“I mean it.” I bring my eyes to his. “You’re playing with fire, Aaron. People who do that get burned.”
“I don’t play with fire, Dayton. I stoke it and make it burn hotter and faster until it consumes everything in its path. I’ll never take a spark where I can have a roaring flame.” Heat flares across my lips as his mouth hovers above mine. “Playing would imply I’m not being serious. I’m always serious when I want something. And right now, I want you. I want you, and I want you to go out there and act like you f**king want me.”
“Are you asking me or telling me to do that?”
“I’m telling you you’re going to go out there and act like you want me until you actually do. Until you want nothing but me and my body. Over you, under you, inside you… Go out there with me and don’t leave until there isn’t a part of your body that isn’t crying out for mine.”
He draws back and pulls me with him. His steps are stronger than mine, more assured, more determined. Try as I might, I can’t match them. My head is spinning too much. Not because of the request, but because I already want him. Because it’s impossible not to want him when he turns heated, darkened blue eyes on me. Because it’s impossible not to in the face of pure, unadulterated lust.
Even now with his hand at my side, I can feel sparks emanating from his fingertips and spreading through my stomach. They all head downward. God, they head downward until I’m afraid a mere glance from him will have me aching in desperation.
We approach the casino bar and Aaron steers us toward two other couples. Two sharply suited men and two beautifully done-up women. They reek of class and money. Of everything I pretend to be each and every day. Of what I’m pretending to be now.
Aaron introduces us, and the whole time pleasantries are being exchanged, his eyes flit to me. I avoid his gaze, instead flicking my eyes over his shoulder, to his forehead, at his lips. I ignore the tightening of his grip at my waist and sink into him a little farther, a faked yet convincing smile on my face. I pretend and pretend and pretend until my cheeks hurt and my stomach aches from laughing.
When Antony Barnes says that they’re leaving, I almost breathe a sigh of relief. Until Aaron lays a hand on my cheek and turns my face into his. Until his takes my lips with his, soft and gentle and full of too much realness for it all to be a show.
And I realize the ‘leaving’ refers to the guys. Now I have to sit here at a table near the restaurant bar with two women whose names I barely remember.
“So, Dayton.” The blonde turns a genuine smile on me. “What do you do?”
“Me? Oh.” I wrap my fingers around the stem of my wine glass. Fuckfuckfuck. “I’m all dot com. Design—websites, graphics, book covers, and the like.”
“Oooh, really?” The darker blonde—is it Abigail?—asks. “Anything we’d know?”
“Oh, no. Nothing big. Mostly for self-published authors. There’s a big market there right now.”
“Oh, that’s lovely. I don’t have much time to read these days.”
Thank you, Mom, for always making me believe in books. “That’s a shame.”
“Yes. I wish I did, but Antony is forever off on business and dragging me to functions like this.”
The light blonde rolls her eyes. “Yes, it’s a hard life.”
“Just because you enjoy traveling, Brea, doesn’t mean we all do.” She stands. “Excuse me for a moment.”
“Of course.” I give my politest smile and lift my glass.
How long do I have to do this shit? How many times do I have to do this? Small talk and pretending to give a crap about rich bitches wasn’t mentioned when I agreed to this.
I seriously need to get Monique to draw up contracts for jobs like this.
“Ugh.” Brea tops up her wine and holds the bottle over my glass. I nod in reply, and we sit in silence while she fills it. The empty bottle hits the table with a dull clunk, and a sigh leaves her dark red lips.
“I love this, you know? This lifestyle. The traveling, the dinners, the parties, the nights out… It’s not something I ever expected I’d have. I’ve been with Patrick since we were seventeen and I helped him build his business—from selling soap samples out of the trunk of my car. Some of us”—she nods in the direction Abigail left—“were born into a life of privilege.”
Oh, sweet Jesus. Is this my welcome into the Rich Bitch Wives Club? I want my invitation revoked.
“I know how hard our husbands work to give us this.”
Or they just buy you because they’re presumptuous bastards.
“And it riles me that she takes it for granted, you know? Not to mention she doesn’t work. At all.”
“Do you?” Crap. That came out bitchier than intended.
Brea laughs. “You sound surprised. I do, yes. I work in Rick’s company. We own it jointly. We started it together.”
Well, shit me. “That’s great!”
“It sure is. I do all the designing and fragrance testing, and I leave all the business stuff to him. I could never do what he does.”
“I don’t think I could do what Aaron does either. The amount of offices he’ll take charge of in a few weeks is, quite honestly, scary.”
“Absolutely.” She nods. “Have you been together long?”
I nearly choke on my wine but swallow it instead. Somehow. Why am I not prepared for this?
That’s right. I’m Dayton, not Mia. Stupid damn client orders.
“Um, not really. We knew each other a long time ago.” My lips curl into a small smile.
“A second-chance romance? Oh, how romantic!”
“Something like that.”
A second-chance romance with a tidy six-figure sum behind it. Sweep me off my feet, baby.
“Are you in Vegas for much longer?”
“Only tonight. We’re flying to Sydney tomorrow afternoon.”
“What a coincidence! We have some new samples, so we’re taking a working vacation over there, starting Saturday. It would be great to catch up—you know, get away from the men for a few hours.”
Congratulations, Dayton Black. You’re the newest member of the Rich Bitch Wives Club.
***
Abigail never came back—not that it bothered Brea any. She filled the very awkward conversation with her life story.
She’s twenty-four, Patrick is twenty-six, and her severe allergies lead to the start-up of their business. When he unknowingly bought her a soap basket that sent to her the hospital, he set about trying to find a soap without the ingredient she’s allergic to. Failing that, he made one.