Arranged(32)

An attractive hostess met us at the door and led us to another, smaller VIP booth in a corner of the main club.

Calder kept hold of my hand, pulling me close behind him.

I glanced back once to find Chester trailing us. I don’t know why, but it made me blush. I’d forgotten he was there.

We sat and the hostess fixed us drinks. I tried to order more champagne (which he switched to OJ), and he ordered bourbon.

We were sitting close, hips touching. I turned my head to meet his gaze. My eyes devoured his handsome face. Why did he have to be so good-looking?

“I thought we were dancing,” I remarked.

It was much louder in here, and he had to lean his ear close to my mouth to catch my words.

He leaned back just enough to look at me, then put his lips to my ear to answer, “We are. In a minute.”

“Will we dance right here or over there?”

He pulled back enough to see my face.

I pointed at the grinding, gyrating mass of people in the center of the club. We were several floors above, overlooking them.

He gave me a look that told me he thought I must be joking. “Here,” he stressed the word, his breath hot against my neck. “I’m not letting you near that mess. You’ll be groped six ways to Sunday.” He seemed to think about that, then leaned in again. “And not just by me. By strangers.”

“So no groping,” I said, unable to hold in a smirk.

“No one said that,” his voice was a low, delicious rumble in my ear.

I shivered, a shot of lust wracking through me. My nipples went hard, my sex clenching. I had no idea what he was planning, I never did, but I was still somehow looking forward to it. Craving it.

We received our drinks, but barely took one sip before he was standing. He moved to Chester, waving the older man over so he could be heard over the overwhelming din.

I didn’t catch what he said, but I knew it was a dismissal when Chester shot me one worried glance and departed.

Calder took his suit jacket off, tossing it carelessly onto a seat. He rolled up his sleeves, his eyes on me.

He said something, and it was directed at me, but I couldn’t hear it. I stood, moving closer, pointing to my ear to indicate that I needed him to repeat himself.

He wore no tie, and the top button of his dress shirt opened enough to show off his appealing, tanned throat. My face was pressed there as he spoke into my ear.

God, he was tall. And big. And he smelled divine. Like bergamot, vetiver, and heaven all wrapped into one big, edible man. I wanted to lick him.

“He really likes you,” his voice vibrated against me, his mouth was so close to my skin.

I had no notion what he was talking about. He’d completely distracted me by standing so close.

“Who?” I asked him.

“Chester. He’s very attached to you. I could tell he didn’t want to leave.”

I shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “He’s nice to me, which is a good thing, since we’re always together. And he’s very good at his job.”

I was looking at his delicious throat, but I felt him staring at my face. He stood still like that for a long, awkward moment before he let it go. I knew the subject was dropped when his hands went to my waist, pulling me closer.

My eyes were on his body, on his too close, too tempting chest, on the big, cut biceps rolling under his shirt.

His hands slid down my hips and over the curves of my butt. He pushed my body flush against his.

A hot, slow trickle of arousal gathered in my core.

“I’ve barely touched you, and I’m already hard,” he murmured into my ear. “I’ve been thinking about fucking you again. About teaching you what a proper fuck is.”

My breath was panting out of me. Every word he said, no matter how crude, was like a drug to me. I couldn’t get enough. I wanted him to want me. Needed it.

I wanted to say something, wanted to ask him why, if he wanted me that much, he’d basically ignored me since we said I do, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

I was a coward, so I chickened out and just nodded.

He tilted my chin up to him with one finger, and the heated look he gave me then was dazzling.

I was in so much trouble.

He started moving to the beat of the song that was pumping through the club, and without any conscious permission from my brain, my body started moving with him.

It was good. We both knew how to move. We danced like we’d made love beautifully a thousand times instead of fucking regrettably once. Regardless of our history, or lack thereof, our chemistry was undeniable.

Our torsos flush, he pushed his thigh high between mine, and buried his face in my neck, rubbing his nose back and forth along my tender skin while his ever moving hands played havoc on my hormones with every heady pump of the bass.

His hips moved against me in a slick, greedy rhythm. As we moved, his chest brushed against my face. I licked it. His flavor was like a sweet, heady liquor.

God, I wanted more. I wanted to touch him, to run my lips all over him, to climb up his body right then and there.

I wanted him to fuck me again when my body and mind were like this, relaxed and languid, hazy and ready. I wanted a real consummation, his body invading mine for reasons other than bloody sheets and doctor probes. I wanted to do absolutely everything with him. Not for business but for pleasure. I wanted him to teach me what that meant.