Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(12)

I press my head against the wet tiles and stare down at my erection. “Yep! I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Take your time!”

Not a chance.

That’ll come later.

When I’m taking my time and working on a woman. On a damn classy woman.





Elizabeth


Everything’s foggy when James emerges from the bathroom. I smell him first. He smells like my hand soap and shampoo, both of which have a vanilla base.

And then I make the mistake of looking at him.

Holy lord. He has a towel slung over his hips, and . . . it’s not even one of my big bath towels.

It’s like a hand towel.

I didn’t even know I had towels that small. Or maybe he’s just that big.

He has leg muscles to kill for. His back is like a ski slope over a perfect ass. I gawk at his chest, at the dark wet hair on his pectorals, glistening on the planes of his sexy-as-hell body as he sits next to me on the sofa.

Wha?

I can’t even think a full word.

Wha?

“So, is this a normal routine for you?” he’s saying, as alarm bells go off in my head. Too close! Too naked! Too close!

“No.” I jump off the couch and point to the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

“Not yet.” He shoots me that devil’s lopsided smile again. “Why would I need a drink when I could sip on you?”

From this vantage point, I have a perfect view right up the towel, between his legs. I fight to avert my eyes. “I brought you home because—”

“Look. We don’t need to talk. We can pick up where we left off.”

Oh god. He is almost naked. And he’s hairy and hard and . . . naked on my couch. And I’m still drunk and thinking tequila thoughts, and when was the last time I had sex? I can’t even remember. “That’s not . . .”

“Say nothing.” He reaches for me and drags me to him. “Nothing at all.” His lips skim mine. “Let your body do the talkin’, honey.” He’s crooning now. Sexy, sultry.

The “honey” part snaps me out of the trance. “I need a minute.”

“Hurry,” he says, patting my bottom when I pass him.

I jump. Men do not swat my ass. Especially hot naked men who are nowhere near my type. My type is the Ivy League guy who has his own dynasty to manage. Not him. Not . . .

What the fuck am I doing?

As soon as I’m behind closed doors, I kind of wobble over to the bed and sit. Really. What. The. Fuck. Am. I. Doing? I acted on impulse, and now?

I’m here. He’s out there. We’re alone. Behind. Closed. Doors.

Whatever possessed me? When did I cook up the idea that it would be fine to create a man since I couldn’t find one? Sure, in the broad scheme of things it’s possible, but I don’t have time for a long shot. I need a solid finish.

I need to impress the unimpressionable. I want my dad’s approval.

And this is a fucking stupid-ass way to go about obtaining it. Even bleary from too much tequila, I know that Mr. Doesn’t-Even-Know-How-to-Shave isn’t going to get me the Daughter of the Year Award.

I had too much to drink and need to nod off for a minute.

Just a minute . . .

As I close my eyes, I think of the last few hours. I’m sitting at the bar. James is the focal point. Everyone loves him. There’s a fight and an endless conversation with the bartender. I see a beast of a man, a man who seems interested in me.

I’m interested in him.

There’s a fight, and I break it up. My shirt is torn, stripped away from my body. Suddenly, I’m hot. Aching. Desperate.

My eyes fly open, but James isn’t there, so I return to my fantasy because this is getting good. I latch on to the dreams and let them have me. Maybe these visions are a sign of what’s to come. Or maybe they’re just a warning.

I am NOT interested in him. In any way, shape, or form. He is my little project. That is all.

But I’ll indulge the fantasy. Just for tonight. As long as I don’t let it get out of hand.

And you won’t, Lizzy. He’s just a dirty, sweet-talking guy from the street. Keep your head about you.



I sleep restlessly, having dreams of my launch failing miserably, people laughing at me, at us, at Banks LTD. I dream of bloody lips on mine, and feeling bloodied hands touching me, and feeling restless and reckless and waking up horny.

I shift in bed, exhaling, glaring at my ceiling over my dilemma.

I hear snoring. I groan, my head pulsing. Stirring, I peer around the room and realize the snoring is coming from my living room. I wrap a silk robe around myself, slide into my fur slippers, and start padding out but freeze when I see a pile of flesh and blankets on the sofa.

Ducking behind my massive entertainment center, I gasp and draw the sash on my robe tighter around me. My eyes widen, and I start when I see the muscles on that body. A pillow covering his face.

There’s a guy sleeping on my couch.

A breathing, living, RANDOM guy!

I bolt to my room, fully prepared to slam the door and lock it, if necessary, and call 911. Instead, I stand there addled and narrow my eyes as I peer out my bedroom door.

What have I done?

Shit.

I can’t believe what I did.

I take a quick shower and change—with the door locked—and then I pace nervously in my room. He could be a rapist. Some felon. A thief. And I let him into my place.