Moonstruck. Джулия Кеннер
I’m on the clock.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I—”
“No, no,” he said, taking her hand before she could do something stupid like hop off the stool and—what? Because she wasn’t leaving. Not without this man. Not if she could help it. “One of the benefits of being the man in charge—I get to play by my own rules. But one of my rules is to work when work needs to be done.”
“And what work needed to be done at twelve-thirty on New Year’s Day?”
“More than you might think,” he said, sliding back on the bar stool and leaning back, looking for all the world as if he owned the place. Actually, maybe he did own the place. “For one thing, people drink more tonight.”
“So they do,” she said, lifting her glass. She rarely drank champagne—primarily because it went to her head and made her sleep like the dead—but she’d been indulging wildly this evening. And now she was enjoying the effects—and the courage—that came with the nice little buzz she had going on.
“Exactly,” he said, with a chuckle. “So we have to make sure that we’ve made arrangements with local taxi services, shuttles, whatever it takes. I’ve even been known to put people up at a hotel if I was afraid they’d get into their car. It’s an expense, but it’s worth it, and it’s paid off in goodwill, particularly among the college crowd.
“And, then, of course, there’s the problem of the till,” he continued. “Not that an increased cash drawer is a problem, but I don’t want the manager going alone to make the night deposit. Then you have the logistical issues of how to coordinate with your neighbors tomorrow morning, because inevitably someone has knocked over a corporate sign or left cigarette butts on the sidewalk. We’re located in a mixed-use area, so the club is next to restaurants and retail, and they’ll both be open tomorrow morning and wanting their grounds to be pristine. And then you have to deal with—”
He cut himself off with a quick shake of his head. “I’m getting a bit carried away.”
“A little. Maybe. But it’s interesting. I had no idea so much went into closing a club for the night. To be honest, my experience with the nightclub environment was more or less limited to a night at the symphony with my parents. At least until college, but even then I tended to—”
“Study more than you went out?” he said.
“That obvious?”
“I’m just familiar with the breed.”
“I take it you weren’t a studier?”
“I made a college career out of not studying,” he said, “and I mastered it so well that I got my degree in abject unstudiousness at nineteen and set out into the world to make my fortune.”
“And how did you end up in our little corner of the world?”
“Full circle, it looks like. At least temporarily.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“I was born here. Went to SMU. Learned how to dance the two-step.” He bent down and tugged up his jeans, then tapped his boots. “Can’t you tell,” he added, adding an affectation of a Texas twang to his voice as he spoke.
“Now that you mention it. But okay, why are you back?”
“Long story,” he said. “Bottom line is I’m back for two more months, and although I was dreading the fact that I had sixty full days ahead of me, now I’m thinking that my incarceration is looking much more tolerable. Not time served, but I’ve gotten a few perks.”
“Conjugal visits?” she quipped, the words out before she even realized what she was saying. “Oh…I…”
“Don’t you dare,” he said, that ribbon of heat she’d felt earlier flowing back into his voice. “Don’t you dare take that back.” He took a cherry out and passed it to her, dangling it so that it grazed her lower lip. She opened her mouth to take it, and he pulled it just out of reach. She laughed, then leaned forward, her hand going out to steady her, and finding purchase on his stool, right between his legs.
She caught the cherry and drew it in, closing her eyes as she suckled it. He shifted, and she felt the warmth of his inner thighs at her fingertips, then opened her eyes to see that her hand was right there—right next to the bulge in his jeans. So close that all she had to do was shift her fingertips to touch him, or move her hand to cup him. She imagined what would happen if he touched her that way—if his hand dipped down and cupped her, finding her wet, sliding a finger inside, closing his mouth over hers as he made her come.
Oh, dear.
It was in her head now. This need to touch him. To stroke him. To make him as absolutely crazy as his mere proximity was making her, and without thinking, she shifted her hand only slightly, then stroked him through his jeans. She felt him twitch under her touch, saw the way his body stiffened, and heard the slow, rough intake of his breath. She leaned in closer, feeling sexy and powerful, then lifted her head to face him. “Kiss me,” she demanded, then lost herself in the sweet pleasure of an obedient man who did exactly, positively, totally, what she asked.
As his mouth drew her in, making her head spin and her body tingle, his hand stroked her back, bare from the halter-style dress she wore. His touch was intimate, possessive, and Claire’s mind was fuzzy with lust. In most fairy tales, the girl turned back into herself at the stroke of midnight. Claire’s personal fairy godmother, however, apparently approached her job from an inverted perspective. Because on the stroke of midnight, Claire had transformed from being Dateless Claire, to being Claire-with-the-gorgeous-guy.
And not just any gorgeous guy, but a guy who seriously knew how to kiss. And how to make her laugh. True, the champagne was probably adding to the fizzy, floaty mood, but the real reason was Ty. The way he talked. The way he laughed.
And, oh, yes, the way he kissed. Like right now. Like he couldn’t get enough. Like he wanted to wrap her up and take her home and trail kisses down to the kinds of places that didn’t get kissed on bar stools.
Just the thought made her squirm, trying to find a position where the heat building between her thighs didn’t make her crazy. That, however, was impossible. Might as well admit it—she was tipsy, turned on and totally hot for the guy. And if she didn’t get him into a bed soon—if she didn’t touch him all over the way her fingers were itching to touch him, and if she didn’t feel him deep inside her making her absolutely wild—she had a feeling she would go crazy.
She was already half crazy as it was, and they’d done nothing but kiss.
He started to pull away, and she whimpered a protest, catching his lower lip with her teeth and softly tugging. The grin that spread to his eyes was slow and full of male pride and Claire, in full shameless hussy mode, didn’t care at all, because right then she was enjoying him too much, and if he wanted to feel self-satisfied about the fact that he had totally turned her on…well, she could live with that.
“Can you leave?” she murmured, praying the answer was yes. “Or do you have work to do?”
“To hell with work,” he said, sliding off the bar stool and coming to stand in front of her. An absurd wave of gratefulness swept through her, although she didn’t believe him for one second. She’d heard the passion in his voice. If there was work to be done, he wouldn’t abandon it. But thank God there wasn’t and he was free to go.
She slid her arms around his waist, pulling him even closer to her, certain if they didn’t leave soon she would spontaneously combust from the heat building inside her. “Then let’s get out of here.”
She slid off the bar—and the room started spinning. He hooked his arm around her waist, and she looked up at him with a combination of gratefulness and sheepishness. “Sorry. Champagne does this thing to me.”
“Good thing you’re with a man who makes it a point to get all the customers home safe.” He brushed a featherlight kiss