Naughty Tonight(4)

Her hands roamed her length, exploring the truth swathed in black and gold. Compact, shapely figure. Flat stomach, small waist. High, perky breasts.

Kim spun a quarter turn, peeking over one shoulder. Great ass in check.

It was all there, the whole package. She was damn hot. Take that, Jackson.

Now she just needed someone to make her feel like a deserving woman because she was.

If she could walk out of this room without breaking her nose.

* * * * *

Veronica dangling on his arm, Jackson strode through the door into the granite foyer, finding the immediate area oddly devoid of partygoers. In the living room several women mingled about, talking heatedly amongst themselves as thumping music and clapping carried from the dining area, leaving one curious just what was going on. And with his friends, one never really knew. Exactly why Jackson loved ’em. Crazy lot, all of them, and not afraid to have fun.

Veronica though…she might break a nail.

“Looks like this party’s started,” he chuckled, feeling more at ease than he had all evening. He nodded a greeting to the ladies in the corner. “Let’s check it out.”

“I’d adore some chardonnay.” Veronica rolled cold gem-like blue eyes. “Will we be here long?”

Had he ever pegged her wrong. For all her flirting, Ronnie here was a real bore. Empty conversation, little in the way of character. A real rich bitch. Only reason he hadn’t taken her home after dinner was that he’d hoped a few drinks would loosen her up.

He was beginning to think it would take a miracle, not a bottle. And if she fucked the way she made small talk, he might as well call it a night. A woman like her would never prove the distraction he needed from the one he really wanted. And shouldn’t.

From the next room, cheers erupted. “If you want to go,” he offered, interest peaking over what was going on in the next room, “I’ll call you a cab.”

Her sigh seemed to take an immense effort. “Just get me a drink.”

“Whooooohoo!”

Jackson easily recognized that bellow—Carter Jones, the building’s resident beach bum, minus the sand. No job, plenty of money from thin air and a real distaste for rules and manners. Plus an acquired tongue for cheap whiskey. “Yeah, baby! Take it off! Whhooooo!”

“I’ll just get that drink.” Intrigued, Jackson abandoned Veronica to the almost-vacant living room and rushed to the jampacked dining room.

“Hey, Jack!” Carter called out, several bodies in, face lit with the goofiest grin. “Kim’s giving a real show!”

“Huh?” Loud music. Jackson must’ve misheard.

“Kim, man!” Carter waved with one finger to the front of the room.

Kimmy? From behind some Jolly Green Giant, he caught a glimpse of long, flying honey-colored hair and panic welled. Music pulsing around him, Jackson shoved through the crowd, forcing people aside for a better view.

Jackson felt his heart shut down. His world squeak to a jarring halt.

There she was, his little Kimmy…dancing on the table. Stripping.

Minus a shirt, in naught but a lacy gold bra that pushed up creamy white mounds, a skin-tight black skirt that clung to luscious curves and heels that accentuated the sexiest legs in existence. Her angled hips pulsed in rhythm to the music, her slim waist swung erotically as her hands waved above her head.

She stumbled a little, quickly regaining her footing, but nothing could subtract from her sensuality.

What the hell was she wearing?

What the hell was she doing?

Swaying so sensually. Showing off everything.

Kimmy? Looking like that? Acting like this? Like a slut?

Hell, he knew her—she was going to break her neck in those shoes!

Then she whirled around, bending and wagging that ass, and before he knew what he was about, Jackson burst through the crowd with no apologies for the feet he stepped on or the shoulders he slammed and grabbed her by the arm. “Jackson!” she yelped in surprise as he hauled her off the table, pulling her right from the shoes she had no business in and into his embrace. Good riddance.

“My heels!”

Worried about those but not her shirt? “Let’s go,” he growled from his deepest core. “You’re drunk.”

That had to be it. She was soused. Out of her mind. Simply needed to be put to bed—and not his.

But on very steady legs, her feet dug in. “No way. I’m not drunk and I’m not going anywhere with you.” She spat that last word like poison.

Murmurs of disappointment echoed through her audience. “Come on, man!” some idiot beckoned, and suddenly Jackson hated his friends. “Let her dance! She’s just having fun!”

“That’s right, I am!” Kimmy wrenched from his unyielding grasp, those wide, beautiful brown eyes no longer filled with innocence but glaring with seething anger. “Get used to it. You don’t want me.” Her free hand formed a fist and rammed into his chest—but Kimmy packed a helluva punch and he knew she could do better. He caught that arm too, locking it in his grasp as she spat, “Plenty of others do!”