Page 53 of Wicked Takeover
Chapter Seven
Lauren’s work at Wicked Brand involved cost cutting and placing ads to sell the parlor, which didn’t take the whole day, any day. Even so, she’d taken to arriving early, wanting to see Dante before his clients started to trickle in.
Today her routine also included a walk around the business district. Not for exercise. She searched for places where he might take her, in a carnal sense. Exposed areas that would prove exciting but wouldn’t get them arrested.
Dante wasn’t a fool.
Rarely had she met anyone as intelligent. She still couldn’t figure out what he’d done before coming to the parlor. His great looks made him prime model material. Deep inside, she sensed that sort of life wouldn’t have satisfied him. It was too phony, and he certainly wasn’t swayed by image or money.
The mystery continued.
Shrugging it off, she passed buildings that were now part of her world and beginning to seem too much like home. There was the one where the artist painted outside, cafés with outrageously expensive menus, and trendy shops selling stuff she couldn’t afford. Weeks ago, she would have felt like a loser because of her dwindling finances. This morning, she imagined herself and Dante on a restaurant table or among the merchandise and mannequins in display windows, going at each other like there was no tomorrow.
She wasn’t certain whether to laugh, groan, or squeal in excitement.
Rooftops drew her attention next. She and Dante could frolic naked up there and still be safe. With the stars above them, it would also be very romantic tonight. She had no doubt about the timing. Yesterday evening, Dante had told her not to bring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner.
“Ever?” She’d wanted to pin him down, get some details for a change. “Or just for tomorrow?”
“Starting tomorrow.”
She pretended he’d wounded her. “You don’t like my cooking?”
“Do you?”
She laughed. “No. But wherever we eat tomorrow night, we go Dutch.”
“Depends on what we eat.”
When she’d asked what that meant, he refused to discuss it further.
This was so cool. Like waiting for Christmas. Once they’d opened their respective packages, so to speak, things would get even better. They’d go at each other’s hot spots, her on top, him on the bottom. Licking, lapping, suckling. In public.
She wiped perspiration from her neck, not entirely from her racy thoughts. It was barely eleven o’clock and already too steamy to stay outdoors for long. The tourists hurried between air-conditioned shops.
Lauren left those buildings behind and stopped short of Wicked Brand. A black pickup took up a nearby space. Couldn’t belong to a customer. The parlor didn’t open for another hour. As far as Van Gogh and Jasmina were concerned, Lauren had thought they didn’t have wheels. Even if they did, she couldn’t imagine them owning a vehicle that looked like this one. Sleek and muscled.
Exactly like Dante.
She rounded the pickup. The back bed was long enough for some serious action. Him on top, pounding away. Or her straddling him.
Her mouth went dry.
Maybe this was his surprise. Maybe not. He’d said they wouldn’t be in a vehicle when they went to the next level. She wasn’t sure if the truck bed was considered in or out.
She rushed into the parlor and stopped inside his workstation, surprised he wasn’t in the room.
A large wicker basket rested on a chair.
They were going on a picnic? That opened up endless possibilities in an area with countless parks and beaches that stretched for miles. They could run naked through the surf. Dante could mount her behind palm trees, take her on the deserted lifeguard stand, or screw her like crazy within sight of a hotel.
Before her imagination got too lusty, she leaned past the doorway into the hall. He wasn’t in the back room. The lights were still off. She turned and flinched.
He was close enough to kiss. Right now, she wanted answers more than anything else. “You made food for tonight?”
He grinned at her chambray skirt that she’d bought on eBay for ten bucks. Vintage style, it gathered at the waist, flared at the lacy white hem, and landed just above her knees. Long enough to be decent if she didn’t wear panties, which she hadn’t.
Dante stared at her white tee as one would the Holy Grail. That alone told Lauren her nipples were poking against the stretchy fabric.
