Page 50 of Miss Behaved
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Cookie.” I pull her hand to my lips, which linger against the backs of her knuckles. “Vance Craven. Care to follow me to my bar and have a drink?”
“Why, that would be lovely, Vance.” Monica gives me a sly wink and closes the distance between us. “I sure would love that.”
Damn this woman. I’d like to take this game back to the room and slide my cock into her cookie, all right.
I tug her along beside me, and the room starts to fill with chatter. Everyone falls into character, and the fake scene of the hotel shifts into a real one around us. Monica holds my hand as she slips onto a barstool. One leg drapes over the other, her thigh splitting the fringe on either side, and I’m instantly hard for her.
“Vance?” She ticks an eyebrow up at me, and I realize I’m staring at her bare legs like they are my own personal wonderland.
“Dirty martini, doll?” I move around the bar and hand her one of the premade drinks.
“Doll, huh?” Monica takes a sip and hums with enjoyment as it glides down her throat. Those bright red lips of hers would make the perfect ring around my cock. “You’re not usually one for nicknames.”
“Are you referring to Carson or Vance?” I rest my elbows on the bar to lean in closer.
She brings her face inches from mine. “I’m referring to Carson, but shh—don’t tell anyone I’m breaking character.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” I grin and shake my head. “But you’re only half right; I use nicknames all the time, just not with you.”
“Me?” Her nose scrunches, and I can see the wheels in her head spinning.
“Nicknames are impersonal, detached. They’re a good way to not fuck up by calling a woman the wrong name.”
“Charming.” Monica rolls her eyes.
I shrug. “It’s the truth. Better to call someone ‘babe’ than accidentally say Stacey instead of Samantha.”
Monica pulls her drink between her lips and takes a long drink, her eyes locked on me, and I’d love to dig into that beautiful mind of hers to know exactly what she’s thinking.
“But not with me,” she says. “You always call me Monica, or Mon.”
Nodding once, I lean closer and tip my head so my lips are near her ear. “Yes, I do. Monica Maria Garcia Lopez. Most beautiful name in the whole fucking world. How could I ever forget it?”
Her ribs rise and fall with heavy breaths as she takes that in, and even though I know we’re supposed to be friends and I shouldn’t, I draw my fingers in circles against the soft flesh of her wrist anyway.
“What are we doing, Carson?” she whispers, her cheek so close that the stubble on mine brushes against her. I dip my head down and shake it, brushing a soft kiss on the peak of her shoulder before lifting to look her in the eyes. They’re dark pools, dilated and filled with the same hunger that claws at the underside of my ribs.
My chest fills with answers for her.
We’re coming apart.
We’re making a mess.
We’re seeing how we fit back together.
We’re fixing what I broke, and I’m scared I’m going to fuck it up all over again.
But I don’t say any of those things.
Anticipation sits on the edge of her parted lips, and if I don’t play this right, if I push too hard, she’ll just see me as the man she thinks I am: cold, dishonest, fucking my way across the country from one woman to the next.
Biting my tongue, I hold back every confession that’s swimming under the surface. “Well, Cookie.” I smirk and reach for a shot of something dark behind the counter, tipping my head back and draining the glass in one swallow. “I reckon we’re solvin’ a murder.”
21
Monica
Murder-mysterynightwithCarsonin a panty-dropping tux. How hard could this be?
