She had a hard time breathing for a second. Why were all his words and actions so perfect?
His eyes were hard with desire. A desire she felt drawn to—as if she was made for satisfying his lust. The notion shook her quite a bit. This was serious stuff going on.
“Rule number three—and probably the most important.”
Paige couldn’t help the reflexive squeeze her thighs did at the sultry sound of his voice. Let the dripping commence.
Again, he didn’t react or say anything close to what she had expected. Right then and there, she broke free from the conditioned responses that her previous relationships had helped to create. Edward was his own man and nothing about him even remotely resembled what she’d known before.
The serious but very sexy man-in-control tone softened. He rose up on his knees and reached for her, bringing Paige close as his face moved within inches of her breasts.
“You’re in complete control, babe. Nothing happens without your consent.” He said this as both hands slid slowly over her butt until he gripped the backs of her thighs, and she could feel his warm breath teasing her already peaked nipples.
“Understand?”
She sure as hell did understand. Dipping a shoulder, she sent a puckered nipple straight into his mouth. She rubbed it on his lips until he grunted his approval and lightly kissed the very tip, following up with a hearty lick that almost buckled her knees.
Edward’s soft chuckle echoed in her head and throughout her nerve endings. “Now that’s what I’m talking about, babe.”
On a deep sigh, he opened wide and sucked the offered breast into his mouth, suckling harder and harder until Paige cried out and grabbed his head, tangling her fingers in his hair. She wanted him to devour her. The rhythmic tugging of his sucking mouth started an ache in her womb that was so strong it had her shaking with need.
A deep, guttural moan rumbled up from her chest and …
A sound, distant at first but louder with each passing second, cut through the air. Chimes or something musical like that. The louder it got, though, the less pleasing the sound. Soon, the chimes turned into a honk.
Her eyes flew open. Two seconds passed and then she shot up straight and looked around. Reaching for her phone, she swiped the screen to turn the alarm off, grunted, and then threw the stupid thing onto the floor not giving a shit if it broke.
Served the damn thing right if it did. Was no less than what the irritating technology deserved for having interrupted such a delicious dream.
Well, this was certainly not what he’d expected of the strange meeting Mickey and he just sat through. Not what he expected at all.
They were in a huge SUV, speeding along by L.A. standards having gone a whopping two miles between the dead stops that ground the local traffic to a slower than slow crawl. Maybe, and he did mean maybe, they’d get back to Beverly Hills sometime today.
Luckily, Mickey relied on a car service to handle the hellacious driving drudgery; which was a good thing because the silence coming from the backseat spoke volumes. Anytime Mickey was at a loss for words, it was probably best to leave the practicalities to others.
The trip earlier out to the hills of Pasadena that ended at a luxury estate with a magnificent view of the L.A. skyline had been uneventful and tense. Neither of them knew what the fuck was going on or what they were walking into, and it hadn’t helped Edward’s mood that he couldn’t drag Paige along as a buffer.
Not one to be either impressed or intimidated by flat-out ostentation, especially not that of the real estate kind, he’d felt a bit of annoyance at the lush, vibrant lawn that greeted them. A green lawn. In the midst of a crippling drought, this fucking guy had a goddamn green lawn. Part of him wanted to whip it out and take a leak, maybe sign his name in pee on the man’s tone-deaf landscaping. They hadn’t even met and already Edward thought he was a shithead. His eye roll at Mickey as they approached the front door said it all.
Once inside the main house of the seriously over-the-top estate, they walked at least a quarter mile just to get to the study where they were met by a stone-faced Perry Waterman—one of the richest sons of bitches in the country. Catching a glimpse of an obvious lawyer monkey hovering in the background made Edward’s hackles go up.
What followed was by far the strangest ninety minutes of all time.
Holy crap just kept repeating in his head.
Mickey took out his phone and started texting. Edward wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen anyone’s fingers move quite so fast. Maybe Paige’s but she had long, thin, expressive fingers while the crazy Russian at his side was more of a bulldog type. His pudgy digits wailing on the phone’s keyboard was something worth watching.
Minutes ticked by and the intense stabbing motion continued.
The guy texted like he talked…in one long, never-ending stream of consciousness. Edward chuckled. Mickey Fingers was about to become a new expression in his vocabulary. One he couldn’t wait to share with Paige.
Smoothing his tie for no apparent reason, he fingered the blue silk that Paige insisted complemented his eyes.
Paige. His thoughts, no matter how scrambled they got, always seemed to circle around to her eventually. Maybe he should text her. Let her know they weren’t kidnapped or sold off as sex slaves—something she insisted was a possibility anytime he went off on his own.
A smile lit him up remembering how he’d messed with her one time when they were out of the country on location. Thinking it would be hilariously funny to send her a ransom note—one he’d secretly worked on for days by cutting letters out of newspapers and magazines—he sent her on a wild goose chase through a crowded marketplace. Marsh even played along by contacting her and saying he’d also gotten a note.
She’d almost killed him on the spot once he let her off the hook and ended the charade. But absolutely the best part of the memory was how quickly her anger had turned to amusement then eventually to fall down laughing. The girl was one of a kind.
A couple of grunts from Mickey brought Edward back from his mind trip. It didn’t require a surveillance report to clue him in that the day’s weirdness was in no way over.
“I hate cherry pie.”
The peculiar statement immediately earned a footnote in the Out-Of-Left-Field Hall of Fame.
“Say again?” he politely asked.
Stuffing the phone into the pocket of a tailored vest, his agent turned. The expression on his face was unusually sphinxlike.
That can’t be good.
“Cherry pie. Hate the stuff. Tastes like cough medicine.”
“Oookay … duly noted.”
“Gave her the upper hand and now she’s gonna make me eat that crap because I hate it.”
Taking a stab in the dark, he asked, “Shirley?”
The agent snorted like a bull and chuckled. “Shit, no! My wife is a goddamn saint.”
Jesus. This was getting out of hand. Typically bombastic and about as verbose as a person could be, navigating through the man’s curious mood was not easy. Who the hell was he talking about and what the fuck with the cherry pie?
“Who are you and what have you done with Mickey Klein?”
The guy huffed and shook his head. “I know, right?”