Flirting with Sin (7 page)

“Fuck.” He rolled off of her. Leaving her aching, throbbing and so goddamn humiliated.

Their harsh breaths echoed in the silence like cannon fire. Her chest rose and fell on rapid drags of air. Every gasp seemed to fan the hunger in her veins like bellows on a fire.

Christ, what had she been thinking? She smothered a pained snort. That’s just it. She hadn’t been thinking. Her sex-deprived, lonely body had hijacked reason and kicked common sense out on its ass. And if Ari hadn’t stopped… The snort veered toward a mortified sob. What must she look like to him? Another adoring fan,
willing to spread her legs for him—literally.

How fucking pathetic.

Rising to her feet, she dusted the snow from her ass without glancing in his direction. Glimpsing the regret, or worse, the horrible pity in his eyes would be her undoing.

“We should leave if I’m going to make the ballroom class on time.” Thank God none of the turmoil swirling inside her reflected in her tone.

It was bad enough she had to somehow figure out how to avoid falling for the man who could be her next big mistake.

“W
ell that was…” Ari’s mouth twitched as he sprawled in the arm chair, “interesting.”

Neveah studied him over the rim of her coffee cup, a gleam in her narrowed eyes. He remained silent. No way he trusted a suspicious woman with a hot beverage in her hand. Especially when the flames from the lobby’s huge fireplace cast a devilish shadow over her features.

“I had fun.” She arched an eyebrow.

Ari waited until she sipped her coffee and lowered the cup back to the table between them. “So did the seventy year-old man you danced with. Was it me or did he feel up your ass while you tangoed?”

“It was the rumba, and his hand slipped. Which,” she held up a finger, “he apologized for.”

Ari snickered. The hell the old pervert’s hand had slipped. Not while wearing that shit-eating grin. Dancing with a beautiful, younger woman had been the highlight of the man’s day. Shit, probably his year. The only reason Ari hadn’t stalked over to Neveah and interrupted the dance between her and the randy old goat was the classy but firm way she’d handled him. Patting him on the cheek, she’d guided his palm back above her waist where it fucking belonged. And whatever she’d said to him must have simultaneously complimented and chastened him because the guy had smiled and seemed shamefaced.

Kindness. She’d been felt up by a man old enough to be her grandfather, and she’d shown him kindness. In Ari’s world, compassion and consideration always came with a price tag. For her to freely give it away amazed him. Just one more thing in a long list of surprises encompassing Neveah
Morgan.

She was shy. Snarky. Funny. Awkward. Childlike. Gentle. Sexy. So fucking sexy, he could still feel the imprint of her pussy against his cock. It wasn’t possible with their clothes creating a protective—and frustrating—barrier,
but damn if the humid warmth of her sex still didn’t brand him. The lure of it called to him like the sweetest melody. All he could focus on was dragging down her jeans and panties and driving into her searing, drenched flesh until she squeezed and milked him dry.

In the snow.

Where anyone could see.

He hadn’t given a flying fuck. Only her legs wrapped around his waist, her hungry whimpers beating against his eardrums and her pussy melting around his dick had mattered.

How he’d gone from having fun matched only by performing on stage to being snared in the hottest grip of need he’d ever experienced, he still didn’t know. Lust was simple. Quick to satisfy and then easily forgotten. But this…what had twisted his gut and balls in a vicious vise and refused to let go until he’d touched her had been foreign. As alien as a goddamn UFO. That hadn’t been lust. Fuck if he could name it, much less define it. But the unidentified craving had sent him running like a bitch.

Even if the confusion, hurt and desire in her eyes had almost unmanned him.

Anything he couldn’t minimize and categorize didn’t have a place in his life.
Because then the thing—or person—became too big, too important, and bled over into other areas such as his career, his decisions. His future. He’d tried making allowances and including someone so vital in his world before. And it’d ended in flames and devastation. No, he couldn’t risk the pain and grief again. Couldn’t risk the hurt of not being enough again.

Four more days. He could do four more days of not touching Neveah.

A hit-it-and-quit-it wasn’t why he’d come to the mountains anyway. Escape, a break, seclusion—those had driven him here. Adding a woman into the mix, no matter how gorgeous, how sexy, how generous and kind, would only complicate matters.

“So what’s next on the list? Sky diving? Flame throwing?” He smirked, determined to place them back on even—platonic—footing.

She scrunched up her nose and tapped a finger against her bottom lip as if deep in thought. “No. Flame throwing is next week’s goal.”
God, her mouth
. “Tomorrow is skiing.”

“You know how to ski?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “But I plan on learning.”

“Jesus, Neveah. You’d think you’re dying with all the things you have on that fucking list.” The words echoed between them, and his stomach dove in a sickening plummet toward his feet before soaring back up to his throat.
Oh, fuck. Fuck, no
. “Neveah, are you…is…” He couldn’t complete the question, bile burning his esophagus.

“No.” The word exploded from her. Then quieter, “No.” She reached across the table and clasped his hand. Sympathy softened her eyes and pretty mouth. His past—his mother’s death—wasn’t a secret, and knowledge of it was reflected in her gaze. “All this is just for fun. Because I probably won’t have another chance to do any of these things.” She shrugged a shoulder. “My job is demanding, and it’s a family business. Which doesn’t leave time for vacation or a life.” A small smile ghosted across her lips. She squeezed his hand a final time and released him. He ruthlessly squashed the impulse to grab her and hold on. “This is my first vacation in, well, ever.”

“I understand a little something about a demanding family business.” His heart and stomach slowly returned to their normal placement, but left his voice rough with the remnants of panic.

“I can imagine. Your schedule is probably even more brutal than mine. Still,” she lifted her coffee cup again, “something has been bugging the hell out of me. You mentioned earlier you’d packed for Mexico. Could you explain how you ended up in the Pacific Northwest, during the winter no less, without a heavy coat or sweaters?” A mischievous glint entered her eyes. “Did you run away without knowing where you were going until the plane landed?”

If she only knew how close to the truth she’d hit. “Pretty much.” He snorted and explained how he’d switched vacations with Jack. “Little did I know he’d won an all-expenses paid stay by entering a match-making contest. He left that small part out.”

She studied him for several seconds, the amused gleam replaced by an uncomfortable incisiveness. “Were you so desperate to leave you didn’t ask questions beyond
will you switch with me
?”

A flippant, dismissive reply hovered on his tongue, but instead, “Yeah,” emerged. He briefly squeezed his eyes closed, willing himself to shut the fuck up. But as if the “yeah” had unplugged a dammed stream, the words flowed out of him, fast and unfettered.

“I just wanted to be alone. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t surrounded by people. Darius, Liam, Oliver—I love them, but lately I’ve felt so suffocated. Like I can’t think or even breathe. I’ve been falling apart for so long, but haven’t figured out how to gather the pieces, how to keep myself together. I don’t have anything left to give. Not to the band, to the label, to the fans.” He chuckled, the sound serrated and bitter to his ears. “I had to threaten to quit the remaining tour dates if the label didn’t given us a week off. I promised myself I would never pull a dick-diva move, but I couldn’t take it anymore. They eventually folded, but they still knew where I was headed. And I didn’t want to be found. By the press, the fans…my father.”

Inhaling, he ground his thumbs into his eye sockets, welcoming the pain. Again, his mind, so used to guarding secrets, ordered him to shut it. Early on, he’d learned revealing things to people could return to bite him in the ass once his words ended up in an online gossip mag or tabloid. But the realization didn’t stem his confession. The words continued to flow like a leaky faucet that once turned on was unable to be twisted off.

“Do you know I haven’t written a song in three years?”

“Yes.”

Shock reverberated through him like a discordant cord. “What? How did you…”

The band hadn’t made his failure to produce known, but tightly shielded it, hoping one day the inspiration to pen more of the music responsible for their skyrocket to superstardom would return. After so long, the hope had rusted and looked like a once loved, long-abandoned toy left out in the rain.

“Not from something I’ve read or heard,” she assured him. “I should say, I suspected the truth.” She toyed with the handle of her cup. “I’ve been a fan since ‘Crash Into You.’” A warm glow settled in his chest at the mention of their first hit single. “The songs you’ve written…they’re magical.” A hint of red tinged her cheekbones as she lifted her gaze to him. “There’s something utterly breathtaking about them. Like you put a piece of yourself into every lyric, every melody.”

She loosed a short, strained laugh, fluttering a hand in front of her as if waving off the fancifulness of her explanation. As if she expected him to mock her. Hell, he could barely breathe much less form words to make fun of her. She’d reached into his chest, seized his heart and squeezed the shit out of it. The praise should’ve been static and routine to him by now—he’d heard it all before. But never like this. Never in such honest, heartfelt terms. No one had ever nailed the almost spiritual awakening and connection he experienced while writing. He
did
embed pieces of his soul into each song. They were parts of him. His fears. His hopes. His dreams. His pain.

The absence of his emotional outlet had been a personal agony.

“Even without scanning the credits for the songs, I’ve always been able to tell which ones you wrote. The last few years, they’ve been…missing something. Not that the music hasn’t been good, because it has. But it hasn’t been,” she lifted her shoulder in another small shrug, “you.”

Silence fell between them, thick and humming with tension. Or maybe the tension emanated from him. From the parts of him warring like two world powers. One side of him wanted to launch across the table, thrust his fingers into her hair and slam his mouth over hers. The other half longed to cradle her on his lap, bury his face in her hair and let her calm the storm inside him.

He could do neither. Touching her at all would be a mistake. Neveah wasn’t a groupie looking to be fucked by the lead singer of a band so she could hang his name on a figurative wall like a mounted deer head. She would demand more than a late-night call for sex when he blew through her city. She’d insist on more—more time, more attention, more of him. Just as Caro had. And he would fail her just as he had Caro.

The reminder was enough to have him backpedaling from the treacherous edge of capitulation. “Why are you here? And by ‘here’ I mean Colorado’s version of
The Love Connection
.” He leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. “If I remember correctly from Monday, you said something about being blackmailed by hell and me gracing your computer wallpaper.”

She rolled her eyes and, this time, her chuckle was more genuine, if self-deprecating. “You would remember those two things.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and blew a hard breath. “But yes, my twin sister, Heaven, also known as Hell, blackmailed me into coming on this trip.”

“There’re two of you?” He straightened in his chair, incredulous. “Identical?” She nodded. “Shit. Is she like you, too? Or is she the bad twin?”

She sighed, the gust of breath world-weary, but a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “The biggest difference between my sister and me is I have a lot of fucks and plenty to give. She only has one.”

He blinked. Blinked again. “Excuse me?”

“I give a fuck about the family business. I give a fuck about responsibility. I give a fuck about people’s feelings and duty. Heaven? She has one fuck to give and it’s in her back pocket, where she’s saving it for a rainy day.”

“Wow. Just…wow.” Laughter rolled up his gut and barreled out of him in a loud crack. And he kept going until his side ached and his eyes watered. Gradually, he got it together. Barely. “Well, that explains the blackmail part,” he rasped. Her sister sounded fucking scary. “So what does she have on you?”

Neveah sobered, the light in her dark-brown eyes dimming. “On a night of drunken self-pity where I bemoaned over the asshole I’d wasted two years of my life on, I confessed to my sister about how I hated my job and the direction my life had taken. How every morning when I showered and dressed to go into the office, I cried. Not just because the aforementioned asshole works at the same place I do and we see each other every day. Which believe me,” she snorted, “sucks on a level you couldn’t imagine. But also because I work for my father. Morgan & Associates is a lending company and has been the family business since his grandfather established it.”