52
We’re dancing to a high-tempo song, and people he knows are around us. He seems to find acquaintances everywhere we go, the upside to having a famous face and traveler’s blood, I guess. We sit with some of the people he knows and shares a few drinks before we get up to dance with a girl named Lolly, who can’t keep her eyes off Jake; it’s irritating as hell. It only makes me snarky, and I find I have no warmth for the girl. I cut in a few times to dance in front of her with an invasive shimmy to save him from her wandering hands anytime she gets too close to him. Jake seems amused and just pulls me close to let me dance against him, oblivious.
He came out to have fun, not get mauled by some overbearing redhead in a Wonderbra.
Jake doesn’t even seem to acknowledge it at all. Maybe this is why I avoid going out with him? My need to have women leave him be and let him enjoy his night. I suppose it’s the opposite of what he wants, but I don’t care right now. I’m not playing the third wheel.
He leaves to go to the bar with one of the men we started to party with. I’m sure I’ve seen him on the big screen, but I’m too shy to ask, and his posse all look familiar. I’m wildly outside my comfort zone.
Hands move around me as a shady, sleazy, familiar face slides in behind me and tries some groin-to-butt hump-dancing. I don’t want this creep’s hands on me, his breath on my neck; I want Jake’s presence and the security it offers from overly handsy men. I remove his fingers icily, aware of that rise of bile in my stomach at a male touch, and stumble to the bar cringing and feeling thoroughly disgusted, looking for the one guy I feel safe with.
Jake’s being served and hands me a colorful cocktail as soon as I appear beside him. It has a sparkly straw and umbrella, and he grins as he places it in my hands. I’m sure there’s some joke in it, but I’m thirsty, and it tastes incredible. It reminds me of the drink he gave me in his office the first time I met him. He regards me oddly and shakes his head in amusement, looking at the glass in my hand. I guess it’s the fact I’m holding a pink, sparkly drink festooned with decorations without argument and liking it that’s amusing him; it’s not like me. I like it, though, and I like that it amuses him. That smile always makes me smile. I muse while looking down at my pretty drink.
Again, a hand slides slowly over my ass, copping a feel with a firm suggestive squeeze, and I jerk my head up in shock.
What the hell is Jake doing?
Except Jake is standing in front of me with a beer in one hand and his cell in the other, staring down at the illuminated screen; he notices my reaction and looks past me, scowling.
“Hey, buddy, hands-off,” he growls with a glare, and the shady, familiar face lifts his palms in mock apology, still towering behind me a little too closely. I move nearer to Jake in a bid to put distance behind me.
“Jake, dude, you said she was just a friend.” He’s slurring almost in my ear he’s so close.
“I know what I said.” Jake moves forward, pulling me aside with a firm hand and placing himself between Sleazy and me. I’m unsure how to react, so I sip my drink nervously, glad of his powerful body shielding me. In this state, I may just curl up and cry.
Where is feisty Emma?
The rear view of Jake’s body towers in front of me, and I can almost taste the tension emanating from him. His body stiffens, and I can practically see the electric sparks crackling in the air, even from back here. I guess this is a hint of angry Jake coming out to play. He’s always quicker to anger when he’s drunk, or so Daniel implied when regaling me with drunken tales last time he stayed over. Angry Jake is not much fun. He doesn't seem to like whatever Sleazy is saying to him. I can’t hear their mumbled conversation over the music, so I look Jake up and down instead, enjoying the waves of drunkenness calming me and pulling me into dreamy euphoria.
I like his back; it’s strong and sexy, especially in black tailored shirts and those ass-hugging black jeans he wears. He has the swooniest male body, if I’m being honest, no matter what he wears. He’s still so calm and in control, regardless of his stance. He has the nicest ass.
Sleazy displays defeat, says something quietly and moves off with a frown. I can tell, even from behind, that Jake is glowering at him. I see his ears move. I have to suppress the giggle it pulls out of me, some vague drunken memory about his ears. I don’t know why that’s funny. I can only blame the copious amount of alcohol that Jake has thrown at me since our arrival.
“Jake?” I’m already tipsy and a bit unsteady on four-inch heels.
Damn Donna and her love of high heels and my weakness at seeing them. Damn me for not keeping track of how much I’ve drunk and letting him fuel me up with cocktails this way.
I notice how much things are swaying around me, or maybe it’s me that’s swaying? He turns to me with a look on his face that’s unfamiliar and scary, but in an attractive way. Possessive. Dangerous. But then it’s gone, and he’s all Mr. Smooth again, smiling and asking me what’s wrong with a look of concern.
I love his looks of concern; they make me all warm and gooey inside. Sexiness personified when he looks that way. I love all of Jake’s looks; heck, I love Jake’s face. I just love Jake.
“I think I’m too drunk,” I giggle, sloshing my drink over the glass, barely missing our shoes. He frowns down at where it went before a smile breaks across that charming face.
How the hell did that happen?
“I think you’re right, lightweight; I forgot how intolerant you are to liquor.” He carefully takes the glass from me and places it on the bar as I sway. I can’t help but watch how his upper arm bulges when he bends it.
Why does he have to be so muscly and hunky?
He always buys fitted clothes, which only adds to the effect, and it’s soul-destroying. He should wear sacks from now on; maybe that would help. I can picture him in a sack; it’s still a turn-on, which alarms me. Life isn’t fair in any way.
“Dance with me, Jake,” I slur, my flirty, female voice sounding bold.
Who said that? I think that was my voice, wasn’t it? Damn, maybe.
By the way he smiled at me in response, it was. I feel merry. I like being merry; it’s kind of light and warm. I’m entirely aware that my internal dialog is that of a very drunk person with no filter. He says nothing, just puts his beer down, pulls me toward him with a firm hand, and guides me toward the dance floor with ease.
He’s smooth. Why would I expect any less from Casanova Carrero?
He manhandles women effortlessly daily, lots of practice at it. Well, not so much lately as he seems to be cooling his jets on the women front. There hasn’t been a girl on the scene for a couple of weeks at least, maybe longer, but I hadn’t noticed at first.
A slow song is playing, and he moves in close to me as we join the crowd of dancers. It’s hard to dance when you’re this drunk and in very high heels on jelly legs. I’m swaying, but I don’t think it’s in time to the music. I trip and stumble into Jake’s nice strong arms, glad he knows how to catch me, and I gasp in fright. He’s good at pulling my body into his in a hurry mid-catastrophe, saving me from myself.
God, he smells good! My hero! Who would have thought slinky
boss Carrero was my sexy savior? Cute and hot, yes! Hero. Most definitely!
“Maybe we should go, tiny?” He seems uneasy and puts me back on my own feet, at arm’s length, startling me with what appears like nervous tension.
Except that can’t be right, because my boss is never nervous. He’s always Mr. Confident.
“I want to stay, and … let my hair down,” I giggle and fall into him again as I lose my footing for the second time, my shoe moving into a right angle that would have broken my ankle ordinarily. He catches me, and my nose grazes his collar bone, giving me a lungful of Carrero's scent. It’s pretty heady; his aftershave and personal smell are intoxicating. I could breathe it in repeatedly, enjoying how unique it is. I’m enamored with
it and how he’s so good, strong, powerful, and safe … Crap, what am I doing?
If I keep this up, I know I will do something stupid, like the kiss in bed when he was sleeping. I’ve snaked my hands around his neck, and I’m nuzzling my face into his chest without even being aware of my own body’s actions. I’m too drunk; this is a bad idea. I’m almost as daring as when I kissed him in his sleep.
“Okay. Time to go, tootsie.” He unravels my arms from his neck, leans down, and lifts me in a fireman’s hold so my face is behind him. One easy swoop. His firm hands around my thighs, holding them tight against his muscular chest. I wonder if this is a safety precaution, so I can’t attempt to seduce him. I’m too drunk to react, and I’m glad to be off those shoes; my ankle is tingling. I’m dizzy, and I don’t think I should stay and explore what I was attempting to do.
Good save, Mr. Carrero. I can’t trust myself, but I can trust you to look after me.
I hang down his back limply, sliding my arms around his sides so they come around his waist at the front. I can trace his taut stomach muscles under my flattened palms, and I have to quell the urge to slide my hand inside his shirt for a better feel. Instead, I lay my cheek against his back, closing my eyes at his familiarity, inhaling that citrusy goodness. I give in to the motion of his walk as he takes me out of the heaving club. There are a lot of glances our way, but Jake doesn’t seem to care. I guess a Neanderthal carrying a drunk woman out of a club in Vegas is an everyday occurrence.
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