on the right.
My mouth falls open. They’re all tests to
check for STDs. They’re all negative, which is great, but at the
moment, I could care less. Fury heats my skin and floods my blood
with adrenaline.
How dare he? How dare that presumptuous
asshole have his lackey give me STD results as though me ending up
in his bed is a foregone conclusion.
“Like hell I’ll be at dinner tonight,” I
mutter as I stomp over to the phone beside my bed and angrily punch
in a three followed by two zeroes.
A voice answers immediately. “Karesh.”
“Hi, it’s Kennedy. On second thought, I don’t
think I’ll be able to make dinner tonight.”
“Are you ill?” he asks.
I bite back a bitter laugh and refrain from
giving him a very detailed explanation on just how “ill” I am. But
Karesh doesn’t mean ill as in angry; he means ill as in sick.
“No, but I had quite a bit to drink and I
need to get it out of my system before the show.”
While I’d love to give Karesh one heck of a
message to deliver to Reese, I know that’s not something that would
ever get conveyed appropriately. No, that’s something I’ll have to
tell him face to face. And, by the time I stew in this for the rest
of the day, I’ll be more than happy to do so tonight if he so much
as looks at me the wrong way.
“Very well. I’ll let Mr. Spencer know.”
“Thank you.”
If Reese wants a show tonight, I’ll give him
a show. A show for his guests. Just like I was hired to do. He’ll
see that I’m not his and that I never will be.
CHAPTER NINETEEN- Reese
It took every bit of willpower that I have
not to go to Kennedy’s room earlier. It’s not often that I have to
wait very long for something that I want. But Kennedy is different.
We have history. A lot of history. And she’s determined to let that
be an issue. But as much as I don’t like it and as hard as it is to
go slow, I’m equally determined to do whatever is necessary to get
her in my bed again. What began as a simple desire has blossomed
into an obsession. She’s under my skin, in my blood, and I won’t be
satisfied until I can feel her wanting me from the inside, tight
and wet.
When nine o’clock finally rolls around and we
are gathered in the show room, surrounded by crushed velvet covered
walls and the deep thump of music, I’m so anxious I’m ready to
snap.
With a casualness that belies my coiled
insides, I stretch out my legs in front of me and sip my
seventy-year-old scotch, my eyes glued to the curtain through which
Kennedy should soon be emerging. When the lights dim further and
the music fades, I feel like both holding my breath in anticipation
and exhaling it in relief.
Michael Bublé’s voice drifts from the
speakers. We all fall quiet and watch, waiting for Kennedy to
appear. Only she doesn’t. He sings the first few lines and there’s
no sign of her. The curtain parts the slightest bit and a
straight-backed chair glides smoothly across the polished floor of
the stage, but still no Kennedy.
The singer’s voice carries softly on, my
anticipation rising with it. Then, just as the music starts up with
a blare of horns, the curtain parts with a flourish and out struts
Kennedy. She’s wearing a hat again. A tall, black top hat set at a
cocky angle that hides her face in shadow. It perfectly complements
the tuxedo shirt and jacket that she’s wearing.
Moving in time with the music, Kennedy walks
past the chair, reaching behind her to drag it along with her as
she moves closer to center stage. When the horns stop, Kennedy
whips the chair around, raises one long leg and plants a high, high
heel in the seat. She’s wearing nothing from the waist down but
shiny black panties that I get a glimpse of every now and again.
I’ve never wanted to rip a tuxedo off someone before. But I do now.
More than I would ever comfortably admit to.
Kennedy folds her upper body over her bent
leg, trailing her fingertips from her ankle to the top of her
thigh, pushing
My mouth falls open. They’re all tests to
check for STDs. They’re all negative, which is great, but at the
moment, I could care less. Fury heats my skin and floods my blood
with adrenaline.
How dare he? How dare that presumptuous
asshole have his lackey give me STD results as though me ending up
in his bed is a foregone conclusion.
“Like hell I’ll be at dinner tonight,” I
mutter as I stomp over to the phone beside my bed and angrily punch
in a three followed by two zeroes.
A voice answers immediately. “Karesh.”
“Hi, it’s Kennedy. On second thought, I don’t
think I’ll be able to make dinner tonight.”
“Are you ill?” he asks.
I bite back a bitter laugh and refrain from
giving him a very detailed explanation on just how “ill” I am. But
Karesh doesn’t mean ill as in angry; he means ill as in sick.
“No, but I had quite a bit to drink and I
need to get it out of my system before the show.”
While I’d love to give Karesh one heck of a
message to deliver to Reese, I know that’s not something that would
ever get conveyed appropriately. No, that’s something I’ll have to
tell him face to face. And, by the time I stew in this for the rest
of the day, I’ll be more than happy to do so tonight if he so much
as looks at me the wrong way.
“Very well. I’ll let Mr. Spencer know.”
“Thank you.”
If Reese wants a show tonight, I’ll give him
a show. A show for his guests. Just like I was hired to do. He’ll
see that I’m not his and that I never will be.
CHAPTER NINETEEN- Reese
It took every bit of willpower that I have
not to go to Kennedy’s room earlier. It’s not often that I have to
wait very long for something that I want. But Kennedy is different.
We have history. A lot of history. And she’s determined to let that
be an issue. But as much as I don’t like it and as hard as it is to
go slow, I’m equally determined to do whatever is necessary to get
her in my bed again. What began as a simple desire has blossomed
into an obsession. She’s under my skin, in my blood, and I won’t be
satisfied until I can feel her wanting me from the inside, tight
and wet.
When nine o’clock finally rolls around and we
are gathered in the show room, surrounded by crushed velvet covered
walls and the deep thump of music, I’m so anxious I’m ready to
snap.
With a casualness that belies my coiled
insides, I stretch out my legs in front of me and sip my
seventy-year-old scotch, my eyes glued to the curtain through which
Kennedy should soon be emerging. When the lights dim further and
the music fades, I feel like both holding my breath in anticipation
and exhaling it in relief.
Michael Bublé’s voice drifts from the
speakers. We all fall quiet and watch, waiting for Kennedy to
appear. Only she doesn’t. He sings the first few lines and there’s
no sign of her. The curtain parts the slightest bit and a
straight-backed chair glides smoothly across the polished floor of
the stage, but still no Kennedy.
The singer’s voice carries softly on, my
anticipation rising with it. Then, just as the music starts up with
a blare of horns, the curtain parts with a flourish and out struts
Kennedy. She’s wearing a hat again. A tall, black top hat set at a
cocky angle that hides her face in shadow. It perfectly complements
the tuxedo shirt and jacket that she’s wearing.
Moving in time with the music, Kennedy walks
past the chair, reaching behind her to drag it along with her as
she moves closer to center stage. When the horns stop, Kennedy
whips the chair around, raises one long leg and plants a high, high
heel in the seat. She’s wearing nothing from the waist down but
shiny black panties that I get a glimpse of every now and again.
I’ve never wanted to rip a tuxedo off someone before. But I do now.
More than I would ever comfortably admit to.
Kennedy folds her upper body over her bent
leg, trailing her fingertips from her ankle to the top of her
thigh, pushing
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