“It doesn’t take much with you, does it?” I asked, trying to be funny.
I didn’t get a smile.
I got heated eyes and the look.
“Yes it does. It takes a fuckuva lot.”
That said it all, too.
Jeez. He needed to stop.
Before I could tell him to do that, he did it.
And he did it by saying, “And most of that fuckuva lot has to do with the fact that you’re a woman who placed cowgirl at two and doggie at four.”
I got over being a big, starry-eyed, head-over-heels-in-love-with-a-hot-guy girl, started laughing and asked through it, “So you approve of my rankings?”
He turned his attention back to his plate, saying, “Cowgirl one. Doggie two. Missionary three. Lotus four, but you’re close enough.”
I kept laughing and through it watched Ren grinning before he took a sip of his champagne.
I quit laughing, grabbed my own champagne and was taking a sip when Ren’s voice—not sweet, instead all kinds of sexy, the kinds that got my full attention when he declared, “Three, one, two.”
I looked at him. “Come again?”
“Tonight,” he replied. “Three, one, two. Maybe during one we’ll also do a four, but I’m finishing you off on your knees.”
My happy place spasmed, my breasts swelled and my mouth got dry.
“That is, after you go down on me,” he finished as he reached for the champagne bottle.
That was when I started salivating.
A knock came at the door.
I stopped salivating and was thankful I hadn’t begun panting as I looked to the door.
Ren threw his napkin down and pushed back his chair, muttering, “Fuck.”
“Are you expecting someone?” I asked as he walked away.
“Are you in my house?” he asked back.
“Yes,” I pointed out the obvious.
At the door, hand on handle, he turned to me and answered, “Yes.”
What did that mean? I’d never had visitors at his house.
Then again, I frequently got visitors at my apartment. Ren knew that because he’d been there a lot when I got them. So clearly he expected this to go on and I made a mental note to do something about that since it sounded like he didn’t like it much.
And it must be said, when it interrupted dinner and discussion on the later positions in which Ren would be giving me the business, I didn’t like it much either.
He looked through the double row of three square windows set high in his door. I heard his sigh all the way across the house (his sigh was that big) and he opened it.
I couldn’t see anything since Ren was standing in the door and hadn’t fully opened it, but I did hear a deep, somewhat familiar voice I couldn’t place ask, “Is Ally Nightingale here?”
When I heard Ren’s answer of, “You wanna explain why you want that information?” I pushed back my chair and threw down my own napkin.
“We need to have a chat,” the familiar voice answered.
I walked that way as Ren replied, “And you’re lookin’ for her here, how? How is it that you’re here lookin’ for her?”
The voice had turned guarded, probably with caution and maybe a little irritation, when it returned, “Man, she’s yours and her apartment is a black hole. Where else would I look for her?”
I made it to Ren’s back and put a hand there, but it was clear the voice’s answer was acceptable because he was moving back to open the door.
I then saw how I knew the voice.
Jacob Decker. And Jacob Decker was Chace Keaton’s friend. And Chace Keaton was my girl Faye’s hot guy badass.
I’d met him briefly during the brouhaha up in the mountains. And when I saw that mountain of muscle, thick dark hair and intelligent hazel eyes, I lamented there were no Rock Chicks left I could toss in his path. He looked like a man who could handle a Rock Chick. Even a man who needed one. The more fucked up her life, the better. And if there had been one left, it would be me causing mayhem in order for him to get one.
“Deck, hey,” I greeted as I stepped back with Ren and Jacob Decker stepped in.
His eyes went to the table, flowers, food and candlelight, then they skimmed through Ren and me.
“Interrupting. Apologies,” he murmured.
