Sexy and Funny, Hilarious Erotic Romance Bundle (22 page)

“You're drunk, Mr. Dalton Deangelo.”

He responded by stopping still in the middle of the dance floor and putting his hands on either side of my mouth. Squishing my lips with his hands on my cheeks, he moved my mouth in time as he said in falsetto, “Yes, you're quite drunk, Mr. Deangelo. You'd better come home with me.”

I swatted his hands away. He laughed and caught me in an embrace, tighter than when we were dancing. I could feel the bumpy parts of his chest and abs right through our clothes. Whenever Shayla and I saw a hot shirtless guy, we'd giggle and say, “Ew, he's so bumpy!” Now that I was pressed up against a wall of these bumps, there was absolutely nothing funny about it.

“Yes, come home with me,” I said. My heart was going pitter-patter, and I knew I was being stupid, but it felt different this time, because I knew I was being stupid and I didn't care. Maybe it was all those hours I'd watched him on TV, but I felt like I could trust Dalton. He said I was cute. I believed him.

He led me off the dance floor, I grabbed my purse, and we ducked outside to his fancy car. The driver was napping, but snapped to attention after Dalton tapped on the window.

We got in the back seat and I gave the driver my address on Lurch Street. He didn’t seem to believe me that was the actual street name, but I gave him directions and assured him I knew where I lived.

Dalton waited until the privacy glass was up, then said, “If you change your mind before we get to your place, just say the word. I'll drop you off and leave you be.”

“Are you playing hard to get?”

He grinned, deepening the sexy million-dollar dimple in the middle of his chin. “Is it working?”

Oh, that chin. I wanted to smack it with the back of a spoon and eat it like
crème brulee
.

“I'm glad you ran into my bookstore.”

He moved into the center of the bench seat, reached over, and roughly slid me next to him. “I've had a tough week, but things are starting to look up.”

He placed one hand on my thigh and caressed the outer edge of my leg as he kissed my neck.

He continued, “The press is out to make their dollar, and they don't care who gets hurt. Some people are willing to do anything to make it, except work hard.”

Cautiously, I moved one of my hands up along his leg and then along his torso. His lips on my neck made my body melt, and moving my hand required conscious effort.

“You seem like a hard worker,” I said.

He burst out laughing at that, grabbing my hand and holding it tight to his muscular chest. “Oh, I'm a hard worker, all right.”

The heat of my face made me glad for the dim lighting in the back of the car, as I was surely tomato-red from embarrassment.

“Don't tell me that being a famous actor is already tiresome for you. What are you, twenty-eight?”

“Officially? Twenty-four.”

“What does it say on your birth certificate?”

“Someone else's name.” He stretched one arm behind my back and stroked my hair. “That's a secret, by the way.”

“Are we telling secrets now?”

“Either that or kissing. Your choice.”

I shook at the thought of divulging my secrets.

“Kissing.”

His gaze went to my lips and he leaned forward slowly.

He murmured, his voice low and barely audible, “I'm going to give you a dramatic on-screen kiss.”

I giggled in response, which normally would have made me cringe at my stupidity, but the way he was looking at me was so serious and sexy. I felt like my body was under water, with pleasant pressure pushing me together in all directions, but that at any moment, I might fly apart like so much stardust.

Dalton's expression got ultra-serious, and just like that, he turned into Drake Cheshire, the cultured vampire with a taste for big-lipped girls under one hundred pounds. He stared intensely at my eyes, my lips, my cleavage, my throat, my lips, and then up to my eyes again. I melted like a pat of butter on summer pavement.

He moved in closer, so our noses were an inch apart, and he repeated the intense look. Eyes. His, green like precious emeralds. Lips. Mine, slightly parted and trembling. Throat. Feeling very exposed. Cleavage. Mine, heaving, probably, guessing by the way I couldn't quite catch my breath.

His gaze slid back dreamily to my lips, and he tilted his head to the side, not yet touching his mouth to mine.

We held steady, the only movements our breathing and minor swaying with the motion of the vehicle. I could feel the heat from his skin against my lips. He tipped his head back and looked me in the eyes again.

Oh, the slow torture.

His hand moved from the outside of my thigh to the inside, to the hot crease where my thighs were touching. I gasped. No nylons. Bare flesh. His hand was only at the hem line of my bridesmaid dress, but the way he was looking at me, it felt much more intimate. He took one of my legs firmly in both hands and pushed it to bring space between my legs, and then his hand traveled up further.

He breathed against my lips and blinked slowly as his hand moved in, up under the peach-hued tulle skirt of my dress. His fingertips grazed the silky material of my underwear.

I arched my back as the sensation of his touch blazed through me. A tiny sigh escaped my parted lips.

He pulled his face back from mine and nodded up, as though beckoning me toward him.

With his fingers now gently pressing against my pulse point through my underwear, I found myself unable to move. I raised my eyebrows, calling him to me with my eyes.

The corner of his beautiful mouth twitched up in a grin. A pulse of adrenaline shot through me. That was the face Drake made before his fangs popped out and he bit a girl! I gasped again.

He moved quickly, and his mouth was on my neck, at my throbbing jugular vein.

I squealed in a mix of terror and delight as he pretended to bite me.

He let out a throaty growl, while at the same time he did something magical with his fingers between my legs. As he licked and kissed my neck, gently biting me, he kept exploring the elasticity of my underwear, until he had the silky material pushed aside and we were skin on skin, his fingertips on my freshly-waxed cushions of flesh.

I relaxed against the leather seat, my head back on the head rest, trying not to die from pleasure. Panties pushed aside, his strong fingertips gently stroked my clit. I moaned and whimpered for him to be less gentle, and he delivered a more vigorous nub massage.
Oh, fuck yes. Just like that.

My breathing sped up, my pulse pounding as he brought me to the precipice of coming, and then eased off, pulling his hand back to rest between my thighs.

He nibbled on my earlobe, then murmured, “Let's get naked.”

“Sure,” I breathed as I set to work locating the buttons of his shirt. I wanted to just rip the shirt off, but it probably cost more than my rent, so I fumbled for buttons like a good girl.

I'd gotten two buttons undone, which was a miracle considering the dimness of the light and the trembling of my hands, when Dalton said, “Maybe we shouldn’t get naked in the car, though.”

“Oh.” I turned to look out the tinted window. There was my front porch, and my potted geraniums—red ones, in terra cotta pots, of course. The car wasn't moving. How long had we been parked there?

“Are you going to invite me in?”

I let out an embarrassing waterfall of giggles before I could dam up my mouth with both hands.

He gave me side-eye. “What?”

I whispered, “You asked me to invite you in. Just like Drake Cheshire does on the show.”

He looked down at our laps, then back up at me with the most innocent expression, his green eyes almost sad. “Let's just be regular people tonight.”

“Regular people. Sure.” Now I felt bad for making him feel weird. But I was still turned on, my pink petunia pulsing with anticipation for nakedness, so apparently I didn’t feel that bad!

I reached for the door handle, pushed it open to the cool night air, and climbed out of the car as gracefully as I could manage.

It was past midnight, but a few people were still out in the neighborhood, walking their dogs, and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment as people stared our way. Of course they were just looking at the unusual car, but the paranoid part of me was certain they'd seen in through the tinted glass and knew exactly what was going on. Someone had just had his hand in my cookie jar, and I LIKED IT A GREAT DEAL, THANK YOU.

Dalton stepped out behind me, looking left and right as he did. Something at the edge of my vision moved, and my senses buzzed that someone was watching us surreptitiously.

“Home sweet home,” I said, gesturing to the old house with my chin. “It's not much to look at, but it's cheap.”

When Shayla and I had moved into the old Craftsman-style home, we’d cooed over its generous porch and lovely wood columns. The house wore a dilapidated coat of peeling mint green paint, with darker, forest green trim. We’d had big plans to give the place a good scraping and re-paint it if the landlord covered the cost of materials, but we didn’t get further than a fresh coat of glossy, mustard yellow paint on the front door and one horrible hour of scraping a section at the back of the house. Painting something as big as a house seems like so much fun when you see it in a movie montage, but the reality is, there’s a reason even lovely old homes have peeling paint. That shit is hard work.

“Cute house,” he said.

“It’s cheap.”

“I’m sure it is, but it’s still cute. Take a compliment, will you?”

Nodding, I fumbled around for my keys in my purse.

Dalton darted at me quickly and caught me in his arms, whispering, “There's a photographer behind that tree.”

I whispered back, “What should I do?”

“Are those your geraniums?”

“Yes.”

“How do you water them? Is there a hose at the front of the house?”

Still whispering, I said, “Yes. It's coiled up right behind that hedge.”

“You go turn on the water, and pretend we're just admiring the garden.”

I nodded my agreement to his plan, and stepped over the decorative edging along the sidewalk and onto the lawn. The in-ground sprinklers had run an hour earlier, and the wet grass tickled the sides of my feet through my sandals. With the street lamps, I had no trouble seeing where I was going.

At a regular talking volume, I said, “And this is the front lawn. We don't use any herbicides, so I'm out here on my hands and knees pulling weeds a lot.”

I saw movement along the sides the tree. An elbow, and then a shadowy head and a camera. I expected to hear clicking sounds, but I guess paparazzi with digital cameras turn off the click function to be sneaky.

I bent down to turn on the water, feeling indignant that someone was taking my photo without my permission. The wedding photographer had been annoying, but this was way beyond that. I turned the metal spout, smiling as cold water surged into the hose.

Dalton already had the business end of the hose in hand, clutching the sprayer like a pistol, and he crept closer to the big tree.

“Good evening,” he said to a man walking by with two sleek-bodied whippets.

“Gardening by moonlight?” the man asked as the dogs stopped for a head pat.

Dalton laughed with ease and said, “I work long days.”

And then, if you can believe it, the two of them started having an actual conversation about gardening and whippets.

Meanwhile, I stood in the wet grass of my lawn feeling like I might implode. My heart was pounding, and I felt so mixed up with emotions after the events of the day, like I was a glass of water being overfilled, everything pouring over my sides. I didn't know what was going to happen next, but I wanted it to happen. Now.

The man with the sleek dogs waved goodbye and walked away. Dalton looked over at me on the front lawn, his eyes glinting in the light of the nearby street lamp. He held up the sprayer.

I gave him a nod. The water was on.
Do it.

He fired one small shot of water at the hedge to test, then ran around to the other side of the tree, the water on full blast.

The person on the other side of the tree let out a high-pitched shriek and a series of swear words. Extraordinarily bad swear words.

Now, I'm not a big follower of celebrity gossip, but I do know most paparazzi are men. What jumped out from behind the tree, as mad and wet as a Persian cat in a bath tub, was a woman. She looked twenty-something, with brown hair in a short pixie cut, pretty and obnoxiously tiny, like a tea cup full of buttons.

Perhaps the worst part, besides realizing I was in fact standing in the mud of the flower bed, squashing the violas, was that Dalton seemed to know this petite spy.

He stopped blasting the water and yelled, “Alexis! What the hell? Why are you following me?”

She sputtered and wiped at her face dramatically, her gaze on the sprayer in his hand.

“Don't you dare spray me again,” she said.

“Or what?”

As she opened her mouth to answer, he fired off a blast of water at her midsection.

Lights flicked on in my neighbors' houses, and shadowy forms moved in windows. Mr. Galloway was probably getting a good look at this girl Alexis's lacy bra, on perfect display in her transparent, soaked shirt. Her perky bosom heaved fetchingly, and Dalton stared at her the way a lead actor does right before he passionately kisses his love interest. I kicked off my sandals and rubbed my muddy foot off in the wet grass. Was I standing in a pile of logs deposited by Mr. Galloway’s cat?
Wow, when things go downhill in my life, they really pick up speed.

Alexis swore some more, then yelled at Dalton, “You're such a child! You're a spoiled rotten baby and you don't care who gets hurt because you'll just move on to the next one, and women are in unlimited supply, aren't we? You've got your new girl here, and you probably fed her your bullshit lines, didn't you?”

“Alexis! Calm down and stop acting crazy. Are you following me? Is this what you do now? You hide in bushes and take photos of people?”

Growling with sarcasm, she said, “No, I have an amazing career. Six seasons and a movie. I'm a big fucking deal, and I just sell celebrity photos for shits and giggles.” She raised her camera at him and said, “Huh, it still works.” A red light blinked.