New York Nights. Kathleen O'Reilly
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one girl in the building—Vanessa—and she’s been hitting on me, can’t get enough of me. You can be my cover date.”
And voilà. There it was. Fire-breathing rage. This was the Tessa that he knew and loved.
“You want me to keep some skank from hitting on you? This is the sole reason you’re inviting me?”
“Does there have to be another one?”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “This won’t work. Now we’re living together. If people in the building think we’re a couple, what happens if I want to date someone in the building? Do I have to sneak out on you? See what sort of tangled webs evolve when you keep the skanks at bay with false pretense?”
Okay, she had him, but at least, she was smiling and contemplating the social world again. Progress. Definite progress. Gabe mentally congratulated himself.
“Does that mean you’ll go?”
“No.”
“You can’t spend all your time locked in your room. You should get out and have some fun.”
“I don’t have time for fun.”
“Everyone has time for fun.”
“Oh, yeah, everyone has time for fun,” she said, her eyes sharpening, her voice snapping, and Gabe wasn’t sure exactly who “everyone” was, but he was definitely glad that it wasn’t him, because judging by the daggers in her eyes, Tessa Hart was nursing a grudge the size of Brooklyn.
“It’s exactly what you need. Take a break. Let yourself go for a night. You get too focused sometimes, Tess, and you miss out.”
“You think I miss out?”
“On lots,” he said, no longer sure what they were talking about, but she wasn’t mad anymore, she wasn’t sad anymore, and that was progress.
She twisted a lock of hair in her fingers. “There’ll be people there? Fun people?”
“Yeah, tons.”
Her eyes sparked. “I think you’re right. It’s time to move forward, and a party with fun people is the perfect way to start.”
Ah, success. It was a sweet thing. Gabe gave her a friendly smile and watched as she went to get changed, the bounce back in her step.
It was a mere ten minutes later when she emerged from her room decked out in a miniskirt, a sheer blouse over a camisole and heels.
He looked once. He looked twice, and then his vision started to blur. Mother Teresa had left the building, and the woman that was left was…Tessa.
His roommate.
Small, supple and increasingly bedable.
Aw, no.
From out of the dregs of his imagination burst pictures and, even worse, full-motion videos. And from those images burst forth a hard-on that was excruciatingly painful—and it wasn’t even nine o’clock.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Good,” he answered, because if he told her what he really thought, he was absolutely sure some personal boundaries would be violated.
He was used to her in jeans, a Prime T-shirt, and an absence of makeup. But, gawd, tonight she was smokin’ and ready for anything. There was a do-me flicker in her eyes that threatened to knock him flat on his ass.
Gabe nodded stupidly and went to guide her toward the door, but that would involve touching her. He knew—even crazed and unthinking as he currently was—that was a bad idea. His hand dropped and he waited for her to open the apartment door.
A drop of sweat beaded on the back of his neck.
Hell.
THE PARTY WAS ON the thirty-seventh floor, hosted by one Jonathan Wilder, who worked in advertising sales and seemed to know the world. The apartment was packed and loud, and Gabe could see Tessa’s eyes light up like a slot machine when she entered.
Trouble, and he spotted it right off the bat. He knew Tessa. He knew that tilt in her chin, that kick in her walk. When she got like that at the bar, a drink would end up right over some jerk’s head.
Those sorts of safe and familiar thoughts pulled him back into a place where his Johnson didn’t hurt quite so much and where that skirt didn’t look quite so…easy.
Okay, he’d play bouncer tonight. He knew that role. He’d watch her back—not her ass, only her back—and keep her out of trouble.
However, tonight trouble was her middle name. She launched into a tequila shot contest with Stevie Tagglioli, and Gabe waited, thinking she was going to splash some tequila all over Stevie, but she didn’t. She kept drinking…and touching…and drinking…and there was more touching. Eventually Gabe insinuated himself between the two, accidentally elbowing Stevie in the gut.
“Hey, Steve? Meet my new roommate, Tessa Hart.”
“We’re not involved,” said Tessa, downing another shot.
Gabe laughed. “She’s such a tease. Come on, babe. Let’s move along while you can still walk.”
Little Stevie was enthralled, spending more time staring at the thin silk of her shirt rather than her face. Prick.
Tessa’s fingers bit into Gabe’s arm. “Leave me alone,” she huffed.
“You’re in a mood, and I don’t know why, and you don’t have to tell me why because you want your space, but if you do something that you’ll regret with somebody in this building that you’re going to see every day, then you’re going to experience history’s longest hangover.”
She pulled him aside, her eyes lit with some weird fire, ready to combust. “I’m merely trying to have some fun. Isn’t that what you said? It’ll be fun? I think that’s an exact quote. Well maybe I want to have some fun.”
She was mad at him?
Gabe swore and let go of her arm as if it burned. He couldn’t reason with her, he wasn’t going to try. “Fine. Your life. Your mistake.”
And so it went on. Gabe watched from the sidelines, glaring when the females approached him. Tessa was the only one that drew his eyes. She drank shots, she flirted with every single male in the room—not one man left unflirted with, except for Gabe, of course, because she was shooting him death stares every few minutes. He stood, waiting for the crash, but that would be a long time coming because, truly, there were few people who could drink Gabe under the table, but Tessa was one. She had the tolerance of a T. rex. In fact, when faced with the mighty beast, she’d probably drink Godzilla under the table, too.
So he watched her, silently seething, seeing a completely new side to this woman. She’d pulled her hair back, exposing those killer cheekbones and a long, slender neck, and she’d put on red lipstick. Hooker-red lipstick—which, of course, looked like sex. Goddamn.
He didn’t want to notice the full, red, glistening lips, didn’t want to notice how long her legs were in heels, didn’t want to notice how her nipples stood at attention under the flimsy silk, but she’d been right earlier.
It was hell. His mood got more foul, his cock got more hard, and when she started dancing on the coffee table, Gabe was pretty much at the end of his rope.
“We’re going—now,” he said, watching her hips sway, like a hypnotizing cobra, twisting, begging him to follow.
“Go home, Gabe,” she said, raising her arms up over her head. A goddess reaching for the heavens, which only angered him even more because, dammit, he did not think poetry.
“Without you? No. This isn’t like you, Tess.”
That stopped the sway of her hips. Thank you, God.
“How