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More visions of her in positions I can never have her in assault my brain. Several moments pass before I state, "Happy birthday."
Her face lights up even more as her lips curve into a bigger smile. She shifts on her feet. "Thanks."
"Twenty-one is a big occasion. I assume you're going out and getting crazy with your boyfriend later?" I question, prying for information.
It doesn't matter. She's Hugh's daughter.
She shakes her head, and a blonde curly tendril falls over her eyes. She replies, "I don't have a boyfriend."
Thank God for that.
Not that he'd have anything over me.
Mesmerized, not thinking clearly, and unable to stop myself, I reach for the lock. She holds her breath as I slowly drag my fingers over her forehead, then even slower over the side of her head, pushing her strands behind her ear. Just as I suspected, her hair's soft, unlike the typical overprocessed blondes roaming all of L.A. I've always known she's a natural blonde, but finally feeling it only adds fuel to my thoughts. I have to stop myself from wrapping all of it around my fist.
She arches her eyebrows, waiting for me to answer, the heat from her cheeks radiating past the inch of air between her skin and my hand.
We've never been this close, nor have I touched her before. Now that I breached my self-control, I step closer, studying the flecks of blues in her eyes. I admit, "Your eyes remind me of the favorite part of my morning surf."
Her voice falters as she inquires, "How so?" She swallows hard but doesn't flinch or retreat.
Her ability to stand in front of me and not break our heated gaze challenges me. It stokes a deep-seated craving I can't seem to shake. I contemplate taking her to my house—not the club—which is another surprise. I don't bring my play things home. They stay at the club and out of my private life. Yet the thought of breaking her into submission in my personal environment, somewhere she can't come and go from, with no one else around, takes root.
I trace the edge of her ear, and she shakily inhales, her lips parting enough I could slip my tongue between them if I attempted. My blood heats to the point I might sweat, and I curse myself for putting myself in this position. Yet I can't stop. Now that I have her attention, I need to keep going. I answer, "When the sun rises over the water, and the light hits it just right, there's calm chaos."
She furrows her brows. "Calm chaos? That's an oxymoron. It doesn't make sense."
I clench my jaw, trying to contain my pleasure that she's not just a pretty face. She has a brain and uses it, which is another thing I don't often see with many beautiful women in L.A. I flip my hand and lightly graze my fingertip over her chin, enjoying how her eyes quickly shut then reopen. I answer, "When the tide's rolling away, barely giving way to any waves, and the water looks like it's full of sparkles trying to jump into the air, that's calm chaos."
She ponders my statement for a moment, her expression morphing into a soft smile I assume she'd make after I wore her out with my demands. She asserts in approval, "I suppose your oxymoron works."
It's all too much. I might as well be a reckless teenager unable to control his urges instead of a sexually experienced, normally always in control thirty-seven-year-old man. I reach behind her, grab a fistful of her hair, and firmly tug her head backward. It's nothing like what I've done to women in the past, but it's enough to make her gasp and get an idea of what I'd do to her if I had the chance.
Whatever her perfume is flares in my nostrils. It reminds me of the surf, along with something else I can't put my finger on besides the combination of sea salt and driftwood. I lick my lips, studying hers, then pin my gaze to her widened one, murmuring, "There are many things I do that perception would claim don't work but do."
Her bottom lip quivers, but she catches it and takes a deep breath. Her chest rises higher, and I give it a lewd glance, then pin my most challenging stare on her. She opens her mouth, tries to speak, but nothing comes out.
I tug her head farther back, leaning so dangerously close to her mouth her breath hits mine.
She whispers, "What kinds of things?"
I don't hesitate, taunting, "Things that would make your father despise me."
Her plump lips part again, but her mother's voice calls out, "Blakely!"
Goddamn it!
I release her and step back just as Madelyn turns the corner.
She beams. "There you are! We're about to cut the cake." Then she turns to me, bats her eyes, and puts her hand on my bicep. Vodka overpowers Blakely's sea salt and driftwood scent, and Madelyn coos, "Riggs. I didn't know you'd arrived."
I groan inside. Madelyn and Hugh are no saints. They both fuck whatever walks, and for years, she's made it clear she's into me. But I'd never do her for two reasons.
One, she's my partner's wife. I don't need that kind of drama in my life.
Two, I'm not interested. She's another product of Beverly Hills, overindulging in alcohol and prescription pills, and void of anything interesting. The only difference between her and the people I grew up with is she has money. She's as predictable as they come and might as well be a junkie on the corner.
All of it bores me.
