Seven Nights of Sin - Lacey Alexander [55]
Shocked, Brenna gasped and smacked his chest. “You’re so bad!”
To which he replied by pulling her into his arms, leaning his forehead against hers. “Maybe you inspire me.”
Five
The night was just like the other nights she’d spent with Damon this week—an inexorable blending of work and play, music and sex. By taxi, they headed to the first of a few out-of-the-way bars on Damon’s list tonight—but even as they discussed the initial band, called Playground Bully, Damon slid his hand high onto her thigh beneath the table where they sat and leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Are you wet?”
Her heart beat harder at the question. “So wet,” she told him. And it was true. Even as she tried to concentrate on listening to the rock band, she stayed aware of that stickiness between her legs, just as he’d promised she would. She felt wired for action, her breasts heavy and sensitive within her bra, her cunt tingling.
“Good,” he said with a dominant smile that made her know she belonged to him, at least for tonight, for this week—and though she’d never liked the idea of that before, of being a guy’s possession, with Damon it was just one more sexual nuance added to all the rest.
“Are you hard?” she asked then, wanting to take part in his naughty, teasing game.
He cast a wicked grin. “Find out for yourself.”
She pulled in her breath. The room was dark, and they sat close to a small round table, side by side, so touching him without being seen wouldn’t be difficult.
Biting her lip, she reached out, sliding her palm directly over the bulge in his jeans. Which was more than a bulge. It felt more like a concrete column, rock-hard against her hand. She pressed down, pleasure from the touch stretching all through her, tightening her chest with desire, and surely making her damper where her panties were supposed to be.
“How do you stand it?” she whispered. To be that hard, she meant. And it was fairly early in the evening yet.
His answer came with a sexy smile. “It’s the price of mixing work and fun.”
“You manage to do that more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
His eyes sparkled with pure lechery. “So you’ve mentioned. I guess it means one is as important to me as the other.”
It was all she could do not to throw herself on him and forget Play-gound Bully altogether, but just then the waitress came, bringing two fresh drinks—wine for her; Damon was drinking rum and Coke tonight.
So they drank and they flirted even as they talked business, ultimately deciding Playground Bully didn’t have a unique enough sound to build upon, and moved on.
The next bar was a bit more upscale, just off the Strip, with an outdoor patio featuring a young woman who played the guitar and sang. As they watched, a waitress recognized Damon and asked if she could get a picture of them together on her cell phone camera. Brenna thought he looked sheepish—and was likely remembering exactly why his face was becoming known outside L.A., due to bad press and stinging accusations—but he agreed, after which people began to look at them, clearly trying to figure out who he was, and Brenna once again felt like the girlfriend of a celebrity.
“What do you think?” he asked her about the singer.
She pondered it for a minute and concluded, “I like her. She’s like…a Juliana Hatfield of another era.”
Next to her, Damon looked impressed, yet then said, “Good comparison, but that’s just the problem—the other era. Even when she sings more recent songs, there’s something too nostalgic in her voice. Nothing about her says new or now.”
His response surprised Brenna, since until that moment, they’d pretty much agreed on everything they’d listened to together. “But she’s so good, Damon. Don’t you think so?”
Instead of answering the question, he said, “Who’s her audience? Who would you market her to?”
The crowd around them consisted strictly of mature adults with an upwardly mobile feel—in