Hurricane (Last Call #2) by Moira Rogers Page B

pressed her body to his. 
“That makes it one hell of a curse, baby.”
    Strong hands skated down her back to cup her
ass, and he dragged her up his body until her eyes were level with
his.  “You wanted my attention, sweetheart.  Now you have
it.  What are you going to do with it?”
    It took a moment for his words to penetrate
the fog in her brain.  “Uh-uh. No way are you D’Cruze.”
    “ Really?”  The rest of
the bar faded away as power wrapped around her, making her entire
body tingle.  She felt his lips against her ear as his fingers
tightened on her ass.  “Then why can I do this without your
curse blowing the hell out of my bar?”  His teeth closed on
her earlobe.
    The knot of heat inside her burst into
raging flame.  Fiona couldn’t stop the low cry that slipped
out of her, or the plea that followed it.  “I need it,” she
rasped.  “Can you get past it without getting hurt?  Can
you fuck me?”
    “ Oh, yes. I can get past
your curse.”  He lowered her again, setting her down on
unsteady feet. “Maybe, given time, I could even break it.” 
She caught a glimpse of a wicked smile before his fingers curled
around her arms and tugged her away from the dance floor. 
“But first, we’re getting you away from my very, very expensive
bar.”
    She caught sight of Jenn at the edge of the
floor and waved as they headed toward the back of the bar. 
“I’m Fiona.”
    “ Mmm.”  A gigantic
bouncer moved aside as they approached, opening a small door she
hadn’t even realized was there.  On the other side lay a short
service hallway with a single elevator at the end.  His hand
dropped to her lower back in a possessive gesture as he urged her
forward.  “You can call me Ben.”
    His warm fingers brushed the strip of
exposed skin above her jeans, and she shivered.  The
fluorescent lighting in the hallway flickered.  “Ben.” 
It was equally easy to imagine whispering it in his ear or
screaming it into a pillow.  “Nice to meet you, Ben.”
    The elevator had no buttons, just a flat
screen next to it.  Ben laid his hand on it, and a moment
later the doors slid open with a soft chime. “Who did you piss off,
Fiona?  Who did you make furious enough to curse you so
viciously?”
    “ My ex-boyfriend,” she
answered lightly as she stepped into the elevator and leaned
against one wall.  “Five years ago. I call him Robbie the
Jackass.  He thought he owned me, and I thought he was
wrong.  He took it badly.”
    “ So it seems.”  The
doors shut silently as he pressed his hand to a second screen on
the inside.  A tiny jolt was the only indication they’d
started moving.  “Robert Carmichael, was it?”
    “ That’s him.” 
Thinking about her ex squashed her buzz like a bug.  “It was
all very romantic, I suppose.  Two artists in a Tribeca
loft.  Turns out, twenty-seven was a little long in the tooth
for his tastes. I was supposed to look the other way while he
explored greener, more supple pastures.”  She looked away with
a snort.  “No, thanks.”
    He studied her with a slightly amused
look.  “Five years without satisfaction, and before that you
were wasting yourself on an old man.  No wonder the curse took
hold so strongly.  It feeds on sexual frustration, you know…
and I imagine he provided you with plenty of that.”
    “ So, if I hadn’t been so
averse to stepping out on my boyfriend, I might not be in this
mess?”  Fiona laughed and stepped closer, eyeing him through
the fringe of her expertly curled lashes.  “I guess nice women
really do finish last.”
    “ If you hadn’t stayed with
an asshole who couldn’t begin to satisfy you, you might not be in
this mess.”  He lifted a finger to trace along her jaw, then
down the vulnerable line of her throat.  “I don’t usually fuck
the people who come to my bar, you know.  Not even the ones
who are so obviously in need of it.”
    The slight but deliberate caress of his
fingertip over her skin