Bad Professor (An Alpha Male Bad Boy Romance) (101 page)

I was glad when
the woman at the front desk rolled her suitcase over a Chihuahua's foot. The
yapping pet was snapped up into the arms of a platinum blonde, reality show
star. As beautiful as she was, with curves that barely stayed within her
stretched lace dress, it was the other woman I looked at again. She gave the
dog a prim look and then apologized to it, ignoring its owner.

"I'm sorry. I
was not expecting a dog in a casino, especially not under the wheels of my
suitcase," she said. "You poor thing."

Before the b-list
star could react, the woman turned back to her place in the check-in line. She
smoothed down the collar of her white blouse. Her pursed lips did not hide her
full mouth. I liked the way her curves pressed against the cotton of her shirt.
Her black pencil skirt was as stiff as her posture, but the rounded silhouette
made my mouth water.
 

"Yeah, I'll give
you – she's a looker," Kev said.

"The reality
show gal?" I asked.

"No, the Ice
Queen there. You know, half the guys in the industry have a bet running on who
beds her first."

"You know
her?" I kept my eyes on her as she folded her hands on her suitcase handle
and waited her turn.

"I wish, if
you know what I mean." Kev made an orgasmic face that soured my stomach.
"She gets all the white-collar athletes, you know, tennis and golf, even
bowling. Guess she comes from Ivy League stock and has been making a killing
for some vitamin supplement company."

"What do you
mean she gets all the white-collared athletes?" I asked.

"They're
happy to sign with her, like I said, because of the bet. Kya Allen is a career
good girl. Not your type at all," Kev said.

"Really. You
know my type?" I asked. "What if my type of woman is 5'5",
copper blonde hair, curves, and sensible cotton?"

"Nah,"
Kev slid off his barstool and slapped a few bills next to his empty glass.
"I'll introduce you to your type. She's waiting for us over near the craps
tables. Wants to blow on your dice."

He gave me no
choice but to follow. Kev set me up at the head of a craps table and would not
take “I don't gamble” as an excuse. Within minutes, I lost one hundred dollars
and then won seventy-five.

When my luck
changed for the better, I met Talia. She pressed an impressive display of
cleavage against my arm and blew on my dice, as Kev predicted. Her silky black
hair tickled me a lot lower than my shoulder.

"Any chance
you know the way to the bathroom?" I asked. "I don't want to end up
in line for the buffet."

"This
way," Talia said.

I followed her
swaying hips all the way into the men's bathroom and into the large stall at
the end of the row. Her teeth nipped my neck before I got the door shut. I
slipped the latch into place and she had my belt unbuckled.

"Mixed
Martial Arts gets me all hot," she said.

Her breasts
bounced free of her strapless sheath dress and I cupped them with both hands. I
teased her dark nipples to hard nubs and then had to taste them. A few licks,
and she shimmied her dress to her waist. There was nothing in my way above or
below the crumpled band of fabric. I trailed a hand up her smooth thigh to find
her ready and wet.

It was too late. I
had been all charged up before she wriggled up to me and let me grip the
generous curve of her ass. Now, as much as I wanted to be better than horny in
a bathroom stall, Talia had me hard and pulsing in her hand. I tore open the
condom wrapper with my teeth and let her expert hands take care of the rest.
Whatever had got me going, I needed this release.

I slipped a finger
inside her, and she moaned. Her lips tasted like cinnamon gum. Removing my
probing finger, I hitched her up against the stall door. Her legs wrapped
around my waist and pulled me hard inside. I concentrated on her bouncing
breasts as we heaved together, up and down. Her hair was black, not copper
blonde, but this was easy.

"Oh, God, you
are so strong," Talia moaned.

A urinal flushed
and a faucet started running. I paused, the pressure building as I pressed deep
into her. I needed the release – I needed to clear my head.

"Oh, don't
tease me, Fenton, just do me."

I heard the
bathroom door open. As soon as it closed, I resumed my rhythm, speeding up
until we both panted. Talia came with a shuddering giggle. I squeezed my eyes
tight and let my body push itself hard over the edge.

Talia gave me a
long, cinnamon-spiced kiss before she unwrapped her legs. She teetered on her
high heels, but giggled again and slipped her dress back into place. Before she
slipped out of the bathroom stall, she plucked my phone out of my pocket and
entered her number.

"Call me, you
bad boy," she said.

I waited until the
clicking of her stilettos disappeared. I buckled my belt, washed my hands, and
finally looked in the mirror. My head was clear, but it did no good. I knew I
wanted more than a bathroom romp, but I couldn't have it. Not yet.
 

CHAPTER TWO

Kya

I
clutched my silver purse, instead of hiking up the straps of my dress again.
The doorman eyed my cleavage before he searched the list again for my name.

"Kya Allen.
Go on inside. Have some fun for me," he said.

I felt his eyes
roving up the backs of my legs to the brief skirt of my black dress. It was
almost a relief when a gaggle of ultra-blonde girls bounced up to the front of
the line and the doorman turned his lascivious eyes on them. I felt like a
ragdoll next to their plastic perfection.

 
The Vegas nightclub was full of bright and
sparkling women, all teetering high on impossible stilettos. My red snakeskin
heels were sexy, but at least an inch too short. Between my short shoes and my
black dress, I stood out against the tall, sequined, platinum crowd like a
sedan at the racetrack.

Ridiculous
,
I thought. As if I wanted to blend in with the mindless crowd gyrating to the
never-evolving club beat. I was only there to find a client and get a new
endorsement deal signed. The location just solidified the fact that my new
client was not my kind of guy, but this was business and I could take care of
business anywhere.

I strode up to the
bar and was surprised how fast I was served. "If you order a real drink,
it’s on the house," the bartender said.

"How about a
whiskey and soda," I said.

"Thank God. I
was hoping you weren't a Cosmo or umbrella drink." He grabbed a bottle
from a high shelf and smiled as he poured it. A spritz of soda and he slid the
drink across to me, holding it so our hands touched. "These big fight
promotion gigs are not really my scene. I just needed the extra shift. How
about you?"

"Not at
all," I said. "I'm here for work, too."

"Then, you
come back and find me when you want to take a break." The bartender
smiled, and I saw a dimple flash in his cheek.

Feeling warmer
from his smile than the whiskey, I turned to take a lap around the pulsating
club. It really was not my scene, either, but my boss had insisted I branch out
into a new sport. All I knew about Mixed Martial Arts was what my boss had told
me in one of his lightning fast meetings.

"It’s a sport
full of meteors, not like your satellite golfers," my boss James Cort had
said.

"Don't we
want satellites? They orbit regularly, make us steady money," I had told
him.

"No, yes! I'm
telling you you've got those. Now what you need is one fresh star about to
explode. You sign him cheap and then we make bank all the way to the top of his
career. Fast and big returns." My boss had jumped up from his desk and
spun his computer monitor towards me. "Fenton Morris. About to dominate
MMA Fighting. Go to Vegas and get him before he gets the title."

I had stood up
too, long ago accustomed to the frenetic management style of James Cort.
"Mixed Martial Arts? I'm better suited for country club sports – you said
it yourself. If you want me to branch into extreme sports, I could maybe tackle
downhill skiing or ski-jumping."

"Yeah, I bet
all those trust fund boys love you at the chalet," my boss had said.
"Don't take that the wrong way, that's why I hired you. No, screw that. I
hired you because you're a great salesperson, and I'm sick of seeing you take
the low-hanging fruit. Give yourself a challenge and get me Fenton
Morris."

It was not so much
the challenge as the obscenely big bonus James offered me. Peddling vitamin
supplements was not the career path I had dreamt of. But he was right, I was
good at my job. If I landed the MMA fighter, not only did I get a wad of cash
that could cover the closing costs on a new house, I got a shot at a brand name
account. No more traveling, no more hunting down clients. A brand name account
meant an office and a team of my own.

I scanned the
undulating dance floor and looked for my new client. How hard could it be to
sign a MMA Fighter? Fenton Morris got hit in the head for a living, surely I
could get him to sign a piece of paper and be on my way back to Chicago. My
house closing was days away and I was not a fan of Las Vegas.

Then, I spotted
the man I had been sent to sign. He stood at the railing just above the dance
floor. His light blue shirt was unbuttoned low, and dark curly chest hair
showed through. A matching shadow of stubble darkened his throat and jawline.
Compared to the slick and tan crowd of Vegas guys, Fenton Morris was a man. He
wore black pants instead of carefully faded jeans, and his crisp blue shirt was
unmarked by graffiti labels or prowling tigers.

A wave of heat
blasted over me and I felt my cheeks get warm. I blamed my empty whiskey and
soda, but decided I better get another one before I talked to the black-haired
man at the railing. He surveyed the crowd with a bored scowl that prickled my
skin with nerves and excitement. I definitely needed a drink.

I walked around to
the side bar behind where Fenton Morris stood. Tearing my eyes from his hard,
wide shoulders, I flagged down the female bartender. She scowled at me.

"And whatever
she wants, too," the man next to me told the bartender. She smiled at him,
but rolled her eyes when I ordered another whiskey and soda.

"Thanks,"
I said. The man looked as if he just stepped out of a catalog spread. I
imagined him with a sweater tied around his shoulders and he how would laugh as
a golden retriever brought him a tennis ball. Wait, no, not tennis. He looked
familiar, but under the laser lights of the nightclub, it was impossible to
place him.

"Put her
drink on my tab," a rough voice said.

I turned around
and stepped back, my spine hard up against the bar. Fenton Morris' blue eyes
blazed down at me and despite the comparative modesty of my black dress, I felt
stripped naked. The slow smile on his lips was hypnotizing as I stared.

"You've been
looking for me," Fenton said.

My nostrils
flared. "Arrogant."

"Is he
bothering you?" my all-American neighbor asked.

"I might be
arrogant, but I'm not wrong," Fenton said. His eyes stayed on me.
"Tell him."

"Mr. Morris,
just because my company might be interested in signing you to an endorsement
deal does not mean I came to this party looking for you," I said.

"Liar."
He stepped closer to me and the other man stood up.

"Look, buddy,
we've all seen your posters, your billboards, but that doesn't give you leave
to harass the lady," the clean-cut man said.

Fenton's eyes
flickered towards the other man and his whole body turned as hard as marble.
His eyes went flat, and I knew I had to do something.

"Alright,
fine. I want you. Happy?" I asked.

The man who bought
me a drink frowned. "I'll be around if you need me." He shoved past
Fenton, like pushing a Roman column, and strode off down the bar.

"I want you
right here," Fenton said. He pointed to his arm.

I took it, my
fingers flexing to test the chiseled rock of his bicep. He grinned and his blue
eyes flashed with a devilish light. He whirled me into the crowd, people
automatically giving him space. It was impossible not to appreciate his
confident gait, and I clung to his arm as tame as a kitten. He made me want to
purr, and I was horrified at the undeniable thought.

He stopped here
and there to sign autographs, my arm still clamped against his body as he
scribbled. More than one flirtatious hopeful frowned at me, and I smiled back
serenely. They all wanted to be where I was, and I enjoyed my sudden security.
The Vegas nightclub was his to command and he had chosen me.

"I am loving
that dress," he said. He pulled me closer and dropped a quick look down my
cleavage.

"Yeah, well,
my silver sequins are at the dry cleaners," I said.

"Makes you
stand out," he said. "Black's my favorite color."

"Ugh. Next
you’re going to tell me you ride a motorcycle." I swept a look up and down
him, the same as he'd done to me. "Anything you think makes you look like
a bad boy, right?"

"Last time I
checked, I had earned my reputation," Fenton said.

"Please, I
know your manager. If anyone could buy you a conviction for assaulting a police
officer, it would be Kevin Casey."

Fenton laughed, a
hearty burst that kicked my heart into high gear. "Actually, that's how I
met Kev. He was in the drunk tank that night."

"So, you're a
bad boy that likes the color black. What's with the blue shirt?" I asked.

"It sets off
my eyes," he said.

I swallowed hard.
He was right, and it was hard to avoid his bright blue glances. Every time I
felt one sweep over me, my body tingled.

"And, I drive
a Maserati, not a motorcycle." He pulled me up the steps to the V.I.P.
Lounge. "Now, I'm liking you on my arm, but I have a booth reserved, if
you want to sit with me."

My mind flashed
over what his wide hands could do to me under the discreet cover of a table.
The thought melted my insides. "How about another drink?"

Fenton steered me
towards the bar, where he unhooked my arm only to slip his hand around my
waist. The heat of his flat palm against my stomach was enough to send fissures
of pleasure through the rest of my body. I decided two drinks were enough, but
I had been so distracted by the sensations he caused that Fenton ordered me
another whiskey and soda.

"Thanks,"
I took a long sip. "So, how did you know I was here to sign you?"

"I saw you
earlier. Kev told me about you," he said. Fenton kept his arm wrapped
around me as he drank a tall beer. "Too bad I don't do endorsement
deals."

"You might if
I ask," I said.

His lips curled
into another sinful smile. "And here I heard you were all prim and proper.
Miss Country Club Princess."

"You can't
hold my upbringing against me," I said.

Fenton's smile
softened and my heart flopped. "I know what that's like, so you're right.
I won't hold your upbringing against you." He pulled me closer. "But
maybe other things, if you ask."

I spun out of his
hold. It was too easy to flirt with him and forget all about work. "Sorry,
I have to respond to this."

My boss had sent
eleven messages with inappropriate suggestions for how to get Fenton's
attention and expletive-filled demands for updates. James Cort had no fear of a
sexual harassment suit, as he knew how much I wanted to take my career to the
next level.

"First
contact now. More soon," I typed.

"Dirty minx.
Don't do anything I wouldn't."

I shook my head at
my boss' response and tossed my phone back in my purse. I had built my career
on a sterling reputation and I was not about to throw it away on one Vegas
prizefighter. As I turned back to Fenton Morris, my resolve weakened. He leaned
against the bar, his blue shirt open wider, and my fingers itched to tangle in
his chest hair.

He caught my look
and smiled. "I've decided you can try convincing me. After we dance."