Uncovered (12 page)

“Margaret was
wrong.” Splaying his hand on my back, he closed the space between our bodies
again, urging me forward to the bar. “I’ll take Lagavulin, neat, and, for my
beautiful companion,—”

“A black
martini,” I told the bartender politely, before lifting my chin to Oliver. “And
I’m
not
your companion,” I whispered furiously.

“Of course you
are. You came here alone, didn’t you?”

I pulled in a
breath through my teeth. “Why don’t you go—”

Whatever I was
about to say was quickly forgotten when the fingers on my back dug into my
skin. It wasn’t painful. No, it was promising, possessive, and it made my
throat go dry. He dipped his mouth to my ear.

“Before you
suggest I find another woman tonight, let me give you a small piece of advice:
don’t let your pride make you say something you’ll regret. I’ve seen the way
you react around me and other women—and the way my cock responds to your
jealousy. The next woman I spend the night with
will
be you. Whether
it’s your Khaleesi getup on my floor or one of those delicious little dresses
you prance around Emerson & Taylor in—you and I will fuck.”

With that, he
handed me my drink, leaving the bartender a generous tip before walking away
without another word. I tried not to stare after him, God, I tried, but Oliver
was magnetic. He was wrong for so many reasons—legitimate, disastrous
reasons—and it was getting harder and harder to stay away.

But no woman in
her right mind could avoid him, especially after he left her hanging with a
comment like that.

Squaring my shoulders,
I started in his direction, letting that force between us compel me toward him.
I made it past the first couple tables, but then I felt a feminine hand on my
wrist. Expecting to see my boss, I spun around wearing an accommodating look.

Instead of the
Red Queen, I was staring into Cleopatra’s heavily-lined hazel eyes.

For once, I
think I would have preferred Margaret.

“It’s so good
to see you again, Lizzie!” Finley gushed.

“You, too. Are
you enjoying your visit?” I hoped I sounded genuine. I sure as hell didn’t feel
it, not when all I could think about was her hurling herself into Oliver’s arms
two days ago. “When are you going back to Italy?”

“Oh, we were
only there for a year. My brother was fortunate enough to study art, and I
followed along. I mean, it’s Italy, after all.” She blew a stray piece of her
black wig out her eyes and shrugged. “The woman renting my dad’s house will be
moving out in a month, and starting next week, I’ll be looking for an
apartment.”

“That’s … great
news.” Since Margaret was so adamant about Oliver being with Finley, I was sure
she was over the moon right now. My stomach twisted into knots that should
never have been tied as I contemplated the future between Oliver and the woman
standing before me. “I’m sure you’ll find something great.”

“I hope so.
Maybe you and I can get together soon. I’d love to help you with the plans for
Ollie’s birthday party next month.”

Ignoring the
fact that hearing her call him that thoroughly irked me, I lifted an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t aware I was making the plans for his birthday party,” I said as I
stepped out the way of a tall man headed to the bar.

When she
smiled, the sheepishness she was trying to convey reminded me of a client I had
briefly in the past—a man who was absolutely charming in public but calculating
and almost cruel behind closed doors. I tilted my head, examining her.

“Margaret said
she was going to mention it to you next week,” she clarified.

“Then I’m sure
we’ll be talking again soon. I’m sure you have some fantastic ideas.” I didn’t
know if it was jealousy, like Oliver had mentioned a few minutes ago, but
nothing about Finley sat well with me. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Lifting the hem
of my costume, I headed toward my table, scanning the massive ballroom for
Oliver. Each step seemed like slow motion, my heart slowly shrinking when I
couldn’t find him beneath the dim lighting.

As the DJ’s
voice came over the microphone to announce Margaret would be saying a few words
after the next two songs, I felt a powerful body brush against mine. I felt his
hands on my hips, but his movements were so smooth and discreet that nobody
seemed to realize we were touching.

“I thought you
left,” I whispered.

Oliver’s breath
tickled my ear, and I could feel every pulse point on my body going into a
frenzy at once. “Dance with me.”

Gasping for
air, I watched as he moved around me and walked casually out a side door. My
eyes darted around to make sure nobody saw us. Then I followed the path he’d
taken, stepping out into a narrow staircase.

“Oliver?”

But he didn’t
answer. All I could hear was “Seven Devils” and my own heart. With each step,
it seemed to throb louder, harder.

“Oliver?” I
whispered when I reached a door at the top of the stairs. It was slightly ajar,
and I pulled it open to see that it was a private balcony. I glanced around,
taking in the sparse furnishings—a black loveseat with a tiny table beside it.
His empty Scotch glass and the
Phantom of the Opera
mask sat on that
table.

At last, I
looked at him.

He was leaning
against the railing with his back to me.  Giving the party going on below one
final look, he jerked the curtain closed. “Lock that,” he ordered.

A dance my
ass,
I thought.

But I turned
around, my hands trembling as I twisted the tiny lock on the doorknob. Over the
sound of Florence Welch’s haunting lyrics, I heard his footsteps closing the
space between us. A moment later, I felt his hands on me, one on my hip and the
other resting over my collarbone. His thumb stroked my throat, and his lips
skimmed my ear.

 “You just
don’t quit, do you?” I demanded, fighting a moan as my back arched and I molded
against him. “Is this it then? That one night? What happened to making it
last?”

His fingers
trailed from my collarbone until he firmly cupped one of my breasts, evoking a
gasp from the back of my throat. “This,” he rasped in my ear, “this is an
appetizer. This is me reiterating just how bad I want you.” His firm chest
nudged me forward, and I splayed my hands out on the door in front of me.

“Oliver—” I
whispered over the music playing downstairs. Drenched with the promise of
vengeance, the song was so fitting for this moment, it made my head spin. It
was a reminder that I should walk away and pretend I never came up here. A
reminder that I had so much to do, and Oliver—beautiful, confident, oblivious
Oliver—was a liability if it came down to laying flames to his mother’s
kingdom.

“I—”

“I want you,
Lizzie.” His fingers moved from my hips, giving my ass a rough squeeze, and the
desire building at the base of my spine expanded, overwhelming me. “Everywhere
and every way.”

I breathed in
deeply, squeezing my eyes closed and trying to find my voice. He’d stolen it
right out of my body.

His lips
touched my neck, and I felt his tongue flicking against my skin. “I want to
taste that beautiful body of yours,” he said. Turning me around, he pushed me
against the door. The wind left my body, leaving me dizzy and breathless,
gasping for air. He pinned my wrists on either side of me and stared down at me
with starving eyes. Painstakingly slow, he eased forward until his thick
erection was cuddled up to my aching core, and my sex automatically clenched.

“But first—” he
started, and I shook my head, cutting him off in gasping anticipation. 

“You play so
fucking dirty, Oliver.” Beneath his grip, I fisted my hands. “So dirty it
hurts.” Even saying it out loud just seemed to make the dampness forming
between my thighs so much more intense.

A wicked smile
tugged at his mouth. “First,” he continued, “I’m going to remind you why you
want all that to happen.”

“And what
would—”

But then, his
lips came down hard on mine, obliterating what I was about to say next.

Oliver’s
mouth seized mine, issuing a seductive challenge that I wasn’t about to back
down from. I leaned into him, breathed him in, tasting the flavor of vodka
intermingling with scotch as our tongues moved together. He released one of my
wrists, immediately cupping my neck. Electricity hummed through my fingers,
through every part of my body rubbing his, but I managed to bring my trembling
hand to the lapel on the left side of his jacket.

His fingertips snagged a few stray
strands of my hair when he tilted my head further back, and a low moan escaped
my throat. He made a noise like he was about to say something, but then he
released an impatient groan and deepened the kiss, his tongue driving me
half-crazy with desire as it tormented my mouth.

My body wanted him. My body wanted to
feel the weight of his pressed against it, the slick of his sweat mixing with
mine.

Loosening his grip on my other wrist, he
trailed his palm down the exposed skin of my back to settle on the curve of my
ass, and I grabbed his other lapel. I wanted to rip the designer jacket off of
him, to hear the fabric rending beneath my grasp, to see my costume on his
floor tomorrow morning. 

I
wanted him.

He drew my back away from the door, his
lips never breaking their sensual hold over mine. Somewhere in the back of my
mind, I registered that the song had changed to Puscifer’s toe-curling “Rev
22-20,” but I didn’t realize his intentions until our bodies grinded together.

Dancing.

Dear God. He was dancing with me. Dancing
and kissing me and taking away all my good sense.

When the chorus started, he tore our
mouths apart, and though my lids were still closed, I could feel his blue eyes
penetrating me. “I have to leave once this song finishes.”

What? Opening my eyes slowly, I stared up
at him, noticing the strained expression on his face. “You’re leaving,” I
repeated sluggishly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he growled,
sounding tortured. “I came here tonight to tell you in person that I’ll be in
New York on business for the next week. I’m flying out in a few hours.”

“So you came here to get me all turned
on, just to tell me you were leaving?” The frustration in my voice was
palpable, and I swallowed hard. “That’s so messed up.”

“Almost as fucked up as you avoiding my
calls for the last two days,” he countered, causing me to release my hold on
his jacket and step away from him. I was angry enough to hit him—or drag him
onto that loveseat with me—and I didn’t trust myself enough to be within breathing
distance. “Come here, Lizzie,” he ordered.

I shook my head. “Your mother is giving a
speech in a couple minutes, and I’m sure she’ll be freaking—”

“Come here.” He jerked me against his
body, shushing my words with his mouth as his hands resumed their spot on my
back and neck. I loved and hated the way he could kiss me speechless, and when
he pulled away, all I could do was trace my tongue over my lips. He’d left me
that
affected.

With my dating history—my real life, not
the fantasy I exuded every time I met a client—I’d kissed and had been kissed
more times than I cared to admit, and I thought I’d felt every emotion that
came with the act.

I was wrong.

Not only was the frustration still
echoing through me, but the aching pull of longing dragged through my body,
pooling between my thighs, and I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think—as he held me
to him.

“I didn’t plan on bringing you up here.
But when I saw you—” Pausing, he let out a laugh that was just a touch
remorseful. “—nobody else in that room existed.”

My lips parted to speak, but his hand on
my nape moved around and covered my mouth. “Don’t talk, Lizzie. Don’t argue.
Just let me hold you.”

There were so many things I wanted to say
to him, to ask him, but instead, I pulled in a deep breath and kept quiet. Our
gazes stayed locked as we moved in rhythm to the sexy lyrics. Finally, the song
faded away, and I dropped my hands from his jacket again. Backing away from
him, I fisted handfuls of chiffon fabric.

It was the only way I wouldn’t try to
touch him.

“When will you be back?” I asked, tuning
out the fact that Margaret was being introduced to a round of applause
downstairs.

“Next Friday night.” He closed the space
between us again, hovering one of his hands over the side of my face, like he
was fighting the urge to feel me too. “And that’s when I’m having you for
dinner.”

“Dinner or sex?” I heard myself question.

The most delicious smile stretched his
face, making it impossible not to stare at his mouth. I shouldn’t want to taste
him this badly. “Apparently you weren’t listening, beautiful. I said I was
having
you
for dinner.”

An image of him naked raced through my
thoughts, and I squeezed my thighs together. “When do you need an answer by?” I
asked, barely managing to keep my voice cool and unaffected.

He walked past me toward the door,
pausing just a moment to inhale my scent. My pulse sped up. “I didn’t ask you a
question.”

I spun around to face him with my arms
crossed over my chest. “What?”

“Because of the current state of your
panties. Because, when I was holding you a few minutes ago, you whispered
more
.”
He unlocked the door, and my disappointment reached a zenith. He was really
leaving. “You’ve already given me your answer, Lizzie, and by this time next
week, you’ll be too busy coming to ask for more.”

I hadn’t realized I said
anything
while we were dancing, and a flush tingled up my neck and face. “Is that a
challenge?”

“That’s a promise.” Yanking me to him, he
spun me around so that I was right where we started—with my back slammed up
against the wall. His strong fingers pulled my dress up, until the blue chiffon
was bunched around my hips, and he held it in place with one hand. “This—” He
smiled wickedly, and my sex throbbed with anticipation. “This is a challenge.”

He skimmed his finger beneath my seamless
Victoria’s Secret panties, pushing them aside. Giving me a meaningful look, he
touched me, circling his knuckle around the slickness he found between my
thighs.

“This,” he murmured appreciatively,
flicking my clit, “
This
is a beautiful thing.”

I gasped, bucking my hips against his
hand. “I have to go back to the party.” Despite the blood rushing to my ears, I
could vaguely hear Margaret’s speech taking place downstairs. “You know that,
don’t you?”

“I know.” But he squeezed my center
between his knuckles, sliding his fingers back and forth until I was grasping
at him wildly, pulling wherever my hands made contact. One of the buttons on
his shirt popped off, landing on the floor between our feet. “Trust me, I hate
to leave you.”

“Then you shouldn’t be doing this,” I
moaned, feeling the pressure building already. It was too fast. Too soon.
Forcing myself to resume some self-control, I put my hand between our bodies,
grabbing his hardness roughly through his dress pants. He sucked in a breath
between his teeth. “Tell me the truth; is this a challenge for me or you?” I
rasped as he continued to stroke my pussy.

Ignoring my question, he teased me until
I was at the point of breaking, and as soon as I did, he drowned out my sob of
pleasure with his mouth. His tongue spread my lips apart, hot and demanding, as
the orgasm rocked my body.

I was still trembling, still such a
whimpering mess when our mouths parted that I wouldn’t have heard his answer
had he not pressed his lips right to my ear.  “It’s a challenge for us both,
beautiful. While I’m gone, all you’ll think about is how that would’ve felt if
it had been my cock instead.”

I felt my panties shimmying down my legs,
and I swallowed hard as I realized he planned to take them with him. Wearing a
satisfied smirk, he let the skirt of my dress fall into place as he stuffed my
underwear into his pocket.

“And I’ll think of nothing but this.” He
brought his wet knuckles to his lips and traced his tongue over them, skimmed
his teeth over his own skin. My sex quaked as I pictured myself shoving his
face between my thighs, his mouth taking the place of his fingers.

“This is a cruel challenge,” I whispered,
but he bent his head and touched his lips to mine.

“That’s the point. Goodnight, Lizzie,” he
drawled against my mouth. Then, before I could stop him, he was gone.

*

I stumbled into
my apartment a few minutes after midnight, hot and bothered and without
panties, thanks to Oliver and his expert hands. All the lights were off,
including the guest bedroom that Pen was crashing in, and I was glad my best
friend wasn’t around to witness my slow burn tonight. She would immediately
guess that Oliver was behind my frustration, and I probably wouldn’t hear the
end of it.

Yawning, I wiggled out of my
costume and draped it over the chair beside my bed. I stared at the chiffon
creation longer than necessary, Oliver’s words from earlier that evening
churning in my brain—
“Whether it’s your Khaleesi
getup on my floor or one of those delicious little dresses you prance around
Emerson & Taylor in, you and I will fuck.”

He’d said that
to me wearing a confident little grin, even though he had no plans whatsoever
for us to spend tonight together. And that infuriated me. As selfish as it was
to admit, other than uncovering the details surrounding my father’s death and
figuring out who’d called me five months ago, spending the entirety of my twenty-fourth
birthday in Oliver Manning’s bed was one of the few wishes I had this year.

And now he was gone for the
next week.

“Screw you, Oliver,” I
muttered, stalking into the small, private bathroom on the far side of my
bedroom. Twisting on the faucet in the stand-up shower, I stood beneath the hot
water and watched the steam make the bathroom foggy. I showered slowly, tracing
my fingers carefully over the parts of my body that he had touched.

Closed my eyes and pictured
it was his hands all over me instead of my own.

Eventually,
when the water ran cold, I wrapped myself in a towel and padded into my
bedroom. Dressing quickly, I slid between the cool sheets. And I finally
accepted the fact that I was sleeping alone tonight.

*

The bouncing
sensation that came from someone jumping on my mattress shook me awake the next
morning. Shooting straight up in bed, my gaze landed on boobs and then a mane
of brown hair whipping into my face and hers when Pen slammed down on the
pillow next to me.

“You
scared the hell out of me!” I held my hand firmly against my throbbing chest.
“Nothing’s wrong, is there?”

She
batted her eyelashes. “Happy birthday, Gemma Emerson.”

It
was sad—I’d heard the name Lizzie so much lately, being called by my real name
was a bit of a shock to my system, but I quickly recovered. “Thanks.” I rubbed
my hand over my face. “What time is it?”

“Nine-fifteen.”

Shit
. Work. Margaret was going to have my
head on a silver platter if I wasn’t in her office with her usual scalding hot
cup of bullshit in fifteen minutes, and since I’d be lucky to make it out my
apartment by that time, I was screwed.

Scrambling
off my bed, I started for my closet.

Pen
stopped me by getting up and literally barring me with her curvy body.

“What
are you doing?” I demanded, stepping around her.

“The
stepmonster called half an hour ago. She woke up this morning and decided she
wanted to go to some spa in Ojai, but she said she would send you a to-do
list.”

Pausing
in the doorway to the walk-in closet, I turned to look at her, tapping my bare
toes against the laminate floor. “You answered my phone?”

Throwing
herself on the bed, Pen eased back on her elbows and stared across the room at
me. “Well, I tried to wake you up first, but when it looked like your loud-ass
snores weren’t stopping, I pretended to be you. By the way, she didn’t notice.”

My
mouth slack in disbelief, I dropped down in the chair by my bed and buried my
face in my hands. “Ugh, I’m probably the most ill-informed personal assistant
in history.” I moved my head from either side. “She tells me everything last
minute. Not that I’m complaining about that today—I could definitely use a day
away from her.”

While
I hadn’t consumed enough alcohol to get drunk last night, my head was reeling,
and every few seconds my attention snapped to the costume draped on the armrest
beside me—a reminder of what
hadn’t
happened. It was a bittersweet
memory that coaxed goose bumps across the surface of my skin.

“Plus
it’s your birthday.” The mattress creaked, and then I heard the suggestive
smile in her voice as she asked, “So … how was your night?”

I
wasn’t ready to talk about Oliver, not when my body reacted so easily to the
mere mention of his name and the sight of the dress he’d pushed around my hips,
so I decided to focus on his mother—my stepmother.