The Dirty Series 1(146)
I look across the table at the two empty seats, an anomaly on a night like tonight—but Jax Hunter, one of my closest friends in New York, bailed on me tonight, along with his wife, Cate. They’re usually excellent company.
I just don’t feel like company tonight.
I feel like going back to my penthouse, alone, where there’s no one else at all, and installing myself in the den until I’m too tired to stay awake anymore. The silence would be a blessing. The darkness would stop the pounding in my head.
Normally, I’d fantasize about being at my penthouse alone, but tonight I haven’t been able to stop myself. I’m imagining Quinn Campbell’s lithe body tucked next to me on my leather sectional, her breasts rising and falling under a skintight tank top. She smelled good even in the rain, like pure soap with an undercurrent of fresh flowers.
But Christian Pierce never bails on Friday night.
There’s no slipping out the back entrance alone when Melody is in the picture, at any rate, and Christ, is she ever in the picture.
The black dress she’s wearing is cut so low in the front that I swear I keep catching glimpses of her belly button, and her makeup is heavy and dark, making her gray eyes stand out in sharp contrast to her deep red lips.
“Where’s your mind at, Christian?” she murmurs to me during a break in the conversation. Two of my friends are out tonight—Todd and Jeffrey—and they have both brought along women who I’ve never met. The four of them seem to be getting along famously. Meanwhile, I’ve been chiming in on autopilot, flashing a half smile I don’t really mean, to cover up the fact that I’m not paying much attention.
Apparently, it didn’t fool Melody.
“Your dress,” I say. It’s not entirely a lie.
It’s not entirely the truth, either.
She gives me a little grin, cocking her head to the side. “Are you sure that’s all?”
I dart my eyes down to her cleavage. “How could I possibly be thinking of anything else?”
“You’re not looking very closely for someone who loves this dress.”
“I wouldn’t want you to think I only care about clothing.”
“That’s right,” she says, her sensual tone wrapping around the back of my neck. “It’s what’s under the dress that’s captured your imagination.”
Melody’s usually seductive voice does nothing to alleviate my headache, which is growing by the minute.
It does nothing to take my mind off Quinn Campbell, who has invaded my innermost thoughts and taken up permanent residence since the moment I first saw her. It doesn’t help that she’s Carolyn’s roommate. She’s so fucking close. All I’d need to do to get her number is send one text message to Carolyn.
When she first texted me about her roommate, I responded casually, lightly, laughing it off. What a hilarious coincidence, I can’t believe it, that’s just New York City for you.
The lightning shooting through my veins implies this is more than a meeting by happenstance. Even if it is a coincidence, it has the potential to be so much more.
You can never go there.
Even Melody’s alluring come-on can’t shake her out of my mind. For once, my endless well of charming quips fails me completely. I lean over and kiss the side of her neck to hide that I’m barely responding to her, even though she’s pulling out all the stops. Melody smells, oddly, like baby powder. When I pull back, she’s looking at me with heated eyes, lustful eyes, and I think, fuck, I have to get out of this, I can’t take her home with me, I don’t want to.
“Fancy meeting you here,” says a voice, crystal clear, from the other side of the table. Relief washes over me as I turn away from Melody—the comment was obviously meant for me, and it would be rude as hell to ignore it.
Carolyn stands near the two empty seats, looking great in something short and midnight blue, but it’s the person behind her who immediately consumes my full attention.
Quinn Campbell stands confidently in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the Purple Swan, a complete knockout in a structured red gown, her dark hair falling in loose curls around her face, over her shoulders. I want more than anything to stand up, walk around the table, and run my hands through it right now before I kiss her.
Our eyes lock and her mouth quirks in a strange little smile. I’m dying to know what’s going on inside her head, dying to know what her skin feels like under that gown, dying to know everything about her. The energy between us crackles across the empty space.
“Quinn Campbell,” I call across the table, laughter on my lips, a smile on my face that keeps everything hidden under the surface. “Tell me that suitcase made it home.”