Page 20 of Legs

He leaned into my side. “It wasn’t my brain that fucked you.”

Whoa. My witty reply dried up, all moisture heading south. Since our last meeting, zoning out had become habit. The memory of his nose in my hair after the tasting, his lips by my ear, the word cock whispered for only me to hear, had played on repeat. Each time, my irritation rose—frustration that I couldn’t remember details of the night in question.

And Bad Boy knew it.

Time for a topic change. “The Nose looks like stiff competition.”

I nodded toward a contestant, but Jimmy’s focus lingered on my face. He had deep blue eyes with hints of steel. Intense eyes. I liked the attention, enjoyed our flirtatious joking and our proximity, how his body heat mingled with mine. I liked it all too much.

Taking my cue, he searched out the Nose. I’d spotted him at the first round and his intimidation factor was still high. His navy vest and tie had country club written all over them, his gaunt cheeks and sharp chin debonair. His nose was the most worrisome. A nose that large and straight had the power to unlock scents from any glass.

Jimmy whistled. “That is one mighty schnoz.”

“The Wizard of Schnoz,” I said and cringed. My father and I had played this game, swapping words in movie titles, both of us cracking up. Men didn’t often get my silly sense of humor.

Instead of raising an eyebrow, Jimmy played along. “The Schnoz of Wrath.”

“Rebel without a Schnoz.”

“The Naked Schnoz.”

I snorted. “The Schnozinator.”

He laughed then, a deep, rumbling sound that curled around me. My answering cackle wasn’t as smooth. I clamped a hand over my mouth, and he gripped my thigh. “Don’t hide that sound, Ray. Your laugh is a thing of beauty.”

And the way he said it? Ainsley’s husky voice made every giggle rich and sexy. Gwen’s humor tended toward the sarcastic, but her laughter was musical. My outbursts were unattractive. Then Jimmy touched my thigh, told me to embrace it, and a hazy calm trickled below my skin, as though I’d enjoyed a glass of wine.

Unfortunately, once Jimmy gripped my thigh, the bastard didn’t let go. His fingers tightened, and my blood rushed, a steady throb congregating below my skirt. This wasn’t the light buzz after a sip of wine. This was a shot of tequila, a lick of salt, and a splash of lime.

Feverish, I gripped my seat.

Alonzo walked down the stairs, and all chatter in the room vanished. Jimmy’s hand stayed put, tingles radiating from that point of contact. I was a hormonal mess.

Alonzo, with his goatee and gold rings, had an air of hustler about him, but he commanded the room, outlining the hour ahead. Few words registered. Jimmy’s hand inched up my thigh, and I shifted forward. I shouldn’t have shifted. I should have slapped his hand away and blurted my boyfriend story. My traitorous body did nothing. His focus was on our host, his fingers dipping between my thighs. Not touching me where it counted, but so, so close.

A sudden memory flashed.

Jimmy’s weight on me. Deep thrusts. My legs gripping his waist.

A hard floor.

Teeth on skin.

Me screaming in pleasure.

Him whispering how beautiful I am.

Holy God. My tailbone (and other parts) throbbed, the lingering bruise confirming the flashback’s authenticity.

But Jimmy pulled his hand away.

My thighs burned, followed by an urge to grab his hand and shove it up my skirt.

What was happening to me? I was a professional. A competitor in need of a freaking job. Not some sex-crazed woman after a quickie.

Warmth persisted from his touch and that memory. When he leaned in to say, “Number one happened against my bedroom door,” that heat turned molten.

The man wasn’t playing fair.