It’s the latter that I seek out as I scan the crowd of singles, club dancers, and trendy loft-apartment dwellers. I’m not halfway around the circular bar before I find him.
Perched on the far side of the bar, a man with short dark hair and a collared shirt follows me with his gaze. A glass of water sits in front of him, a hand resting beside it, his other loosely curled beneath his chin. He’s attractive in a wonderfully average way. There’s no stuffy suit, no visible tattoos or black leather. He’s casual, relaxed, and looks nothing like the two men who broke my heart.
I squeeze through the shoulder-to-shoulder bodies and steal an empty seat at the bar, directly across from him. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, his mouth crooking up at the corner. He’s cuter than I first thought, with a youthful face and bright eyes. I’d put him in his late thirties. Old enough to know what he’s doing.
I order a water and tip the bartender. Then I watch the man who watches me, all the while giving myself a pep talk. When he comes over here—and he will—I need to go through with this. Rip off the chastity belt. Break the dry spell. Move on with my life.
As he finishes his water and stands, I get a glimpse of narrow hips in relaxed denim. Without looking away, he prowls around the bar, sidestepping flocks of laughing people and heading straight for me.
My smile hangs on by a thread as I turn my neck, holding his gaze. He’s not intimidating enough. Not tall enough. Not sexy, cocky, or scowly enough.
He’s not Trace.
My jaw flexes. Trace is with Marlo, touching her, pleasuring her, and giving her a cock I’ve never even seen. I hope it was worth it, because tomorrow, he’ll be looking for another foolish girl to dance on his stage.
The man with the dark hair and firm eye contact slides in beside me. He doesn’t speak, but his smile is warm, welcoming. Definitely interested.
I stretch my spine to lean toward his face, speaking over the music. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Paul Rudd?”
“Yeah.” He huffs. “All the time.”
“Does that annoy you?”
“Depends.” He bends closer, his chest brushing my shoulder and his mouth at my ear. “Do you think Paul Rudd is attractive?”
“Yes.”
“Then it doesn’t annoy me.”
My energy for this is nonexistent. I’m not in the mood to talk or flirt or connect on any level but one. There’s a game that’s supposed to be played here, but if I’m reading him right, he won’t be offended if I forgo a few steps.
“Do you want to take me home?” I ask.
“Yes.” His throat bobs.
“I don’t want an overnight or a call in the morning. I had a really bad day, and I just want to forget about it for a couple of hours. Can you handle that?”
“Absolutely.”
“I live about ten minutes away. Can we skip the build-up and—”
“Let’s get out of here.” He grabs my hand, helps me off the stool, and leads me out of the bar.
On the way to his car, we exchange names—his is Jason—talk about the humid weather, and keep it light and impersonal. He owns a Honda Civic fastback, and he drives it fast, his hands relaxed on the wheel and his foot never leaving the gas.
The heated looks he casts in my direction tell me he’s ready to fuck. The hard bulge in his jeans confirms it.
My body’s not warmed up, not even close, and I need it to be. If he fucks as fast as he drives, he’ll be in and out before I orgasm. I experienced too many of those in my club scene days.
With my address programmed into the navigation system, the screen shows nine minutes until we arrive. Nine minutes to make him come. If I can take his edge off, maybe he’ll take his time with me when we get to my house.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I touch him with my hands and lips, stroking him everywhere, quickening his breaths and making him moan. Then I release his erection from his jeans and wrap my lips around him.
He jerks and grunts and tastes like fabric softener. It’s just a blow job, like any other one-night-stand. A job for me and a blow for him, which he does within sixty seconds, shooting his load down my throat.
I straighten in the seat and wipe my mouth, tensing against a sudden wave of nausea. I didn’t expect to be aroused by that, but the twisting, coiling sensation in my stomach shouldn’t be there. I need to do this. I need to have sex. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Tears prick my eyes, and I blink them back, forcing all thoughts of Trace out of my mind.
“Why did you do that?” Jason asks through heavy breaths.
“I’m hoping you’ll return the favor.” My voice is even, despite the bile crawling up my chest.
“I will.” He grips my bare thigh, his fingers slinking beneath the hem of my dress. “Jesus, I came so hard I’m still shaking. That was the best head I’ve ever had.”
“The sex will be even better.” I hope, for my sake.
He pulls into my driveway and twists in the seat, looking out the back window. “A car just parked on your curb. I think it’s a…Maserati?”
Chapter Nineteen
PRESENT
No, no, no. My entire body stiffens, and my hands ball into fists. He wouldn’t dare show up at my house. Why would he? He has 2,994,463 women in the state of Missouri to manipulate, use, and fuck.
But as I crane my neck and squint at the street, there he is, Trace Womanizer Savoy, rolling out of his Maserati and heading this way.
In a burst of rage, I explode from Jason’s car and charge toward him. “This is private property, you selfish, narcissistic prick! Get back in your car and go unfuck your fucked-up self!”
“You…” His voice crackles the air as his eyes spear the man behind me. “Leave.”
“I don’t want any trouble.” Jason approaches my side, hands up in a calming gesture. “She wants you to go and—”
“I won’t tell you again.” Trace erases the distance between us, his gait thundering with authority, shoulders squared, and arms relaxed at his sides.
“Why are you doing this?” My hands clench and shake with the need to inflict unholy violence. “Haven’t you hurt me enough?”
He slams to a stop a few feet away, his abs contracting inward, as if I punched him. Then he straightens his spine and hardens his eyes. “We need to talk.”
“I don’t care what you think we need to do. I want you out of my fucking sight!” I turn and storm toward the back door. “Come on, Jason.”
“Look, Danni,” Jason says through an exhale, “I don’t want to get in between whatever this is.”
My teeth crash together as I swing around and gape at him.
Standing on the side of the house, he’s locked in some sort of stare-down with Trace. If this is a battle of egos, Jason’s losing spectacularly. As Trace steps forward, Jason stumbles back, shoulders drooping and gaze diverting to the side.
Christ, I really know how to pick ’em. But I’m not ready to give up. “Jason, I don’t have any business with that man. Are you coming?”
“I…um…”
He’s not coming, because he already came. In my mouth.