’t be helped. She found the condom quickly, opened it with shaky fingers. He did the honors of putting on the rubber— making a damn show of it—and then he laid himself over her, leaning on his elbow so she wouldn’t be squished.

The kiss was salt and sex, his tongue giving her a preview of what was to come. Spreading her open, he rubbed up and down between her labia getting his bearings by feel. All the while, he watched her with dark, hooded eyes.

When he thrust, the cry she’d been holding in caromed off the walls, stole all her air.

Everything from then on was white heat and being filled. Raw and hard, every slap of flesh was followed by a desperate gasp from him, from her.

She came again. Squeezing him, pulling him closer, tighter. Then he froze, his face a mask of intense pleasure.

When he came back from the edge, he kissed her. More than the date, more than the tea, more than anything, the kiss turned everything sideways. Long, slow and deep, it wasn’t a thank-you or showing off or like any other après-sex kiss she’d ever had. It was as real as the night sky, and it made her as dizzy as if she’d downed a magnum of champagne.

After, as she gathered in her stolen breath, he fell into a graceless heap beside her.

She still had her heels on.

When he forced himself out of the bed and into the bathroom, she closed her eyes, still dazed and confused. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Bree,” she said softly so he wouldn’t hear. “Whoa.”

IT WAS SIX-FORTY. CHARLIE had looked at his alarm clock at six thirty-eight, then at Bree, still sleeping, still with him. All he’d been able to see was part of her bare shoulder and the back of her head. Now he was staring at the ceiling and having a panic attack.

He’d never had one before, but the way his heart was hammering in his chest had to be a sign. As a test, he turned his head to catch a glimpse of her. Fuck. What the hell had he done?

The last time he’d felt like this, not quite like this but the closest thing he could remember that had a similar vibe, was at fifteen. His first time. It was at Amy Johnson’s house, in her twin canopy bed with her parents two doors down the hall. He’d been crazy about Amy, madly in whatever passes for love at fifteen. The sex had been horrible but he’d gotten off. He couldn’t imagine how bad it had been for Amy. He’d felt like the stud king of the world, and even when he fell flat on his face escaping out her bedroom window, he’d considered the night a raging success.

He’d made sure his parents found one of the condoms from the box of Trojans. Their apoplectic fit at the inappropriateness of sex with a girl from that kind of family—she went to public school and her father was a dentist at a clinic—had been the most satisfying development in his life until age sixteen and a half, when he’d discovered the joys of older women and realized how much he had to learn.

Those lessons had been a downright pleasure.

But no one and nothing since Amy had recaptured the out-of-his-mind exhilaration of that maiden voyage. Until last night.

No matter what they’d done, Bree was definitely an innocent. Ah. Okay. Bree reminded him of Amy. Nothing to panic about. His breathing should return to normal soon. Last night had been a rerun of a great night. That’s all. His reaction had nothing to do with the nice woman in his bed. He would give her coffee and cab fare, and that would be the end of it.

The sooner the better. She had to get to work, and so did he.

He stilled as she turned over and they touched. His hand, her thigh. It was warm, the place where they came together, and all the progress he’d made in the breathing department went to hell.

Why was he getting hard again? Shit.

He pictured her in that pose, her hands gripping the headboard, her nipples hard as little rocks and those heels. Jesus. She’d smelled like honey and tasted like the ocean, and he hadn’t been that hard in years. He bit back a moan as he pictured her face when she’d come. And there was the problem in a nutshell. Or should he say in his nuts.

Forcing his mind to focus, he refused to acknowledge anything below the waist. If he’d been thinking with anything but his dick he would’ve sent her home last night. As soon as she’d asked for tea. Tea? Seriously? Then he’d made everything worse by getting down the goddamn silver. What was that about?

Screw his hard-on. This was ridiculous. He had work. Last night had been a favor for Rebecca, a nice surprise for him. No denying Bree was fantastic in bed, but that wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need a great lay, he needed A-listers, women who would draw readers to the blogs, gossip fodder. He needed Mia Cavendish and her counterparts, the more photogenic and controversial, the better. He wanted to trend on Twitter, make the headlines on the New York Post’s Page Six. He needed ad revenue and infamy.

Bree could get him exactly none of that.

GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY, she was in so much trouble.

How was it possible that the best thing about her night as Cinderella had been a one-night stand with the King of Manhattan?

Not the limo, not Charlie’s fame, not the stars or the dresses or meeting her design heroes. No. The best thing, the thing that would cripple her if she didn’t get a grip right this minute was making … sex with Charlie.

She was no blushing virgin and she knew what happened between the sheets. She’d had bad sex and she’d had amazing sex and what had happened with Charlie wasn’t even on the same scale.

Falling for Charlie was not acceptable.

She really needed to get out of bed because if he moved the hand against her thigh even a little bit, she couldn’t be held accountable for her actions.

Where was her dress? By the window. Somehow, the room wasn’t filled with light, which it should have been because the last time she’d looked, there’d been nothing but glass between them and Central Park. Yet, it wasn’t dark, either. She hadn’t opened her eyes, but there was some kind of pale gold thing happening behind her lids, so …

The lamp that had been on while they’d been …

She inhaled quietly, regrouping. It didn’t matter what Charlie was doing. She was in control of her actions and her thoughts. She’d throw back the covers, get out of bed, pull up her dress, slip on her heels and go to the bathroom. She wouldn’t have to look at him at all.

Crap. The back of his fingers brushed against her thigh. Just that quickly, her resolve vanished and her body tensed. Things were happening against her will. Nipples hardened. Kegel muscles contracted. Not to mention the thunder of her heart.

It was one time, Kingston. One night. You had champagne. It was like being in a fairy tale. It’s not real. Things like this don’t happen in the real world. It’s over. Stop being a moron and get out.

After a silent count to three, she did it. Tossed covers, pulled up dress, screw the zipper, picked up shoes, darted to the bathroom, slammed the door, breathed.

Cursed herself from here to Sunday because while she was in the nice, safe bathroom, her purse with all her stuff was in the living room.

She sighed and leaned on the door, barely restraining herself from banging her head against the wood until she passed out. Her makeup was already a disaster so crying wasn’t out of the question.

What were the odds he had a spare toothbrush in this humongous room? The shower alone was bigger than what she laughingly called a bedroom.

She could wash her face with whatever soap he had, and rinse her mouth with something that would at least hide the morning breath for a while. All she had to do was be somewhat presentable for a cab ride home, then she could start forgetting about Charlie as she hustled to get ready for work.