Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(64)

“Oh, lady, there’s a long way to go to having you where I want you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only that when we get to that last night, you’re mine for the evening. The whole evening.”





OUT

I’m standing in front of the mirror, applying lipstick and having a conference call with my father, who never made it to Los Angeles after all.

Which is actually a very good thing, considering that though the meetings have been amazing, I don’t think he’d be too happy with what’s been going on after those meetings.

“The press has been positive,” I say. “Did you see the piece in the Times? They said James Rowan is America’s answer to James Bond.”

“Hmm,” he says. “LB says he never actually met James in person.”

I frown. “Well, we just ran out of time. But the proof is in the pudding, Dad. We’ve gotten great response so far.”

“Yes. I’m encouraged,” he says.

Encouraged? That’s . . . positive. No, he didn’t say “good job,” or that he was impressed, but this is good! I suppose that’s the most I can hope for from my dad.

“Thanks,” I say, my whole body prickling with goose bumps.

I end the call and set my phone down. It’s the last night of West Coast Fashion Week. Everything has gone amazing. Orders have been steadily pouring in. This is probably the most successful launch Banks has ever had.

But that’s not what’s got me excited.

What’s got me excited? I’m going out on a date with James.

This isn’t a big deal, really.

And yet why am I locked in the bathroom?

Staring at myself for the dozenth time?

Checking to see that not a single hair has escaped my updo?

That the dress—a simple, curve-hugging, navy-blue number—still hugs my body attractively like it did three seconds ago?

I reach for the glass of wine that I poured before stepping into the shower and take a long gulp before looking at myself again.

There’s a knock, and I jerk at the sound.

“You okay in there?”

It’s James. He sounds amused and just a tiny bit confused.

“Yes, I’m coming.”

Oh yeah, you’ve got that right . . . I think to myself.

Inhaling a deep breath, I step outside. And spot James standing there, just two feet away. In black slacks and an electric-blue shirt that brings out the bluest blue in his eyes. His hair freshly showered, standing up attractively atop his head. Perfectly shaven. His thick, kissable lips shaping the most delicious smile as his eyes rake me, top to bottom, several times.

“You’re fucking gorgeous.”

My heart does a little happy dance.

I think my choice of dress was spot on.

“Thank you. You clean up nice yourself.”

I offer him my arm, and he tucks it into the crook of his as he leads me toward the balcony. “Where are we going?” I ask, still trying to catch my breath from my excitement.

“You’ll see.”

I suddenly have a feeling I might end up getting drunk tonight. Even without alcohol. Because the thing is . . . being with James? I get drunk on him.

He opens the door, and there is a beautiful candlelit dinner for two. For just me and James. There is a light wind blowing off the ocean, the sun is setting, and I’ve never seen anything more romantic. “I thought you wanted to take me out?”

“No,” he says. “We’ve been out enough this week. Tonight, I want you all to myself.”

I couldn’t have wanted anything more.



We eat in a leisurely way, talking about our successes of the week, our legs tangled under the table.

When we are done, he stands up so fast that the chair rattles behind him. Then he walks us into his room, holds me in only one arm as he shuts the door as quietly as he can, and then stumbles us frantically to the bed, where he drops me and strips me in about three beats of my frantic, eager little heart.

He’s got me naked, and he is still in his slacks, looking down at me.

He spreads my legs open and up over his shoulders, bracing me against the wall as he buries his head between my thighs. I gasp. My fingers wildly clutching fistfuls of his hair. I want to pull him closer, but at the same time I can barely take the excruciating pleasure of those deep, wet flicks of his tongue. I thrust my hips up and fist his hair so hard that I’m afraid I’m hurting him. But I can’t be hurting him, or if I am, he’s not aware of it. Because he’s groaning between my thighs, only driving his tongue in for a deeper taste. A better taste. A taste of . . . me.

I push him back on the bed. He falls on it, but not before he clutches my hips and brings me down with him.

“Ride me,” he says.

I’m straddling him, leaning down, my hair falling like a curtain down the sides of my face as I drop my head—taking from his hot, wicked, and delicious lips again. He palms my ass, squeezes and massages it as he slithers out his tongue to give me a kiss to remember. A kiss for all kisses. THE kiss of kisses.

He shoves his fingers up the back of my legs and works them along the fissure, caressing my ass cheeks with nothing separating us. When he slides his index finger into the fissure of my cheeks and drags it up and down my clit, I jerk with a gasp and arch back with a soft moan. “Oh god.”