Making His Baby(76)

“I didn’t think you’d have the balls to show.” I say, wine-brave.

Eric says nothing. He shuts the door and takes off his jacket, throws it on the bar near the door. Next comes his tie, effortlessly undone and flung over his shoulder. He advances on me like a panther: sleek, sexy, predatorial. Nothing like the big, bumbling, out-of-shape lion I’m used to.

I take another sip of wine to steady myself. No one has touched me intimately, in a way I enjoyed, in longer than I cared to admit or think about. Watching Eric Stevens advance on me like this has every nerve in my body standing at attention.

Is it hot in here or just him?

“I had some things to take care of.” Eric unbuttons his shirt and lets it hang, framing his impeccable washboard abs.

Abs I’d love to touch, lick, whatever. Forget the whole animal kingdom analogy, this man is carved out of granite like one of the gods they’d paint on pottery. He deserves a statue in his likeness.

Maybe this is all the wine talking.

Eric takes the wine bottle from my hands and presses it to his lips. He drains the rest of it and strips off his belt. His gaze burns through me. The pants drop to the floor and leave him in tight boxer-briefs.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“What are you offering?” I manage. I can only hope to remember this moment in the future so I can high-five myself over it. As it stands, my brain has gone near-hypothermic from the strip show going on before me.

He offers a cheeky grin that changes into a smirk and rests a cupped hand over his crotch. I’m drawn to it, desperate to know what lies under his fingers.

“You said you weren’t going to sleep with me.” I remind him. I force myself off the couch to regain a sense of self, some control over the situation. This is my game. I can feel him watching me now like I could feel him staring across that lacquered table twice a week.

“You said nothing about sleeping.”

I lean against the suite bar and bite into a cherry. It’s been so long since I’ve actually flirted with someone outside the bounds of cheesy Hollywood fakery that I’m not sure how to do it anymore. Maybe the wine was a bad idea.

“And giving me a blow job is not the same as fucking you.” His smile is dangerous this time. I could absolutely see why so many women succumbed to this asshole.

“What big dreams you have.”

Eric closes the space between us and surrounds me by bracing his arms on the bar. We are as close as we were in the bar, only this time there are far less clothes. His thick eyelashes open and close slowly and his nose gently touches mine. It’s an otherwise sweet gesture, but this felt entirely different.

“I’ve seen the way you stare at me, Kate. I can hear how badly you want me over the droning noise of the moron who is your ex.” He bites my lower lip and I feel myself melting underneath him. “I’m going to fuck you like I should have three weeks ago: on every surface in the room.”

Eric goes for my lip again and I’m about to give him everything he’d ever want, when I catch a flash of color on his cheek. I’d been so preoccupied by his striptease and the intensity radiating off him I didn’t see it until we were close enough to become entangled.

“Is that lipstick on your cheek?”

He doesn’t answer.

My chest tightens. Eric and I may not be in a relationship, this whole thing may actually hedge on a terrible idea, but it still sucker punches me in the gut. A bright red reminder of every night David came home smelling of another woman’s perfume and lipstick on his neck. Every time he tried to pass it off as something from the costume department.

“Get the fuck out.” I shove him off me. He stumbles back, anger and confusion blooming across his brow. “I said get out.”

“Kate, I don’t know what you’re trying to do—”

“Out!” I yell. I gather up his clothes and throw them at him. He shoves his legs in the pants, going on about how insane I am, but I don’t care. This was a terrible idea. I shouldn’t have tried this. “I said out!”

“I’m getting dressed, woman.” His deep voice snaps out at me. He looks like he wants to say more, but thinks better of it and storms out.

I think about falling to the floor in a dramatic fit, sobbing about how terrible my life is. Instead, I call Lily, tell her to send up another bottle, and eat every bag of M&Ms in the minibar.





CHAPTER EIGHT



ERIC



Every Monday morning is full of the same shit: closed blinds, dark shades and a gallon of coffee at my disposal. My booze expenses tripled since I took on the McArthur case and it’s almost enough to make me want to drop it. The only thing keeping me going at this rate is the number of bills I shoot to him weekly to make up for his three-in-the-morning drunken rants.