10 Rules to Sex Up a Blind Date (8 page)

‘More,’ she gasped. He gripped her hips, furiously pumping, thrusting deeper, faster. Sweat slicked his brow, his expression focused, the sinews in his neck corded with effort as he raced them both towards that perfect peak. She sobbed as sensation exploded from her core, brutal, searing, unstoppable, the white-hot threads shooting through her like lightning bolts. Her head dropped back as she shot over the edge, flying free. His seed emptied inside her with his yell of release.

His forehead touched her cheek, his staggered breathing loud against her ear. The slumberous wave of afterglow washed over her as her fingers caressed the soft bristles of hair above his ears. Her palms dropped to cradle his jaw, trembling as she caressed the stubble on his cheeks.

‘What the fuck?’ The stunned words feathered across her cheek. Drawing her back to consciousness, making her brutally aware of the scent of sex and sweat thickening the air in the tiny closet.

He was still firm, still impossibly large inside her. She shifted, her sex aching now, her body bruised and numb from the violent coupling. Her chest tightened as she struggled to breathe round the uncomfortable mass forming under her diaphragm.

The pulse of her own heartbeat battered her eardrums. Could he hear it too?

‘Tally, I’m sorry.’ The whispered apology sounded hoarse but sincere. ‘For the note I left this morning. I behaved like a jerk.’

‘That’s okay. I’m sorry for the tweet,’ she whispered back, finding her voice.

Those pure aquamarine eyes locked on her face. She looked away, scared that they might see right into her soul and yank out something she had no wish to give willingly.

Then she had the strangest sensation she already had. What had happened a moment ago? One minute they’d been in a battle, grappling for their own pleasure, and then suddenly they’d been joined, body and soul, hurtling into their climax together.

His thumb touched her chin and he lifted her head. ‘We need to talk,’ he murmured.

No, they did not. She felt too raw, too wobbly to have a conversation now.

‘I have to go.’ She wriggled, relieved when his penis slid out of her and he stepped back to pull up his jeans and refasten his fly.

He cupped her elbow to steady her as she locked her knees to stop from falling on her butt, her legs like overcooked spaghetti.

‘I have a sidebar to write before six,’ she babbled, smoothing her dress with trembling fingers, astonished at the thought that they’d managed to bang each other into oblivion almost fully clothed.

‘Well, it’s gonna have to wait, because I want to discuss this. I’m sick of feeling like an asshole.’

‘You’re not an arsehole, Brent. I absolve you of it all. The note was a mistake. I get it,’ she said.

‘I didn’t say I
am
an asshole,’ he said, the wry smile scarily disarming. ‘I said I feel like one. And that mistake isn’t even the half of it. I don’t usually screw a woman all night without knowing a damn thing about her. And I’ve never once banged a women in a closet either.’ He huffed, the smile dying. ‘I guess what I’m saying is, you’ve had one hell of an impact on me, Tally. I don’t want that to be a bad thing.’

‘That doesn’t mean it’s a good thing though, does it?’

‘But maybe it could be, if you let me get to know you better without the sex getting in the way.’ He sounded totally sincere, making anxiety thrum under her breastbone.

‘Maybe there’s nothing more
to
know. And the sex is all there is.’ Henry had certainly thought so. And however honest his mistake, Brent had obviously thought so too this morning—or he would never have mistaken her for a hooker.

‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’ His open palm skimmed down her arm, which was rigid with tension. ‘Come on, Tally, I want to get to know you better.’

She shrugged off the caress, because the urge to lean into it was all but overwhelming. ‘I’m very sorry, but I have work to do. So I’ll have to tell you my life story some other time.’

Like never.

She had to get away from this man. Now, before she gave into the well-spring of emotion and said something stupid, cheesy, that she couldn’t undo. Their all-night shagathon and the wild-sex-in-a-closet interlude were new territory for her too, but the combustible sexual chemistry between them didn’t feel like nearly as much of a threat as the genuine curiosity in his gaze.

‘Tonight, then?’ he asked.

Her chest tightened at the quiet request. ‘That’s not a good idea,’ she said, but her voice didn’t sound as firm as she wanted it to.

‘Why not?’

She had so many answers to his question. So why did all of them sound false? ‘We’ve had great make-up sex. Which means we should call this quits before it gets nasty again.’

‘That was a lot more than just great make-up sex.’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

He clasped her wrist. ‘I know what great make-up sex is. That wasn’t it.’

She tugged her hand free, propped her fists on her hips, a surge of panic giving her strength to find the distance she so desperately needed. ‘I’m not looking for anything else. Don’t you get it? I’m the Blind Date Bitch, precisely so I can date guys then dump them.’

The half-truth tasted sour, but she didn’t plan to tell him he’d been the first guy to get past first base since Henry—the black hole forming in her chest cavity was big enough to run a truck through already.

‘Then you can ditch me tonight.’ Leaning close, he kissed her on the nose. The affectionate gesture surprised her almost as much as the tender expression. ‘But not before I get a real date.’

‘A real date?’ Her eyes virtually crossed with frustration. ‘What are you talking about? We had a whole night together.’

The quirk of amusement on his lips only aggravated her more. ‘I’ll pick you up here at six. That’s when you finish, right?’

‘No, you will not.’ Was he deaf or something? ‘I’ve already got enough explaining to do about you.’ She could already imagine the questions she was going to be fielding when she strolled back into the office in five minutes, looking wantonly dishevelled, half an hour after being dragged out by a deranged hotty.

‘Okay, I’ll pick you up at your place at seven.’

‘But you don’t know where I live.’

‘I’m a tech geek. I’ll figure it out.’ He looped his fingers round her wrist, lifted her hand, then buzzed a kiss across her knuckles.

She snatched her hand back, the soft brush of his lips like a brand as panic clawed at her throat. ‘No. I don’t think we should see each other again.’

‘I do and I’m making the rules.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since I discovered the Blind Date Bitch is too chicken to go on a real date. Either you give me my date or I tell all your followers the truth.’

‘What? You can’t do that!’ Outrage warred with astonishment—and the prickle of vulnerability—as her jaw went slack. ‘It’s blackmail.’

‘Damn straight it is.’ His fingers curled around her neck to pull her close. Her gasp of dismay caught in her throat as his lips touched hers. She pressed her palms against his chest, determined to push him away. But the demanding, controlling kiss she expected—and could have fought so easily—didn’t come. Instead his tongue probed, sliding across the seam of her mouth, requesting entry instead of demanding it. Her heart fluttered, the panic replaced by the swell of emotion she couldn’t seem to control. He licked, coaxing her lips with his tongue, eroding her resistance in gently lapping strokes.

She surrendered with a sigh, and his mouth fused with hers, the inevitable heat rising from her core.

His hands cradled her face, blunt fingers threading into her hair, to draw her head back. ‘Something you should know about me,’ he murmured, his voice thick. ‘When I play poker, I never bluff.’

‘If you say anything about me on Twitter, I’ll name you as the Epic Hot Lover,’ she said, her lips stinging from his kiss.

‘Go ahead. I promise I won’t sue.’

Bugger it, he was calling her bluff—while he held all the cards. She couldn’t name him, because it would be tacky and thoughtless...and she really didn’t want anyone to know his true identity. The possessive thought only made her panic increase.

Slinging a hand into his pocket, he ran his other hand across her shoulder, then reached behind her to open the closet door. ‘I’ll see you at seven. Your place.’

She stumbled out, taking a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the light from the wall of windows at one side that illuminated the empty office space. Then rushed to the exit doors. She couldn’t hear him following her, but still she ran into the ladies’ toilet. To repair the damage from their closet shag. And to wait for her heart to stop thumping her ribcage like a wrecking ball.

* * *

Brent rapped his forehead against the door-jamb as he listened to the exit doors slam shut behind Tally. The noise was muffled by the deafening thuds of his own heartbeat.

He waited for his blood pressure to drop out of the danger zone. All he needed now was to add a heart attack to the madness that had taken hold of his life.

He’d fucked her in a closet. In the middle of an argument. She’d called it great make-up sex. He called it nuts. Crazy. Certifiable.

It was equally nuts to demand she see him again tonight, given the spontaneous combustion that occurred every time they got within ten feet of each other. But then, he’d left sane behind when he’d first laid eyes on Tally Gladstone yesterday evening. And like he’d told her, it didn’t feel like a bad thing anymore.

Damn, the woman excited him more than any woman ever had—even more than Della in the early days, when he’d been young and dumb and easily dazzled.

He wasn’t easily dazzled anymore. These days he was older and tougher and a lot more cynical. He’d assumed that meant that no woman would ever touch him again, that he’d never feel that bright, blinding surge of attraction that made him feel alive. And optimistic. But that was before he’d seen that raw flash of vulnerability in Tally’s eyes, after she’d wrenched an orgasm out of him that had made him see stars, and he’d been dazzled all over again. But more so. Because this time he knew she felt it too. That moment of connection.

He’d refused to acknowledge it last night—and he’d behaved like a dickwad this morning because of that. But now he was through faking it. Somehow this woman, with her smart mouth and her kick-ass attitude, had made him yearn for something he thought he’d never want again.

More than an anonymous hook-up.

More than hot sex.

More than no-risk companionship.

For the first time in forever he was curious again. He wanted to know who Tally was. Why she was so determined to use that flash-fire temper to push him away. He didn’t just want to bang her anymore—he wanted to discover her. To understand her. And he wasn’t terrified of opening up to her in return.

The surge of genuine curiosity about her felt so new, so novel, so refreshing, he intended to nurture it. Maybe she wasn’t interested in him and this was going nowhere. Maybe once the curiosity was satisfied, the spark between them would die. But the simple fact that he hoped to hell it didn’t felt good. A sign that he was emerging from the hole he’d been hiding down for three long years.

Taking Tally on a real date would give him the opportunity he craved—to finally stop being a shit-heel and become a human being again—with a woman who was starting to fascinate him. She was scared, he could tell. Scared to trust him. And he wanted to know why. He’d held her against him, gotten high on the sultry scent of her arousal, been deep enough inside her to feel her muscles clench with her orgasm—but for the first time in a long time the sex had meant more to him than just pleasure. Because it had been more than just a physical connection, it had been an emotional one, whether either of them had wanted one or not. And then he’d freaked out and torpedoed it.

But maybe it could be good again. If he could get Tally to trust him, too. If he could find out why that connection had terrified her even more than it had him.

He closed the closet door behind him, the scent of sex mingling with the sharp smell of disinfectant.

But before he could leave shit-heel territory behind, he would have to grab hold of some control tonight and keep his hands off Tally. He didn’t want their real date exploding into yet more superhot makeup-sex in inappropriate places. Or at least, not too soon. Not until he had gotten past that shield she had welded in place to protect herself from getting hurt. He’d gotten a peek behind it last night, only to have it slam shut in his face because he’d been too busy protecting himself.

He scrubbed his hands down his face.

Okay
,
don’t get too far ahead of yourself.
First things first.

On the evidence so far, keeping his hands to himself was going to be one hell of a challenge. Especially if Tally decided to use all the weapons in her arsenal to throw him off her scent.

Chapter Nine

#NewRule: If you are in danger of having a lame date...consider knickers surplus to requirements and bring back the #WTFfactor

Ten past seven.
Maybe he isn’t going to show.

Tally rimmed her lips with cherry Chapstick to stop them drying to parchment, and rechecked her makeup in the bathroom mirror for the third time in as many minutes.

Her pulse skittered at the prospect of a reprieve.

Wouldn’t that be just like the man, to leave her hanging now she was ready for anything? After careful consideration, she’d decided that his promise of a ‘real date’ didn’t have to mean anything. All they’d done so far was shag and shout at each other. So what were the chances of this date being any different? That’s probably all he had in mind anyway. Another epic shagathon for old times’ sake. The only thing between them was sex and chemistry. So she’d go along with this pretence of a date—after all, surely she could withstand ten minutes of Brent O’Neill’s charm before she was given leave to jump him again. She sat down to slide on her heels and felt the glide of silk between her legs, where her stockings whispered next to her naked sex.

The door-bell rang, making her jump. Air brushed between her thighs as she walked to the front door, increasing the erotic spell and justifying her decision to wear the deceptively demure bias-cut electric-blue chiffon dress with a push-up bra, silk stockings, four-inch wedge heels and no knickers.

Brent wouldn’t know what hit him.

She opened the door—and her pulse punched her collar-bone at the picture he made standing on her doorstep. Big and gorgeous in a steel-grey designer suit, a dark blue mac, and a white shirt and black tie, the twilight gilding his closely cropped hair with hints of red. He looked like the picture of a hotshot executive—emphasis on the
hot.

‘Tally, you look great.’ The line of his lips lifted on one side as that penetrating gaze drifted down, teasing her breasts into tight peaks under the demure neckline of the dress.

‘Thanks. I’m glad to see I haven’t overdressed,’ she said, unable to keep the snip of irritation at bay. ‘As you didn’t see fit to tell me where we’re going, I took a wild guess that it would be dressy.’ Although hopefully not for long.

Seeing the heat in his eyes as they met hers, the spike of satisfaction quelled her irritation. Seemed she hadn’t guessed wrong, and his insistence on ‘getting to know her better’ was really just another prelude to sex. Grabbing her coat, she stepped outside, eager to get the evening up and running—towards its inevitable conclusion—and ignored the tiny tingle of disappointment that his motives were just as simple as she’d expected.

He lifted her coat out of her hands and held it up for her. She threaded her arms into the sleeves, not reading too much into the chivalrous gesture. She was entitled to a bit of gallantry after that abominable note this morning.

But then his forefinger brushed across her nape, lifting the curls of hair that had escaped her chignon over the coat’s collar. Sensation rippled down her back. She turned abruptly, dislodging his finger. Cool air brushed her thighs, making her a little too conscious of her knickerless state. ‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’ He held out his hand, palm up. ‘But first, hand over your cellphone.’

She frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Because whatever happens tonight is between you and me, and not for your five hundred thousand followers, or however many it is you have by now.’

‘I wasn’t planning to post about this,’ she replied, indignantly. The truth was she’d logged off her Twitter account as soon as she’d returned to her desk after their tryst at the office and hadn’t logged on again since. The crutch that had been so important to her for six months had turned into a shackle around her neck—sharing her dating history with strangers was only fun when it was funny. She wasn’t seeing the humour in this situation anymore.

Not that there was anything serious going on between her and Brent, she told herself staunchly. They were only scratching a long-tormenting itch together. But he had come to mean something important to her sex-starved hormones—and she didn’t want to cheapen that. Any more than she already had. Which was probably why the desire to share tonight’s events with loads of strangers had been conspicuous by its absence.

‘Then there’s no harm in me holding on to your cell.’ He clicked his fingers.

She huffed. ‘Good to know you trust me so much.’ She reached into her handbag, drew out her smartphone and slapped it into his palm, disguising the foolish flicker of hurt with indignation.

Why should he trust her? She didn’t trust him. And why did it even matter if he did or not? After tonight they’d have gotten their fill of each other and that would be an end to their affair. She didn’t expect anything more.

Correction. She didn’t
want
anything more.

He sent her a rueful smile as he tucked the phone into the breast pocket of his suit. ‘That’s what tonight is all about. Building trust,’ he said, wrong-footing her again. ‘But I’m the first to admit, we’re not there yet.’

Before she had a chance to formulate a suitable response to his unsettling statement of purpose, he cupped her elbow and led her down the front steps to a waiting black cab. ‘Take us to Millennium Bridge.’

He settled on the seat beside her as the cab drove away from the kerb.

She took the opportunity to trail a finger-nail down the lapel of his suit jacket, dropping her voice to a throaty purr. ‘Nice threads. Tom Ford?’ He could build trust if he wanted; she planned to build something much more user-friendly—like sexual tension—and she didn’t plan to pretend this was about anything other than the obvious while she was doing it.

Instead of replying, he caught her finger and brought it to his lips. The chaste kiss he bestowed on her fingertip was somewhat contradicted by the mocking heat in his gaze. ‘I wore it to impress you, so I guess it did the trick.’

She tugged her finger out of his grasp, knocked off-kilter again by his apparent sincerity. ‘If you’re planning to seduce me, Brent, there’s really no need. We both know what this evening is about. And what we’re wearing isn’t going to matter for very long.’

She sat back, crossed her legs, pleased with the direct approach, and the unequivocal message behind it—but annoyed that he’d made her play her hand so soon. Still, at least now he knew she knew exactly what the score was, and she was more than ready to play.

‘What’s wrong, Tally? Don’t you think you deserve to be seduced?’

The husky challenge arrowed right past the shield of confidence to sink into the tender flesh beneath.

‘I don’t
need
to be seduced—there’s a difference.’ She slanted a look at him. ‘And that doesn’t make me a whore.’ She saw him flinch and knew she’d scored a direct hit. ‘It simply makes me a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it.’

She stared out the window and watched the unflattering rabbit warren of pollution-stained concrete and red brick fly past as the cab drove through the Barbican.

‘Then a seduction won’t bother you, will it?’ His hand settled on her leg, warm and—damn it—seductive. ‘I want to make this morning up to you, Tally.’

‘There’s no need.’ She swung round. ‘If that’s what tonight is all about, don’t bother.’ Good god, was this some kind of pity date he was taking her on?

‘There’s every damn need. We had a great night and I screwed it up.’

She lifted a shoulder, let it drop—the picture of nonchalance, she hoped. ‘It was a mistake. You didn’t know about my Twitter habit when you read the card,’ she said, only to have Henry’s words when she’d confronted him about the lies and the deceptions, the wife he had failed to mention, echo in her head on cue.

Get real
,
Tal.
You were an amazing fuck and you were offering it for free.
No man in his right mind’s going to turn that down—especially a married one.

She tramped down the familiar guilt that she’d worked so hard to deny. And the agonising feeling of inadequacy.

For god’s sake. Was she going to keep making the same mistake forever? She didn’t love Brent the way she’d once convinced herself she loved Henry. But she had invested more in their night together than she should have. Or that bloody note wouldn’t have got to her the way it had.

‘That’s bullshit,’ Brent said from the opposite side of the cab, interrupting her pity party. ‘Your card wasn’t the real reason I freaked out.’

‘Then what was?’ she asked, curious despite the fact that she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

He shrugged. ‘You’d made me feel good, and I didn’t want to deal with it, I guess.’

‘What was there to deal with? It was only sex.’

‘Seriously?’ He raised a sceptical eyebrow, calling her on the lie. ‘Even that last time?’

‘That would be your endorphins talking,’ she said, the panicked flutter returning. This conversation was straying into dangerous waters. ‘And those little buggers lie, all the time.’ They’d certainly lied to her about Henry.

‘Hey, I know that,’ he said, the rueful smile on his face surprisingly endearing. ‘I married a woman who ended up hating my guts thanks to those lying bastards.’

The revealing statement sparked her curiosity, unsettling her more. She’d convinced herself she didn’t want to know anything about his past, his ex-wife. So why should this tiny glimpse make her want to probe?

Sam had told her that Brent was a hard-ass with women because of his divorce. But had he really been a hard-ass with her? They’d jumped into bed without knowing the first thing about each other but still he’d treated her with surprising care and consideration—give or take the odd playful smack on the arse! Before that bloody note, he’d made her feel good too, especially in those moments before dawn. And wasn’t that precisely why she’d been so hurt by what happened afterwards?

‘Was it very bad?’ she asked, before she could think better of it. ‘Your divorce?’ The muscle in his jaw tensed, and she instantly felt like a fraud. ‘I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.’ What right did she have to ask him such a personal question when she had absolutely no desire to share and discuss her own past?

‘Divorce is never pretty,’ he said, surprising her with an answer. ‘But the marriage was a mistake from the start. So it could have been worse.’

‘How could it have been worse?’

‘It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. I was young and stupid. And high on those pesky endorphins.’ He smiled, but he looked more rueful than amused. ‘I didn’t love her. I only thought I did. I guess she dazzled me. She looked like a supermodel, her old man was richer than Rockefeller and she had this sense of entitlement that made her seem special. I couldn’t believe she’d agreed to marry me.’ He shrugged. ‘She was slumming it at Cornell because she hadn’t gotten into Harvard. And I was on a scholarship, proud of being the first kid in my family to get past high-school graduation. It didn’t take long for the cracks to show once we’d graduated.’

‘So she was a snob,’ Tally said, not attempting to hide her contempt. The woman sounded like a bitch—although she would love to know why all the biggest bitches got to be disguised as a supermodels instead of, well, dogs.

His lips curved, the smile genuine this time. ‘I guess she hadn’t planned to slum it for the rest of her life. Anyway, by the time we called it quits, it had gotten pretty ugly. But by then we’d figured out we didn’t like each other much. So it was okay.’

‘Pretty ugly, how?’

He hitched his shoulder. ‘You know, the usual. Arguments that lasted forever, never-ending sulks about nothing. Neither one of us wanted to admit we’d made a huge mistake. But then Della got it into her head that I’d tricked her into the marriage. Things got really ugly after that.’

She could hear the regret in his voice. Why was he still shouldering so much of the blame? Surely it took two people to make a marriage work. ‘What happened?’

He stared at her, twin flags of colour highlighting his cheekbones. ‘She took a photo of my cock while I was sleeping and posted it on both our Facebook walls. The caption was something about
the monster I married.
’

‘Bugger off!’ Tally sucked in a breath, horrified. ‘What a cow.’ How old was this woman? Thirteen? What a nasty thing to do.

‘It was pretty damn humiliating at the time. She made me feel like a freak. But the divorce was child’s play after that.’

Shame engulfed her at the thought of her nasty tweet that morning and the furore it had caused. ‘Oh, my god! Brent, I’m so sorry about tweeting that photo of you.’

If what his wife had done was tacky, what she’d done to him wasn’t far behind. And his ex hadn’t humiliated him in front of five hundred thousand complete strangers.

‘Hey, at least I had my pants on for that one,’ he said, being surprisingly magnanimous in the circumstances. ‘And you already apologised.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t actually mean it.’ Although she did now. No wonder he wasn’t big on trust. Who could blame him? ‘Then,’ she added hastily. ‘I do mean it now. Obviously. Absolutely.’ She crossed her little finger over her heart and kissed the tip, suddenly desperate for him to believe her. To trust her, if only a little bit. ‘Pinkie swear.’

He gripped her finger, choking out a laugh. ‘I guess I’m gonna have to accept your apology, then. Again.’

She smiled back, relieved by the twinkle of humour. ‘Well, at least now you know why I’m called the Blind Date Bitch.’

He linked his fingers through hers, tugged her closer. ‘You’re not a bitch. You tell it how it is. There’s a difference.’

He actually sounded as though he meant it, the admiration in his gaze as it swept over her face unmistakable. The swell of affection blind-sided her as his lips covered hers in a tender, searching kiss that felt very much like the one he’d given her that afternoon in the closet. It had frightened her then; it terrified her now.

She thrust her tongue into his mouth, letting the hunger consume her, determined to turn the kiss into something carnal and predictable—instead of random and scary. He groaned, encouraging her. She laid her hand on his knee, stroked the hard thigh heading towards his groin. She needed to get this seduction back on track.