Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1)(6)

She smiled. He did not.

"What are you drinking?"

He paused long enough that a normal person would understand he was answering reluctantly. "Scotch."

Then, goddamn if she didn't reach over, pick up his drink, and take a  sip. She scrunched her face up like she'd chugged a glass of roofing  tar. "Yuck! Scotch is such a masculine drink! I just don't see the  appeal!" Then she did something he could only describe as simper, though  a minute ago he wouldn't have known what the hell the word meant. He  glanced at the glass in front of her on the bar. She was drinking  something pink with a whack of fruit in it.

"This isn't working on me," he said. Sometimes the direct way was the best.

"Excuse me?" Miss Droppy began blinking rapidly. Oh, shit, was she going  to cry? Maybe he'd been too hasty giving up his solo table. There, no  one bothered him.

Suddenly there was Cassie, inserting her barely tamed tresses between  them, bringing with her a whiff of what he was coming to recognize as  her signature scent-it was like vanilla mixed with some kind of spice he  couldn't identify. "Gay," she stage-whispered to Miss Droppy, hitching  her head in Jack's direction.

"Hey!" he protested, but Droppy's "Ohhhh!" drowned him out. She shot him  a wry smile and said, "Well, that's a shame." But then, hallelujah, she  turned her back.

"You're welcome," said Cassie, winking as she grabbed his empty  pitcher-it being crowded, she hadn't whipped out the big ugly plastic  water jug this time. She was halfway down the bar, on to the next thing,  before he could really process what had happened.

The rest of the evening passed like that-Cassie dropping in briefly to  anticipate a need, or merely to flash him a smile. She was in her  element. She looked like a lifer, but not a downtrodden, resigned lifer.  It was more that she was somehow the source of the place, its human  battery, supplying it with the energy and life it needed to function.  She was the tuning fork that kept everyone playing the same song.

She must have lent him some energy too, for he suddenly had a brainwave  about how to appeal to Wexler. He would suggest they have the meeting on  the island, try to get himself invited over. Maybe the old guy just  needed to see Jack's vision in context. Maybe the truth would be enough,  and Carl's absence wouldn't matter.

"That bartender would be cute if she lost twenty pounds. Am I right?"

Jesus. It was one of Droppy's crew. Maybe he'd call this one Perky. She  certainly was, but unlike Cassie, that much … endowment on such a skinny  frame called to mind plastic surgery. And personally, nothing killed a  boner faster for him.

"She has a ruuuulllly pretty face, for sure," slurred Droppy. "Plump  girls always do. But I'd still way rather do Angelina Jolie."

"I'd rather do one of you guys!" exclaimed the third member of their  unholy trinity. He'd call this one Dopey, because, really, didn't every  group need a Dopey? "Seriously! If I had to kiss a girl-ewww!-it would  be one of you guys!"

"That's so nice! Oh my gosh!"

"I would totally kiss you, too!"

All right then, that was his cue. He fished a couple of hundreds out of  his wallet and left them. It's not like he was waiting for something.

Correction-it's not like he was waiting for something he couldn't just as easily wait for outside.



By the time she emerged, he was fucking freezing. Freezing and mad. At  what, he wasn't sure. Though maybe the better question was what wasn't  he mad at? Let us count the ways. To be fair, Droppy, Perky, and Dopey  were really just the targets of his rage because they were convenient.  The CFO whom he suspected was embezzling him to the tune of several  million dollars wasn't here right now. He was probably in the office  "working late." You know, demonstrating his commitment to the company.

The bells of Edward's door jingled, drawing his attention. Christ, finally, someone he wasn't mad at.

It almost seemed like she was expecting him this time, because when he  stepped out of the shadows just long enough to pull her back into them  with him, there was no evidence of surprise. Her lips opened, but  instead of rounding in shock, her jaw relaxed, letting that plump bottom  lip fall open. Jesus fucking Christ, the places he could imagine that  mouth. Instead of widening, her eyes glazed over with something that  looked suspiciously like desire. He eyed her for a moment, trying to  remember why this was a bad idea. Too late, though, because she kissed  him this time. Rising onto her tiptoes, she grabbed the back of his  neck, tugged his head down, and pressed her lips against his with a soft  little whimper that managed to drown out any lingering peeps of better  judgment.                       
       
           



       

He let her take the lead for a while, bending down to give her better  access as she twined her arms around his neck. Tonight, as yesterday,  she tasted like cinnamon. But there was a boldness in her kisses that  hadn't been there last night. Then she went for the hollow of his neck,  which, Christ, felt good enough, but it also meant her hair was right  under his nose. That maddening vanilla-it must be her shampoo. Together  with the cinnamon of her mouth, she was like a goddamned cake. A cake he  couldn't cram into his mouth fast enough, so this was the end of her  little exploration. He was in charge now.

"That's enough," he said, and she dropped her hands immediately,  misunderstanding. She took an uncertain step back, scared off. Shit.  "That's not what I meant." He was still thinking of cake. With her  curtain of dark hair, her killer curves, and that spicy-vanilla assault  on his senses, she might as well have been a fucking cinnamon roll. Her  freckles were the sprinkles on top. "Christ. I could eat you."

A sharp intake of breath. Her head fell forward for a moment, like it  was too heavy for her to hold up. Then she righted it, looked him  directly in the eye and said, "Why don't you then?"

That was it. A literal fire under his ass couldn't have made him move  any faster. They'd been standing in front of the restaurant-in the  shadows, yes, but shadows were not enough for some things. He yanked her  into the narrow alley that ran between Edward's and the next building  and fell to his knees in the crunchy snow. She gasped-she hadn't thought  he'd really do it. That would teach her to tease him. Sliding his hands  up her skirt, he found the top of her tights and jerked them down.

Grabbing his forearms, she shoved him. "Whoa," she whispered.

He held up his hands as if at gunpoint, still on his knees. Christ,  standing there with her tights around her knees, she was hotter than  anything he'd ever conjured in his wickedest fantasies. If she stopped  him now, there was no justice in the world. But still, he was a  gentleman. He might be an ass, but he was also a gentleman. "You want me  to stop?"

"Yes-no." She shook her head. "I don't know." Her face was blazing. She looked like a goddess.

He lowered his hands and pressed his palms against the front of her  knees. Keeping a close eye on her face, slowly he began moving his hands  up. Despite the December air, her skin was warm. When his hands reached  the top of her panties, he stopped, still watching her. He was  vibrating, humming with lust. He raised his eyebrows in a silent  question. Then he licked his lips.

She nodded.

Down came the panties-a plain black cotton bikini, which, God help him, was the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

No, scratch that. The hottest thing he'd ever seen was the shock of  mahogany hair between her legs. She was trimmed and neat, but not  hairless like most women. He hadn't thought he had much of an opinion on  the matter, until now, when he suddenly did.

He skipped the preliminaries, anchored his hands on her thighs, and  buried his face in her. Vanilla there, too-how was that possible?-mixed  with a musky spice. She was already wet. He drew a finger across her  folds and was rewarded with a shaky exhale. "You like that?" he  whispered, following the same path with his tongue.

She didn't answer, unless you counted the little mewing noise she made  when his tongue hit her. He snuck a glance up. He wasn't even sure she'd  heard his question-her head lolling against the brick wall, her eyes  closed. She was good at this, at losing herself. Her lack of  self-consciousness was maybe the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. He  tried again-yep, there was that insanely hot whimper again. All right,  they were in an alley outside in December-now was not the time to draw  things out. He didn't want to, anyway. He just wanted to lose himself in  those curls. Fuck the financials. Fuck Carl. Fuck the Wexler deal. He  went straight for her clit, licking softly a few times to make sure she  wasn't going to panic. When all she did was moan and twine her fingers  in his hair, he increased the pressure, alternating with sucking, trying  to figure out what she liked. When she cried out and clenched her fists  in his hair, he stuck with a rhythm of thrusting alternating with  softer licking. It wasn't long before her shallow breathing stopped  altogether. Unable to withstand any more, he used one hand to fumble his  cock out of his pants.