GrayG: Not crazy. You’re my girl. So proud of you, Special Sauce.
IvyMac: Come over?
GrayG: Better idea. Go to Red Room Lounge at 8 p.m. Wear a skirt (panties optional but greatly discouraged). Head for the bar. Hot blond dude will be there. Let him say hello first.
IvyMac: ?? And what’s with the cryptic text? Are you on something?
GrayG: No more questions. You’ll like what I have planned. Trust me.
IvyMac: Ok. But only because it’s you.
GrayG: Don’t forget: No questions. Wear a skirt. And a hot top too.
IvyMac: *Grumble*
Twenty-Four
Ivy
The Red Room Lounge isn’t the kind of place I’d usually frequent—at least, not on my own. The decor is tasteful, moody, the walls a deep, lush red. Low-slung cream leather couches are arranged in intimate seating groups. Votive candles flicker on glossy wood tables. For all the style, it’s clearly a meat market. Not in the lively college-age way of Palmers, but for serious businessmen on the prowl.
Eyes follow me as soon as I give the hostess my coat and walk in. I’m aware of every step I take, the way the black-and-white striped A-line skirt I’m wearing slides over my bare legs. On an average-height girl, it would probably rest a few inches above the knee. On me, it’s mid-thigh, and I’m far too aware of my panty-less state.
The thought of flashing the bar with a flick of my skirt fills me with horror. It’s also oddly arousing. I feel naughty, sexy. A rarity for me—I usually either feel a bit like a giraffe or I act like one of the guys.
If I wasn’t looking for Gray, I might have missed him at first glance. He’s standing at the bar, his back to me. I know it’s him because I know every line of his body, the way he likes to plant his feet slightly apart, as if he’s waiting for his next play, and how he always sets his broad shoulders ruler-straight. But he isn’t dressed like the Gray I know. He’s wearing dark dress slacks that cup his fine ass and a soft, gray knit sweater that hugs his muscled torso.
As if sensing my gaze, he turns. Holy hell. His hair is combed back from his brow, highlighting the strong bones of his face, making him appear older, sharper. But how he looks at me sears my skin and has my heart kicking against my ribs. He knows the effect he has on me. It’s there in his eyes and the way the corner of his luscious mouth slowly kicks up.
He’s smiled at me dozens of times, but never like this. It’s pure sex, no tenderness, no familiarity. I should be offended. I’m hot instead, slippery between my legs as I walk towards him.
That assessing stare travels over my body, and the tip of his tongue flicks out to swipe his lower lip. “Hey,” he says when I stop at the bar. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”
He’s not even looking at my face but leers at my chest. My nipples stiffen, and he sucks in a sharp breath, a little grunt rumbling deep in his throat.
My lips part, but no words come out. He’s treating me like a stranger. Like he’s Gray but Not Gray. And I remember the text. Head for the bar. Hot blond dude will be there. Let him say hello first. Not “let me say hello,” but him. My heart starts pounding, and flutters fill my belly. I think about the sexual fantasy I told him that lazy morning in bed.
His eyes meet mine, and a look flickers there: Is this all right? Do you want to play?
It’s a struggle not to grin, not to fling myself on him and kiss the hell out of him. I lower my lids and turn my attention to the bartender instead, pretending that my insides aren’t a mass of nerves and anticipation. “I’m waiting for my friends,” I tell Not Gray, which is how I choose to think of him now, my tone standoffish.
“Sure you are,” he murmurs.
Mellow music softly plays, highlighting the quiet between us. His tanned forearm rests against the bar. A thick steel sports watch is on his wrist. I’ve never seen it before. Or seen him drink Scotch. That strong arm lifts as he takes a drink. The peaty scent of whiskey fills the air between us.
I order a citrus martini and try to ignore Not Gray, because he’s doing his best to unnerve me, standing close enough that the light hairs on his sun-kissed forearm tickle my arm. Close enough that I feel his stare. It’s strange, knowing that this is Gray eyeing me like I’m some cheap conquest. I should be appalled. But no one on Earth turns me on the way he does. That he’s acting this out for me makes me hotter, has me growing wet and breathless already, without him even touching me. Vodka sloshes over the sides of my glass and slides cold over my fingers as I take a sip. I lick my wet lips, tasting the tart sweetness, and Gray grunts deep within his chest.
“I’d like to do that,” he says to me in a low voice.
My throat goes dry. I keep my gaze on the bar. “Do what?”
He’s closer, his shoulder pressing mine. “Lick those lips.”
Playing the shy girl, I look the other way as if I’m shocked. It doesn’t deter him. My skin shivers at the soft brush of his lips against the shell of my ear.
“When I’m done with your lips, I’ll lick the tips of those sweet little nipples perking up beneath your top. They’re begging for it, aren’t they, sweetheart?” Warm breath gusts down my neck as he exhales. “To be licked and licked.”
Heat snakes down my body, clenches in my belly. And he keeps talking in that low, rumbly way. “I’ll get you nice and wet playing with those little buds. So fucking wet that when I finally lick your plump pussy lips, you’ll come on my tongue at the first taste.”
A strangled sound leaves me, and I have to lean against the bar, my knees have gone so weak. My heart pounds against my chest, so hard I wonder if he can see it.