RISK Page 9

  "I have a place we can go to," he offers just as he brings the water bottle to his lips.

  He didn't say it was his place. He said it was a place.

  Tad had a place he took women to. All the women he fucked that weren't engaged to be married to him. I found out about his secret hotel suite two months after he stopped talking to me. It was completely by chance, and if things hadn't worked out the way that they did, I would have dumped him myself after realizing that he wasn't spending his Tuesday and Thursday nights playing basketball with his buddies. He was in a luxury suite in the Lunar Hotel, just off the Vegas strip, with whatever woman caught his eye that day.

  His assistant had been on maternity leave when Tad unilaterally decided that our engagement was over. The day she came back to work, she called me, thrilled that Tad had continued the tradition of ordering a dozen red roses each Tuesday and Thursday for me while she'd been away. A quick check of the delivery address and the name of the florist was all the information I needed from her. I spent the next hour fitting together the pieces of Tad's double life.

  My fiancé had a standing order in place to have a bouquet delivered to his suite at the hotel at eleven o'clock two nights a week so that the woman that he'd spent the evening screwing would have a memento to take home with her. By the time she got the flowers, he'd be on his way to our condo to get into bed with me.

  The florist told me that the flower deliveries had started just a month after we moved to Las Vegas. I wouldn't have uncovered that fact if the florist herself hadn't just realized the day before I stopped at her shop that her husband had been unfaithful to her. She was emotional. I was pushy and it ended with her breaking the shop's promise of privacy to tell me all about Tad's deliveries.

  My intuition told me never to stop using condoms with Tad even when he insisted. I'm grateful I listened to it.

  "Are you one of those millionaires that have a hotel suite that you only use for sex?" I ask because I have a right to know if I'm going to share my body with him.

  His mouth twitches. "Is that how you see me?"

  I can't tell if the question is serious or not, so I err on the side of caution and put a different spin on it. "You seem like the type of man who would have a neutral and safe place to take women to."

  "No." He shakes his head firmly. "I was talking about you thinking I'm a millionaire."

  I try to hide my smile behind my hand. "Millionaire. Billionaire. What's the difference?"

  "Hard work and a good accountant."

  "Are we going to a hotel, Nolan?" I blurt out, wanting this part of the conversation to be over. It doesn't matter where he's taking me. I'll go. I want to go. I just don't want to get there without having the chance to mentally prepare myself for what I'm stepping into.

  He reaches for my hand, scooping it into his. He lifts it to his mouth. His lips feather over my palm in a touch that sends shivers down my spine and arousal to my core at the promise of more. "Trust me, Ellie. We're not going anywhere near a hotel tonight."

  Chapter 19

  Nolan

  Ellie threw a wrench in my plans as soon as she brought up fucking. Not only was it a wake-up call to my already semi-hard cock, but it was also a moment of clarity.

  After she had told me her roommate decided to throw an impromptu party, I decided we were going to my suite at the Bishop Hotel. It's the only place I've taken a woman to in years. It's fully equipped with everything I need. A box of condoms, a bottle of lubricant, a change of clothing for me and most importantly, an unspoken understanding with the staff that I require and expect discretion, always and completely.

  I saw the anxiety marking Ellie's expression when she asked me about a hotel. There wasn't a trace of the playfulness that I always see on the faces of the woman I pick up at clubs or bars. Those women know when I tell them where we're headed that my expectation is clear. I'm not taking them to a luxury suite at one of Manhattan's premier hotels to do anything other than fuck.

  Those experiences are empty. They've always been a way to quench the thirst for pleasure. I give, I take, and then I say goodbye. It's fleeting and final. It fits perfectly into the spot I've carved out for it.

  I fuck at the Bishop Hotel. I feel in my apartment.

  "Is my jaw on the floor?" She runs her fingers over her chin. "Is there a better view in Manhattan than this?"

  I take a spot next to her in front of one of the large windows that overlook the city. The views of the city are spectacular, but right now they can't hold my attention. I stare at Ellie. Her hair is loose tonight, a cascade of long red curls down her back. Her dress is simple, but flattering. The straps thin enough to showcase the subtle curves of her shoulders, and the smooth skin of her arms. "I have the best view anywhere right now."

  She tilts her head up at me. Suspicion wrapped in doubt is there in her eyes, but a faint smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. "Have you always been this charming?"

  "It's not charm, Ellie. I'm telling it like it is."

  Her gaze drifts across the room. She kneads her hands together, her top teeth pulling at the corner of her bottom lip. I want to feel that. I want those teeth on my lips, on my skin and after I've felt her come on my mouth, I need to feel the scrape of those teeth on my cock.

  "Do you always tell it like it is?"

  "I try to," I admit with a nod of my chin.

  "I guess that means I should tell it like it is too."

  There's a subtle challenge woven into her silken words. She narrows her eyes as if she's studying me with the intent of finding the most vulnerable part of me. Right now, it's my cock, hard as nails, aching from tip to root.

  "Tell it like it is, Ellie," I volley back because I like the game. I like that she's not in a rush to fuck. She's biding her time, setting the pace. It's an experience I'm not accustomed to.

  "I know your secret," she whispers with a lift of her brow.

  I try to retain my composure, but it's a battle I can't win. I stare at her, in silence, dumbfounded by her words.

  She knows my secret. One of my secrets. I have many, too many.

  "There are clues all over your apartment." Her mouth quirks.

  "Clues?" I scratch the back of my head. This game of cat and mouse would be infinitely more enjoyable if I were the cat and she played the role of the mouse, but that doesn't suit her. She's the one tugging on the string waiting for me to take the irresistible bait. "What clues?"

  She leans closer so the seductive scent of her hits me. My body's response is feral. A fierce desire burns inside me to push her against the window. I want to fuck her until her secrets are mine. I want to punish her for playing with me. I need her as bare and exposed as I feel.

  "There's a picture on top of your piano of Crew holding a small baby in a pink blanket. It looks like it was taken in a hospital room. It must be his niece in his arms." She flashes a smile at me. "Crew looks younger in it. I'd say it was taken a few years ago."

  A few years ago, indeed. Five years, three months, twelve days.

  "I saw a black marker on the table in the foyer." Her eyes drift past me to the hallway that leads back to the door she followed me through. "It's permanent, but not really. The ink fades once water hits it."

  The dots she's connecting make perfect sense to her. The scattered unframed pictures on the piano I never learned how to play, the black permanent marker left near the door by a delivery man with a tight schedule and an absent mind. He handed me the pen. I signed for the package and by the time I was pulling a ten dollar bill from my pocket to offer him, he was back on the elevator.

  "You said that the person who wrote on your hand wasn't a woman or a man. That only leaves the possibility of a child."

  My chest expands. The air in my lungs stalls as I wait for her next words.

  "Crew's niece wrote it when she came to visit you." She smiles. It's obvious she can't help it. I see the relief on her face. I hear it in her voice. The uncertainty about the message on my palm was her last thr
ead of resistance. "That ladybug earring you had on belonged to her, didn't it? Little girls love pretty things."

  Seconds pass and I don't say a word. I've never discussed this with a woman. Not even with Shelby and the two other women I saw more than once. I kept everything neutral, only giving meager details about my life as I dressed after rolling off the sheets and away from them.

  This is why I only take women to the hotel. I need that barrier between my world and them. I don't want them stumbling into my real life. I'm not looking for impromptu deliveries of home baked goods from a woman I fucked and forgot. I don't want the complications that come when a woman shows up at my place in lingerie expecting a repeat.

  There was a time when that worked for me, but no more. Not now.

  I'm giving Ellie more of a glimpse into who I am than I have with anyone else, yet it still feels trivial. I should explain everything before I have her. Tell her who she's really sharing her body with.

  "Can I tell you one of my secrets?"

  "Yes," I say hoarsely, as eager to hear her confession as I am desperate to move the conversation away from me. "Tell me."

  She looks up at me, her mouth curving into a small smile. "I'm relieved that a woman didn't write those words on your hand."

  If she thinks that's a secret, I need to explain the meaning of the word to her. The relief that she felt was written all over her face. It was there in her body language.

  She shakes her head. "I'm not saying that I think this is an exclusive thing. I don't. I know that we're probably going to have sex tonight and that doesn't mean you won't be having sex with other women tomorrow or that I won't be having sex with other men this week or whenever."

  "What men?" I cock my head to the side, the bitter unfamiliar taste of jealousy coating my tongue, forcing the question out.

  "It doesn't matter," she answers quickly on a sigh. "I was trying to say that I won't sleep with a man if he's in a serious relationship with someone else. If a woman loved you enough to brand your hand, even temporarily, you might love her back. I'm glad that it wasn't a woman who wrote it."

  "What men, Ellie?"

  "I don't know." She shrugs. "I wasn't talking about a particular man, Nolan. I was talking in general terms about having sex with other men."

  I swear to God my vision is blurring from frustration. Why can't she give me a straight answer, and more importantly, why the hell do I care?

  I've been in bed with women I know for a fact were fucking other men the night before I got my turn and I never gave them another thought. One of my friends from college married a woman he screwed an hour after I did at a frat party. I didn't think twice about it. I went to their wedding with a gift from their registry in my hands. I've never given two shits about what guy a woman fucked before or after she's been with me. Right now, the only thing I want is Ellie to tell me who the hell else she wants.

  "Are you planning on fucking River?" I ask in an even tone. This is an adult conversation and I can act like a goddamn grown-up when I have it.

  "Why are you bringing him up?" Her hands jump to her hips.

  "I'm bringing him up because that son of a bitch couldn't keep his eyes off your ass last night."

  "He was looking at my ass?"

  How the hell is this conversation even happening? My face should be firmly planted between her thighs by now, my hands all over that ass. Instead, we're discussing another man's fascination with her body.

  I rub at my forehead. "Are you going to sleep with River or not?"

  "I haven't even said yes to his dinner invitation yet."

  Fucking hell.

  "He asked you out?" My voice sounds strangled. It's a reflection of how my cock feels.

  She tucks her hair behind her left ear. "He sent me flowers today and on the card there was a cute poem. He made up a rhyme about taking me to dinner in the form of a poem."

  "A poem?" I repeat back, trying to absorb the idea that he wrote her poetry. I bought her half a burger and some fries. "So you're going out for dinner with River after you've had dinner with me?"

  "Are you talking about actual dinner?" She purses her lips. "Or are you using dinner as a euphemism for sex?"

  I lost my virginity when I was a teenager. Since then, I've never once met a woman I craved this much who I spent this much time talking to before I fucked her. Ever.

  "I don't use anything as a euphemism for sex." I cross my arms over my chest. "When I talk about fucking, you'll know it. There will be no doubt."

  "In that case, I haven't decided if I'll have dinner with River or not," she pauses. "The poem he wrote was very sweet."

  "I'll write you something too."

  "You'll write me a poem?" She laughs. "I can't wait to read it."

  I've never written a woman a poem. I wouldn't know where to fucking start.

  "I told you that I'm nothing like River. It's not poetry, but it's something." I turn on my heel and head to the foyer. I pick up the black marker, unsure if it will even work after all this time. As I approach Ellie, I catch sight of her against the backdrop of the view of Manhattan.

  My city, the very first love of my life, is there paling in comparison to the beauty of this woman. This woman who fell into my lap and my life and who I can't stop thinking about even though I've never really kissed her.

  I reach for her hand and she gives it easily. I turn it over, pulling the cap off the marker with my teeth. I let it drop to the floor. I write on her skin while she watches my every move.

  When I'm done, I toss the pen onto the piano.

  Ellie looks down at her palm. She swallows hard and then, without a word, she grabs the front of my shirt, rises to her tiptoes and brushes her lips over mine.

  Chapter 20

  Ellie

  His kiss is demanding. His lips are soft, their touch gentle at first, but then they part and his tongue greedily finds mine.

  His moans are raw as his large hands cup my neck, controlling the tilt of my head and the pressure of his mouth on mine. He whispers something against my lips as he pulls back to catch a breath. I don't hear it. I can't make it out, but I sense it.

  The desire is there in his kiss, and in his touch.

  I reach up to wind my fingers through his hair. That pulls another sound from within him, but this time it's a groan. It's deep and gruff, the sound reverberating through him and into me.

  "I'll give you anything you want," he whispers against my cheek as he breaks the kiss. "Tell me what you want, Ellie."

  Everything. All of it. I want to feel and taste. I want to touch the skin that's hidden under his clothes. I want to hear the sound of his breathing and then when it hitches I want to savor that, knowing that he came just for me.

  "I want you inside of me," I manage to say before his hand drops to my thigh.

  His fingers race up my skin stopping when they reach that spot. It's the spot where the bullet hit me. I hated the scar for years. I was wary each time I took off my clothes in front of a man, worried that he wouldn't see anything but the jagged edge of the circular imperfection on my skin.

  The men I've been with have never asked me about it, or even acknowledged it. They've all been too busy chasing their own needs. Even the man I promised to marry couldn't be bothered to understand the hidden pain that the scar represents. He knew I'd been shot. He never said the words, but I could sense that it was merely a flaw to him that wasn't worth a touch.

  Nolan pulls back; his fingertip still focused on the scar. "Believe my words, Ellie. Every word I say to you, believe me."

  I look into his eyes. I want to believe him, but this is fleeting. We have this one night. I don't expect more even if I want it. "I'll believe you tonight."

  He shakes his head. There are words there, on his tongue, but they don't leave his lips. He scowls as if he's going to reprimand me for not having faith in him that this thing between us will still be alive tomorrow. It might smolder for a week or two, but I have to stay grounded. I can't let myself want
what I can't have.

  Disappointment has been as much a part of my life as breathing. I don't know what it feels like to get the things you desire. That's why I stopped wishing for anything I don't already have.

  He kisses his way down my neck. His lips are plush and soft as they leave a trail of desire that heats my skin. I squirm when he reaches my shoulders, and his fingers push aside the small, thin straps of material that hold my dress in place.

  I'm hit with a rush of frustration when his mouth stops as it reaches the top of my breasts. He squeezes them, his fingers plumping my pebbled nipples through the thin fabric.

  He's on his knees before I realize what's happening. His hands slide over the back of my legs from my ankles, up my calves and then to my thighs. He fists the hem of the skirt of my dress into his hands, pulling it up as he goes.

  I shiver when my almost bare ass is exposed to the air conditioned room. I feel the smile on his lips against the skin of my thigh. "Your body is beautiful, Ellie. It's so fucking beautiful."

  I believe him. I don't know if it's because I need to or want to. I don't care. I want to be beautiful to him. I want to be the only woman he wants or needs, even if it's just right at this moment.

  He moves then. His lips search out that one spot of skin on my outer thigh that his fingers were so focused on. He kisses my scar, softly and tenderly. Reverently.

  "You saved a life."

  I nod, unable to form any words. It's just a kiss, but the sensation and the words combined overwhelm me.

  "The next time I fuck you, I'm going to spend hours licking your pussy." His mouth moves across my thigh to the edge of my blue lace panties. "I'm going to pull you onto my face and you'll ride me until you come over and over again. Until your taste is imprinted on my lips and until the only thing I can smell is the scent of you."