Pure Desire. Denise Tompkins
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looked like an owl with an ocular abnormality. “Let me buy you a drink.”
Her lips twitched. “I don’t drink.”
“Sit with me while I drink then, because I need to rinse away the grit that accompanied the act of sticking my foot so far down my throat.” He gestured her through the club’s open doors with a sweep of one arm.
“What about my cover?” She unsnapped her clutch and plucked out a twenty, holding it lightly between her first two fingers.
“You’ve already been abused, sweets. Charging you twice for the privilege would be nothing less than highway robbery. I’ve been many things in life, but never a thief.” The chime of her laughter, so ebullient and sincere, left him hungry to hear it again. “Club’s non-smoking. That a problem?” He settled a hand beneath the swing of her hair and across the bare skin of her lower back under the guise of threading her through the crowd.
“I don’t smoke,” she called back, sparing him a brief, clearly amused glance.
“You don’t drink, you don’t smoke. Let me guess, you don’t eat, either.” She didn’t answer him, but her muscles tightened beneath his fingertips. “Not a problem since we only stock pretzels and self-serve peanuts.”
She looked over her shoulder, confused. “What are self-serve peanuts?”
One edge of his mouth kicked up. “We cull ’em, you hull ’em.” Things low in his body tightened at her indelicate snort. He’d never left a shift early to bed his take. Tonight might be a first.
Moving deeper into the dark blues and steel grays of the club’s interior, more people seemed inclined to speak to him. More male people. He leaned in close to keep from shouting at her. “Grab that table right there—” he gestured to a semi-circular booth in the VIP section “—and let me make some arrangements.”
She moved away without hesitation, weaving through the crowd as if she were totally oblivious to the crowd’s awareness of her.
Seth moved up next to him, casting her an appreciative stare. “What’s tonight’s flavor?”
Dominic glanced at the annoyingly exotic-looking djinn before turning back to watch her settle into the booth, her short dress riding explicitly high. “No idea, and frankly? I don’t care. You can just call me Baskin-Robbins.”
Seth spared him a glance. “Baskin-Robbins? As in ice cream?”
“Hell, yes.” He casually crossed his arms. “I’ve got all thirty-one flavors covered, my friend. There’s no combination she can throw at me tonight that’s going to stop me from getting every serving of dairy on my food pyramid for the next six months.”
The other man’s deep, rolling laugh drew curious, though covert, looks. Seth would never be voted Mr. Congeniality, but if someone ever came up with a Rico Suave-Mediterranean Style award, the guy was a shoe in. He was free with his smiles, but they rarely met his eyes. Even with friends. He talked the talk, walked the walk and kept a safe distance between him and everyone around him. He claimed it piqued women’s curiosity. There must have been some truth to that because he had a rumored black book full of names, but he was nothing if not discreet.
Dominic jerked his head back, considering. “Look, man. I’m not gonna front. I’m standing here trying to figure out if you’re prettier than I am, or a flat-out better lay. What the hell kind of cologne do you wear?”
Seth turned to look at him with wide, expressionless eyes and slowly shook his head. “I’m telling you the same thing I told Griff. If you guys don’t stop flirting and pushing my boundaries, I’m going to have to try one of you on for size.”
Dom threw his hands up in a stop-motion gesture. “She’s yours. I get it.”
He dipped his chin with a jerk. “Glad we had this talk.”
Seth clapped him on the back. “Take the rest of the night to drink, dance and blow off a little steam.”
The irreverent thought crossed Dom’s mind unbidden.
Hopefully, if anything’s getting blown tonight, it’s me...
* * *
Rhyan watched the curious exchange between the two ridiculously gorgeous men, one light, one dark, both sensually inviting. It was the nephilim she was here for. Even if she hadn’t been compelled, she would have been attracted to him. Had been attracted to him. Everything about the man matched her physical preferences according to the nameless profile she’d created on the dating site www.meatmen.net. Of course, she didn’t really think the site focused on intellectual qualifications so much as...as... Crap. She was blushing, and she never blushed. Though she considered herself one of the more liberal angels, that site had taught her a few things she wished she could un-know.
Refocusing, she realized the fallen angel had started toward her. The idea of a drink suddenly sounded good. She needed something to do with her hands, something other than reach for the most virile man she’d ever encountered. Gabriel had to have known she’d be forced to court temptation. Had he wanted her to fail? If so, why?
Her companion hooked a passing barmaid by the belt loop and placed an order, his casual flirting and easygoing manner worn like a second skin. Understanding happened with a clarity she’d lacked until now. Confidence. That was one of the things she found so wildly attractive about him. And that’s what the silly website had been missing. Men could package their testosterone-filled, cock-wagging, ball-dragging, alpha male profiles a hundred different ways, but what it came down to was the very thing this blond Adonis had in abundance.
He started toward her again, eyes warming as he looked at her.
Rhyan smiled before dipping her head and tucking her hands in her lap. She was well aware she walked the finest of lines between managing her assignment and giving in to her favorite brand of temptation. His.
Dread cartwheeled down her spine without warning, coming to rest at the small of her back. Her scalp prickled. She lifted her eyes and let her gaze roam around the club. Someone was watching her. The more stares she met, the more she realized it would be impossible to tell who had made her uncomfortable. No doubt the Caste had positioned at least one Watcher on her to report her progress. The idea pissed her off. She’d have to do her very best to give them something worthy of reporting. Simple as that.
If it’s so simple, why are you sweating?
Her lips thinned. She rubbed her damp palms against the negligent fabric of her dress. “Shut. Up.”
The blond stopped in front of her, forehead wrinkling. “Everything okay?”
Deep breaths accompanied the hidden, nervous tapping of her fingers against the outside of her thigh and fed the illusion that all was right in her world. Punctuating the facade with a bright smile rounded out the deception.
“Care to dance?”
“Dance?” Cold sweat prickled in her hairline.
One corner of his mouth curled up. “You know. Dance. Get your groove on. Shake your moneymaker. Bump and grind.” He looked at the sound booth and gave a finite nod. “Or, as the case may be, simply define the rhythm between two bodies moving toward a common goal.”
The song that started up was a direct departure from the heavy rock of moments before. A techno beat by Clint Mansell replaced the franticness, slowed the writhing mass of humanity until they moved together in an oddly symbiotic interpretive dance. The problem? Everything they interpreted in front of her was spoken in the language of uninhibited bodies. Consequences were measured, weighed and discarded, hands freed to caress skin, tongues to trace lips, bodies to move with sinuous pleasure. Two bodies moving toward a common goal.
She shot him a wide-eyed stare. Her unfettered breasts heaved beneath the draped halter of her dress. Looking down would have only drawn attention to her peaked nipples. She stood.
He stepped in close. In spite of her heels, he still managed to look