Chapter One
Lucas
“You’re leaving?” a hoarse, feminine voice
demands, breaking the silence in the dark hotel room. Every muscle
in my back goes stiff, and I pause where I’m standing a few feet
away from the bed and the naked woman lying in it. A moment passes
before I give her a curt nod. Yanking my black tee shirt over my
head, I sit down on the edge of the hotel mattress and shove my
feet into the motorcycle boots she’d taken off me earlier on my
order.
“Got a shoot in the morning,” I tell her, my
voice bored. But even if my band wasn’t doing a music video this
week, I wouldn’t stay with her. After we were done, and she’d
closed her eyes, falling asleep, I’d come up with a plan. Unravel
those hands from the hotel bed posts and sneak out unnoticed. Now
that she was alert again and staring right at me, that strategy was
blown to shit.
The woman sighs as she nudges her knee back
and forth across my lower back in an attempt to get me to look at
her. I don’t. “That’s too bad, Mr. Wolfe. I thought we could go for
round three,” she says suggestively.
The mattress squeaks, and I know she’s
grinding her hips into it. I let her do this for another ninety
seconds before I turn around, slowly. She’s kicked the rumpled
sheets away from her petite body, and her legs are spread apart,
inviting me in. Arching her back upwards, she strains against the
satin binds, biting her bottom lip and moaning softly.
Cocking my head to the side, I quirk the
corner of my mouth. “Not tonight.”
“Why not?” she asks, her voice taking on a
pout. The sensuality doesn’t extend to her dark eyes. They’re giant
and desperate and only make me more intent to leave this hotel room
and take my ass back home where nobody would question me.
“Look, Megan—”
She gasps, just like I expect her to. “Mara,”
she corrects me. “My name is Mara.”
I know that—I don’t forget names of the women
I tie up—but I give her a sardonic look. Narrow my hazel eyes into
thin slits. “ Mara , I don’t do overnights.”
Or relationships because my ex-wife would
rip anyone I tried to be with to pieces .
Mara turns her head, and her inky black hair
falls around her flushed face and the piles of pillows bunched up
beneath her head. She focuses her gaze on something across the
room, and I follow it to a trio of oil paintings hanging several
inches over the flat screen TV. I hear her breathing heavily, deep
drags in and out of her pierced nose. There’s this part of me that
wants to feel a pull toward her. That wants to turn back around and
crawl back in bed and completely own this woman, even if there’s
that risk of Sam going apeshit.
Instead, when I turn my eyes back to Mara, I
reach for her wrists, skimming her palms with the pads of my
fingers as I loosen the fabric and pull it over her hands. Her skin
is still slick, and when she rolls to her side to turn completely
away from me, the strap prints on her ass—just below her back
dimples—are vivid, despite the dim lighting.
I watch her sides expand as she breathes, the
way the flowery tattoo that completely covers it moves up and down.
“You won’t call me again, huh?” Mara asks.
Normally, I don’t explain. There’s no reason
to when we both know the answer—Mara’s a groupie and I’d been clear
about what she was to me at the beginning of the evening, as
I blindfolded her. But for some reason, I say, “No.” I trace my
fingertips across her hips. She shivers, a tiny gasp coming from
her throat, and I add, “I’ve got no plans to ever call you
again.”
She nods. “Didn’t think so. Thank you . . .
Lucas.”
I leave the room—a room that I’ve been to
more times than I can count—wearing a bored look. In the elevator,
a tall blonde looks up from the man she’s groping to give me a
long, hard onceover. Her green eyes go wide as she mouths my name,
and my lips twitch, but I say nothing. When I exit out the back, to
where my car is waiting
Lucas
“You’re leaving?” a hoarse, feminine voice
demands, breaking the silence in the dark hotel room. Every muscle
in my back goes stiff, and I pause where I’m standing a few feet
away from the bed and the naked woman lying in it. A moment passes
before I give her a curt nod. Yanking my black tee shirt over my
head, I sit down on the edge of the hotel mattress and shove my
feet into the motorcycle boots she’d taken off me earlier on my
order.
“Got a shoot in the morning,” I tell her, my
voice bored. But even if my band wasn’t doing a music video this
week, I wouldn’t stay with her. After we were done, and she’d
closed her eyes, falling asleep, I’d come up with a plan. Unravel
those hands from the hotel bed posts and sneak out unnoticed. Now
that she was alert again and staring right at me, that strategy was
blown to shit.
The woman sighs as she nudges her knee back
and forth across my lower back in an attempt to get me to look at
her. I don’t. “That’s too bad, Mr. Wolfe. I thought we could go for
round three,” she says suggestively.
The mattress squeaks, and I know she’s
grinding her hips into it. I let her do this for another ninety
seconds before I turn around, slowly. She’s kicked the rumpled
sheets away from her petite body, and her legs are spread apart,
inviting me in. Arching her back upwards, she strains against the
satin binds, biting her bottom lip and moaning softly.
Cocking my head to the side, I quirk the
corner of my mouth. “Not tonight.”
“Why not?” she asks, her voice taking on a
pout. The sensuality doesn’t extend to her dark eyes. They’re giant
and desperate and only make me more intent to leave this hotel room
and take my ass back home where nobody would question me.
“Look, Megan—”
She gasps, just like I expect her to. “Mara,”
she corrects me. “My name is Mara.”
I know that—I don’t forget names of the women
I tie up—but I give her a sardonic look. Narrow my hazel eyes into
thin slits. “ Mara , I don’t do overnights.”
Or relationships because my ex-wife would
rip anyone I tried to be with to pieces .
Mara turns her head, and her inky black hair
falls around her flushed face and the piles of pillows bunched up
beneath her head. She focuses her gaze on something across the
room, and I follow it to a trio of oil paintings hanging several
inches over the flat screen TV. I hear her breathing heavily, deep
drags in and out of her pierced nose. There’s this part of me that
wants to feel a pull toward her. That wants to turn back around and
crawl back in bed and completely own this woman, even if there’s
that risk of Sam going apeshit.
Instead, when I turn my eyes back to Mara, I
reach for her wrists, skimming her palms with the pads of my
fingers as I loosen the fabric and pull it over her hands. Her skin
is still slick, and when she rolls to her side to turn completely
away from me, the strap prints on her ass—just below her back
dimples—are vivid, despite the dim lighting.
I watch her sides expand as she breathes, the
way the flowery tattoo that completely covers it moves up and down.
“You won’t call me again, huh?” Mara asks.
Normally, I don’t explain. There’s no reason
to when we both know the answer—Mara’s a groupie and I’d been clear
about what she was to me at the beginning of the evening, as
I blindfolded her. But for some reason, I say, “No.” I trace my
fingertips across her hips. She shivers, a tiny gasp coming from
her throat, and I add, “I’ve got no plans to ever call you
again.”
She nods. “Didn’t think so. Thank you . . .
Lucas.”
I leave the room—a room that I’ve been to
more times than I can count—wearing a bored look. In the elevator,
a tall blonde looks up from the man she’s groping to give me a
long, hard onceover. Her green eyes go wide as she mouths my name,
and my lips twitch, but I say nothing. When I exit out the back, to
where my car is waiting
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