After This Night (Seductive Nights #2)(25)
Author: Lauren Blakely

But he had no more time to contemplate because when he returned to the office, Flynn was there with the Pinkertons to review the details of their next film. He rolled up his sleeves and settled in for the afternoon, his focus only on his clients, giving them his absolute best because in another few hours, Julia would be in his house.

* * *

As the plane began its descent, Julia flashed back on the last five days.They’d consisted of otters, poker prep, and packing for New York.

Kim had waltzed into work on Wednesday announcing she’d gone with otters for the baby’s nursery, and minutes later she’d left early when she thought she was having contractions.

Turned out she’d just had heartburn, but Julia didn’t mind shouldering the extra load at Cubic Z because the week had been blissfully uneventful. After Clay’s talk with Charlie that past Sunday, Julia had operated in a sort of protective cocoon. No one, neither Charlie, nor Skunk, nor that ass**le Max had bothered her, and they hadn’t gone near Gayle or Kim either.

She’d played online poker in her free time, fiddling around too with some poker apps on her phone just to keep her skills sharp for Saturday’s big game. She knew a few extra hours on a screen weren’t going to make the difference. Luck would be a deciding factor, but she also had to be sharper than the rest of the players at Clay’s game—the actor Liam Connor, who was about to open a new restaurant; the cable TV show producer Jay Klausman, whose show on drug dealers, Powder, was a huge hit; and Clay’s friend, Cam. She’d researched Klausman and Connor and found bits and pieces of intel on their card-playing skills. The actor was a Leonardo diCaprio style player, someone who bet big and played for fun, but Jay, a shrewd producer, was the bigger threat. The wild card, though, was Cam. Julia had a hunch he’d be the one to beat. A man like that, used to taking chances, and possessing some kind of magical touch—he was going to be trouble for her.

This was the kind of trouble she thrived on though, and she was ready, reviewing her strategy once more as she walked through the terminal.

Clay had a last-minute meeting with a client, so she hailed a cab into Manhattan. He’d left keys for her with the guy who owned the coffee shop next door to his building, and she was secretly grateful that she wouldn’t have to see him the second she arrived. She wanted to, oh how she wanted to, but sometimes, a woman wanted to be fresh and clean when she saw her man, and there was nothing quite like washing off a six-hour plane ride. When she reached his apartment, she opened the door, locked it behind her, and soaked in the silence and the oddly welcoming feel of his place. The last time she’d been here she bolted. Now, she felt like she belonged. He hadn’t left a welcome basket on the dining room table, but the simple fact that he’d left the key said all she needed to know about him—trust. It was given, and it was shared, and there were no questions asked.

He trusted her. She trusted him.

She dropped her suitcase on the bedroom floor, and patted the side, touching the outline of the gift she’d picked out for him that was safely tucked inside. She shed her clothes and stepped under a hot shower.

As she wrapped a towel around herself ten minutes later, she didn’t feel any pull to sift through his drawers or paw through the medicine cabinet. She wasn’t a snooper, and there was nothing she needed to hunt out in his place. Besides, he was the definition of an open book, and there was something so reassuring about knowing that intrinsically. With Dillon, there were moments when he’d seemed a little shifty, from a joke here about not needing to report all the income he made from Charlie, to a little moment there when he’d told a story about stealing a milkshake glass from a diner in college. Fine, those were college hijinks, but as she looked back with 20/20 vision she could see hints of who he was.

Clay was the opposite—he didn’t hide. He put himself out there for her from the start. No bullshit, and hell, she could use that in her life.

She hung up the towel, rubbed lotion on her legs, and went straight for his closet. Not to snoop, but to choose an outfit. She didn’t need to rifle through her suitcase for jeans and a camisole when she knew what he wanted her in.

One of his shirts. She slipped one on, buttoned it to her br**sts, and considered herself fully dressed.

She heard the door open, and her heart tripped over itself. Excitement tore through her body because he was here, and she damn near wanted to race down the two flights of stairs. But she knew this man, and knew what he wanted. He didn’t need her running into his arms. He’d want to discover her. She padded down the steps quietly, turning the corner at the second floor just as he was leaving his phone and keys on the kitchen table.

She leaned against the top of the railing, her hip resting against the iron, her fingers toying with the top button. Waiting. Waiting for him.

When he looked up, his eyes locked on her face. He stroked his chin, and shook his head in appreciation.

“I could get used to this,” he said, his deep, gravelly voice turning her to liquid as he stalked over to her, up the six steps, then cupped her cheeks in his big strong hands. “You. In my house. In my clothes. Here for me.”

She melted as sparks raced over her skin. “All for you.”

Neither one of them said another word as he looked at her as if he were inhaling her, as if the very sight of her was oxygen in his lungs. Electricity charged through her under his gaze. She wanted him to eat her up, to taste her, to touch her all over. Everywhere—this man needed to be everywhere on her body, in her body, in her heart, in her mind.

She reached for the collar on his shirt, gripping it hard. At some point they were going to kiss, they were going to crash into each other, but now the moment was heady with silence, drenched in anticipation of them coming together.

She stepped backwards, clutching his shirt. He followed, matching her until the back of her knees hit his couch.

Then it happened. Like fireworks, an explosion at the end of the Fourth of July, loud and powerful, that rang in your ears and lit up the sky. Everything became a frenzy of heat and vibrant color as he touched her. Before she knew it, the buttons on her shirt—his shirt—had scattered to the hardwood floor as he tore it off her. His shirt was gone next, pants unbuttoned, yanked down to his knees, then off. Like a leopard, he sprang fast, heated and fevered too, and before she knew it she was na**d on her back on his couch, her legs up on his shoulders as he held her down hard with his big body. His arms, like steel, held her thighs in place as he entered her in one mind-blowing thrust. She was pinned, deliciously pinned, by this position. She couldn’t move her legs, but her hands were free to touch his beautiful face, and she reveled in the chance to stroke his five o’clock shadow, to map his features with her fingers, to draw her thumbprint over his jaw that she loved.