P.I.T.A. (L.A. Liaisons #3)(4)

"Liar."

I opened my mouth to object, and he pointed to the drink that had just been set in front of me.

"The faster you drink, the warmer you'll feel," he said. "Leave it on until then."

Couldn't deny that logic.

My lips tipped up as I lifted the sweet banana, cream, and Nutella concoction to my lips. "You're a bossy little fucker, aren't you."

"Bossy fucker, yes. Little, no."

"Ahh, so that's what it is. I knew it wasn't your sparkling personality attracting the masses, so my guess was either you're a master in hypnosis or you've got a nine-inch dick."

Dawson laughed, shaking his head. There was amusement in his eyes as he leaned in, close enough that I could feel his hot breath on my neck, and said, "Nine and a half, love." Then he straightened and picked up his drink. "But who's counting?"

"Bullshit. I was joking."

"Come back to my room and I'll let you count." His eyes dropped to my lips. "With your mouth."

A groan escaped my lips. "Oh my God. You are so fucking full of yourself. How many girls actually fall for the stuff that comes out of your mouth?"

"What can I say? I learned from the best," he said, inclining his head toward me.

"Me? You're saying you learned arrogance and the art of wheeling and dealing that so-called nine-and-a-half-inch cock from me?"

"You are the best at tempting men to their fates, are you not?"

"To say nothing of my skills with a strap-on."

Dawson's eyes widened slightly, his lips forming a small O as he soaked in that visual. There wasn't much that could shock either of us, but I supposed he'd never considered how far I was willing to go on occasion to assert my female-on-top status. The next reaction would determine whether it crossed his line of comfort or whether he was intrigued.

"Fuck me," he said, and I smirked.

So he was intrigued. And why that sent an unexpected thrill zipping down my spine, I had no idea. Maybe it was the thought of riding a man comfortable with his sexuality, who had a clear "anything goes" mentality in the bedroom, that turned me on. Maybe it was the alcohol turning my brain stupid.

Or maybe I'd lost my damn mind.

"Why, Dawson, surely that's not an offer."

"It's whatever you want it to be."

The look in his eyes dared me to take him up on his proposition, but I knew better than to do a silly thing like that. There was too much history there, good and bad, to ever open up to Dawson again. Not that I ever had in a sexual way, of course, but in the vulnerable way of myself that I'd locked up good and tight years ago.

So, I did the only thing I could. I changed the subject.

"I will never understand how our parents are friends," I said, running my finger around the lip of the glass. "Yours are so nice and … well, normal. They actually like each other."

Dawson's eyebrows went up at the abrupt change in conversation, and after a beat, he shrugged. "It's not unheard of to be married to someone you like. Or love."

"I beg to disagree."

"Ahh, yes. The wedding planner who hates marriage. You're quite the contradiction, aren't you, Pita?"

"Hey, if people want to ruin their lives by throwing a big party to tie their lives together forever and ever, that's their problem. And since that means I get to shop with their money, it's a win-win."

"I hear what you're saying, but I think we both know the reason you got into the business."



       
         
       
        

"And what's that?"

"To give a big, fat 'fuck you' to your father."

Laughing, I nodded. "Can't say you're wrong about that. He was so hoping I'd follow his footsteps and go into big-money real estate."

"Hmm. You do have the ability to convince people to do whatever it is you want them to, but I can't see you working for your old man."

"Me either. And truth be told, weddings weren't my first choice. I had my heart set on divorce shebangs, but there's not nearly enough money in those after prenups."

"Well, if you manage to influence the whole of Los Angeles with your anti-marriage rhetoric and find yourself without a job, you know we'll welcome you with open arms," Dawson said.

I pursed my lips, tossing that backup plan around as a just-in-case. Dawson and his parents co-owned Dawson Global Entertainment, which owned some of the biggest sports and concert venues in the world. As much as I joked that Dawson didn't do a damn thing, he was, in fact, the schmoozer who got the deals made. Sort of impressive. Maybe. A little.

"That's not a terrible offer," I said. "I suppose the perks of meeting Madonna or the LA Galaxy on a regular basis is a pretty good perk. I mean, it doesn't really compare to chasing down drunken bridesmaids, but … "

He narrowed his eyes. "You could already have those perks whenever you want them."

"Yeah, yeah," I said, waving him off. I wasn't about to call in any favors with Richard Dawson; he might ask for something I wasn't willing to give in return.

As if he could read my thoughts, he shook his head and tossed back the remainder of his drink. "My parents would be just as accommodating, Pita." He caught the bartender's eye and indicated another round.

"I know they would," I said, and then followed Dawson's lead by draining the rest of my glass. "What the hell did you do so right in this life that you ended up with kickass parents? They would never run off and leave you. I bet they think the sun shines out of your ass."

"They think it shines out of yours too, though I'm baffled as to why at this moment." As the refreshed drinks were set in front of us, Dawson said, "Could we also get two rounds of Goldschläger? Thanks."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. No. Absolutely not."

Dawson swiveled on the chair to face me. "What exactly are you objecting to?"

"Gee, where do I start. First, you can't sit here anymore. We've had our nice-nice catchup chat, but you're a cockblock and you know it."

"I see. Yes, you seem to be fighting so many options … " he said, looking around the room, where it seemed everyone was involved in conversation, no perusing to be had. His lips twisted like he was trying to fight back a smile. "And the second?" 

"You know what happens when I drink Goldschläger. So, no. I'm absolutely not doing a shot. Not with you, not by myself, and not with the sex machine that will be sitting in that seat when you move your ass."

When the bartender came back with the order, Dawson picked up one of the squat glasses filled with flecks of gold in a clear liquid and leaned in toward me, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Who said these were for you, love?" Then he threw back the first shot, the strong cords in his throat taut, and-

Wait, ew, stop. That I even noticed had a shudder racking through me. At least that was what I was telling myself had caused the shiver.

"All right," I said, and even to my ears, my voice sounded huskier than usual. I cleared my throat. "You're good and liquored up. You can move on now."

"I'll do no such thing," he said, pushing the shot of cinnamon schnapps in my direction.

"Absolutely not." I pushed the shot back toward him.

"Yes, ma'am. Get to it."

"You're off your ass if you think I'm gonna drink that shit."

"Humor me."

"No."

"Please?"

"Nope."

"I'm gonna wear you down."

I laughed. "You can try, but you'll get tired of waiting, and then that brunette over there will swing her hips in your direction and you'll be powerless to resist. She'll do these shots, you'll get your fill, and all will be right in the world."

When Dawson gave a listless shrug and said, "Eh," I narrowed my eyes.

"What?" I said. "Don't tell me you're getting bored with the game."

"Are you finally admitting there is a game?" His eyes gleamed with challenge, like he'd been waiting for me to confess to a crime and the moment of truth had finally come. The intensity of his gaze unnerved me, and I looked away.

"If I do this stupid shot, will you leave me alone?" I asked.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Only one way to find out."

"Dawson-"

"You seem to be holding back from me for some reason," he said, his head angled to the side and his gaze roving over my face. "Not sure what I did to deserve the caution, but let's remember we used to be friends."

"Friends shmends," I mumbled, rubbing my forehead. When a couple of tendrils escaped my ever-loosening updo, I sighed. Great. Hot mess alert.

"Come on, Paige," Dawson said, and reached out to finger one of the loose curls before tucking it behind my ear. "Don't be scared. For one night, let loose with me."

Did he say scared? Me? Scared? Of Dawson? Absofuckinlutely not. No, I wasn't about to let him win whatever mind game this was, so I did what any woman in my position that wanted to prove a man wrong would do.

I took the goddamn shot.

And the heat that flowed through my veins and had my body relaxing was so welcome that, five minutes later, I took another.

A half-hour later, I was facing Dawson with his legs on either side of mine to keep me steady on my barstool, and I had to admit, I was feeling juuuuuust fiiiine.