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Fuck, I don’t know about love, but lustburns.All this fucking is a gateway drug and now I need something more, something more potent.
A kiss.
Not enough to pay him a million dollars I don’t have, of course, but still. It’d be nice.
As I’m dishing up the food, my cell buzzes on the counter with a text message.
Rafe:Hot tub.
Jesus, for such a smooth talker in person, he sure is stunted over text. But I decide against sending back a sassy message, because he locked himself in his office for the last hour, and I’m just happy he’s finished working. I grab the plates and wobble through the yacht, trying to keep upright as the storm rocks the corridors.
When I kick the door open to the sky deck, my heart lurches at the sight. Behind a thin veil of steam and in front of the raging storm, Rafe sprawls in the hot tub, a vision of ink and muscle. His wingspan is ridiculous. His arms stretch out along the back rest, and just out-of-reach from his busted hand sits a glass of vodka. I glance at it, then at the cigar clenched between his teeth.
“What are we celebrating?”
“Me losing four million dollars in a racehorse investment.”
“Is that my fault?”
“Of course.” He glances down to the hem of the hoodie. I’m wearing nothing underneath but a thong and his belt marks on my ass. “Get in.”
The rain beats on the awning above our heads. The wind whistles past Rafe’s broad shoulders and lashes my skin. “It’s freezing!”
Smirking, he takes a slow puff on his cigar, the cherry glowing red like a warning sign. “I’ll warm you up.”
With a shiver entirely unrelated to being near-naked in a December storm, I drop our dinner on the side bar and slide the hoodie over my head and my thong down my thighs. Rafe’s wolf-whistle is light-hearted, but ill-intentions swirl in his irises like slow-churning lava.
Under the weight of his molten attention, I step into the hot tub. The heat is like a hug, soothing the ache between my thighs and the bruises on my skin.
In an attempt to play it cool, I settle on the bench across from him, sliding down so everything below my shoulders is submerged in water. “If it’s any consolation, you’re not losingeverything.You’ve won every game of Mario Kart we’ve played.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Yes, but you’re so bad I’m surprised you’re allowed to have a driver’s license in real life.”
I scowl. “Fighting talk for a man who owns casinos yet can’t grasp the basic rules ofUNO!”
Biting back a smile, he drops his gaze to my collarbone. “I’m not concentrating on the rules, Queenie. Come here.”
Letting out a tense breath, I swim into his orbit, coming to a stop when my knees brush against his. Steam rises from his body, like I’ve opened the door to a sauna. I resist the urge to run my hands down his wet chest and dip them under the water to see whether my fingers find swim trunks or not. Instead, I slide forward onto his lap and find the answer between my thighs.
As I let out a strangled sigh, he studies me with amusement over the length of his cigar. He takes a slow puff, then tilts his head up to blow the smoke over my head.
“Let me try it.”
Before he can protest, I take it from him and put it in my mouth. I take a drag, like I would a cigarette, and immediately start spluttering at the dry smoke filling my throat.
Large hands palm my back, and his chest vibrates against mine. “Don’t choke,” he says.
Opening my eyes, I’m met with the same humor-filled regard as I was the first time he said that to me—in the bar, after I slammed a shot of hundred-dollar whiskey. That feels like a lifetime ago now, and if you’d told me then that I’d be sitting on my mark’s mega-yacht, in his hot tub, with his semi-hard dick nestled between my thighs and his watch still on my wrist, I’d have thought you were crazy.
“Here,” he says softly, spinning me sideways so I’m tucked into the crook of his arm. One hand rests heavy on my thigh, while the other slips the cigar back between my lips. Fuck, he makes me feel sosmall.“Try again, but this time, close the back of your throat. You want to suck, but not inhale.”
My cough is less violent this time, but his laugh still rumbles against my shoulder. I reach for his vodka and wash away the tobacco taste. “Still grim.”
“Mm,” he says, running his hand up my thigh and over my stomach. “Tastes better with whiskey.”
I stare at the glass in my hand, flustering with a sudden bout of nervous energy. “Damn, still drinking vodka?” My eyes crawl up to his. “You must really want to kiss me.”
Hot, heavy seconds pass. My heart stills when he glances to my lips, but the look is over as quickly as it arrived. He puts the cigar in an ashtray and turns his attention to the plates on the side and changes the subject.
