Black Lies(31)
Wired Magazine: the go-to for geeks worldwide—had just proclaimed me Tech Hottie of the Year, an honor that should have been bestowed on someone actually in the electronics industry, not just a girlfriend of this century’s brainchild. Yet there I was, on the glossy cover, covered in nothing but wires, the confident grin on my face making this their bestselling issue so far. Geeks apparently liked nudity, no matter who wore it. And there, in giant letters across my midsection, my appearance’s validation: “Lucky Layana: where Brant Sharp gets his creative inspiration.”
I stopped smiling, reached out and snatched the magazine from his hands, took four steps to the side and stuffed it behind a few issues of Martha Stewart Living.
“Well now, that just answered my question,” he said with a smile, putting a hand on the rack and leaning in, just enough that I could smell the scent of fresh grass coming off him.
God, that’s a good smell. I stole a discreet sniff and then stepped back. So…the gorgeous man didn’t know me. Had just recognized me from the magazine, either the Wired cover or another one. Over the last few months, Brant’s media machine had gone into overdrive, put me on seven of them, the PR campaign headlined by Jillian, a woman who had jumped fully into Team Layana. She and I had talked, the night I found out the Secret. Mended fences in our new common goal to Keep The Secret. The stiffness was still there, but with an objective now shared between us, she had moved bleachers, her energy moving onto things other than ending our union. Her most recent efforts centered on pushing me into the spotlight. I knew what she was doing. She wanted the focus off him, his privacy left intact while the vultures feasted on my flesh instead. It’d been working. I’d done five interviews that month.
The media machine coined me Lucky Layana, due to my supposed inspiration for Brant’s last creation: the Laya. The Laya was single-handedly responsible for increasing BSX’s bottom line by an extra eight figures that quarter. A shining star. All thanks, in the media’s mind, to me. Ridiculous.
“So are you?”
My return to the candy quandary was looking like a lost cause. “Am I what?”
“Lucky.” His voice low, it grated of intentions, desire, and Iwannaf*ckyourighhere sex.
I looked up, meeting his gaze and was taken aback by the sizzle of chemistry between us. This was nothing like how it was with Brant. This was electricity and danger and raw want, a combination that pushed my feminine buttons and made me reckless. “Why don’t you try me and find out?”
He chuckled, stepped back, the yellow suede of his work boots creaking on the linoleum floor. “You’re not that kind of girl.”
I kept the eye contact, swallowed the apprehension sitting in my throat. This was wrong. This was bad. I should run home, wait for Brant, and forget this ever happened. My voice disobeyed, coming out cool, confident. Exactly as I’d always wished a flirtation to sound, yet this time was when I finally nailed it. “Not that kind of girl? Then you really don’t know me.”
“Anybody can talk big in public.” His eyes dared me, his cocky smile returning, and he glanced at the hidden magazine, then back at me.
“Then take me somewhere private.” The challenge was in my tone, even as my conscience screamed a long, silent death somewhere in my bones.
Private turned out to be the back of the store, a gravel lot enclosed on both sides with privacy fence and junk cars, an abandoned bucket and empty packs of cigarettes littering the ground that our feet kicked through. He shoved me against the wall, his hands pulling at my Vince sleeveless tank, sliding it down over my shoulders, the neckline popping as it stretched beyond its means, his strong hands ripping further until the pale top of my breasts were exposed, peeking out of the lace of my bra. “Nice,” he murmured, dropping his head, pulling down with greedy hands until the cups of my bra were pulled aside and my breasts hung free, out of the cloth, his hands cupping and squeezing them as his body pressed against me. Inside me, my conscience battled with need, every brush, grip and grope of his hand like fire across my skin, lighting my arousal till it was at the point of madness. I struggled with my emotions, unable to keep a clear head as I gasped for breath, his head lifting until we were staring at each other and everything paused.
A long freeze in time, both of us caught until he broke the moment with the long scrape of a chuckle. “What are you doing Lucky? Aren’t you late for afternoon tea?”
I growled at him, leaning forward and biting into his neck, the taste of his skin one of sweat and salt, heat and man. Dirt and want. A far cry from the cologne and dignity of which I was accustomed. “I thought you were a man of action. You nervous? Worried you can’t compete?”