Daring the Bad Boy Read online

  She had her cash card and her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. And the buzz of anticipation and strawberry daiquiris to keep her warm. Tash would take care of her coat until tomorrow – if for no other reason than she’d then have leverage when it came to prying out the details.

  Her inner slut rejoiced as Cal tightened his grip and tugged her through the crowd towards the exit.

  This was actually happening.

  I am Superslut. Hear me roar.

  But as they hit the street, the fug of warm bodies and too much alcohol gave way to the chilly suspicion of rain and the scent of wet pavements. She shivered.

  “You cold?” The concerned look cracked open a tiny fissure in her chest. But only for a moment.

  Zip it, Rosie. No overthinking.

  She shook her head, because she didn’t feel remotely cold. “I left my coat in the bar.”

  His lips tilted in a deadly half-smile. Lit by the bar’s neon sign, the wicked twinkle in his eyes was even more irresistible. “You want me to go back and grab it?”

  She squeezed his fingers – deciding to use her newfound powers for good. “Just kiss me again, that should take care of it.”

  He chuckled again, and she detected the rusty tone this time, as if he hadn’t laughed in a long time. “No way. Not until we’re in a cab. Or we’ll never get anywhere.” He stuck two fingers into his mouth and blew. The shrill whistle made her jump.

  She stumbled back as a black cab hurtled down the street and braked a few inches from her toes.

  “Holy crap!” She jumped back.

  His arm wrapped round her waist to stop her falling on her butt.

  “I thought you could only hail a cab like that in movies?” she said.

  “I used to live on the Lower East Side. Where hailing a cab is a basic survival skill,” he said, the teasing note wonderfully confidential. As if they were lovers, who had just been cast in her favorite chick-flick.

  Leaning into the driver’s window, he gave an address she recognized in Clerkenwell. The uber-hip sector of the City of London where cool bars and restaurants, serving everything from sushi to pie and mash, jostled for space with flashy boutiques, sleek new offices and fancy bolt-holes and loft apartments that rarely sold for under a million.

  Stinking rich and American, then.

  Perhaps the leather jacket was a pose and he wasn’t really that badass?

  But then she noticed the scar bisecting his left eyebrow that she hadn’t spotted in the dark bar. He whipped off his jacket and slung it over her shoulders. The smell of leather and the warmth of his body engulfed her, the butter softness confirming her faith in his bad boy credentials.

  Stinking rich and American… But absolutely still a badass.

  “Come here.” Gripping the lapels of his jacket, he hauled her up to fasten his lips on hers.

  The fire smoldering in her belly blazed – burning away the last remnants of her reserve. Not that it had been putting up much of a fight.

  She sucked on his marauding tongue and rubbed against the ridge in his jeans. Excitement leapt up her chest as she assessed the impressive package. She wanted to feel him deep inside her. She wanted to be taken, used, and spun into a world of the senses from which there would be no escape. Tonight she could have exactly what she wanted without fearing the consequences. If this guy was a jerk, it didn’t matter, because it would all be over by morning.

  “Oy, mate, I’ve got the meter running here.”

  Her bad boy studmuffin lifted his head at the shout from the cabbie, but his gaze remained fixed on her mouth as he yelled back. “Okey, dokey, mate.”

  The cockney phrase sounded delightfully silly in his gruff American accent. And she giggled. She actually giggled.

  He opened the cab door. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They climbed in and the cab rumbled away from the curb. But as she reached for him, he captured her hands and drew them down. “Do you have a cell phone?”

  She nodded, confused. “In my back pocket.”

  He eased his fingers in, taking a moment to caress her butt, before pulling out the phone. “What’s the code?”

  “6969,” she blurted, then felt the flush on her neck. “My friend, Tash, programmed it as a joke,” she added, then wished she hadn’t explained the naughty code.

  You’re supposed to be a bad girl, you tit-head.

  “Uh-huh?” He grinned, sending her a flirtatious side eye. He thought she was kidding.

  Did he think she was a badass too? Did he have no idea she was actually a boring good girl in bad girl clothing?

  O.M.F.G. How phenomenally cool is that?

  He programmed in the code, clicked on the message app, typed something lightning fast with his thumbs, then flicked through her contacts and pressed send. Leaning over her, he slid her mobile back into the pocket of her jeans, taking lots of wonderful liberties en route.

  She flattened her palms to his chest, peering up at him. “Who did you text?”

  “Your pal, Tash. I’m guessing she’s one of the pick-up line poets in the bar?”

  “Yes, but why did you text her?” she asked, confused.

  Did he know Tash? Her fuzzy mind tried to connect the dots. The big fat fluffy dots that made no sense now and were starting to intrude on her big fat fluffy sex buzz.

  Had Tash set her up? Was Mr. Super-Hot a pity date? Was she about to have her bad girl card revoked?

  “I shot her my address, and told her you’d be in touch in the morning,” he said, as if that made perfect sense. “I don’t want them to think I kidnapped you.”

  The thoughtful gesture had the fissure opening up again, and the buzz sinking southwards – a dangerous combination of hotness and emotion. Wasn’t this the one thing Tash had warned her against?

  Before she could overreact, he grasped her lapels again…. Or rather his lapels… And tugged her towards him.

  “Now quit asking dumb questions.” Warm breath whispered across her ear, before he bit the lobe and sent sensation skittering.

  She rasped her palms across the stubble on his jaw and thrust her fingers into silky hair to yank him the rest of the way down. She heard something that sounded like a growl rumble out of her throat. Or had that come from his throat?

  Clamping her mouth to those sinfully sexy lips, she threw her leg over his lap, and settled her yearning clitoris against the bulge in his Levis, all thoughts of everything but riding the impressive ridge shooting straight out of her head and into the dark, dangerous London night.

  Let’s hear it for Rosie the Super Slut, who is about to nail the hottest, dirtiest Valentine’s date of her life.

  Chapter Three

  ‡

  “Wow! This place is amazing.”

  Cal leaned against the door of his apartment and smiled as Rosie the Hot Kisser swung round in a circle, then tilted to one side on her heels. He shot forward to catch her before she fell on her ass.

  She grinned up at him, pressing her curves against his in sultry motion and swiveling her hips until she’d notched his confined cock against the apex of her thighs.

  Oh, yeah. Just exactly there.

  He skimmed his hands over her curves, then folded his arms round her waist to draw her close. Damn, he wanted nothing more than to forget about everything tonight and get lost in this beautiful woman. But as she stretched up on tiptoes and he lowered his head to take another glorious bite out of those lips, he got a close-up of her irises. Or rather the thin rim of blue-green that was left of them around her fully dilated pupils.

  He pulled back. What had looked like lust in the cab now looked like something more troubling. “Rosie, how many of those fluorescent cocktails did you have back at the bar?”

  She lifted four fingers. “Two.” She squinted at her fingers. “Three, maybe.”

  Shit. She’s stoned.

  His spirits plummeted, but the erection pressing against her belly refused to follow suit.

  Forget it, buddy, you’re not get
ting laid tonight unless you can sober her up.

  “How about I make us some coffee?”

  She sent him a lopsided smile. “But I don’t want coffee. I want to explore all your delicious muscles.” She rolled her hips against his rampant cock again. “And the shotgun in your pants.”

  Questing hands flattened against his chest, her fingers exploring his pecs and then spreading up to his shoulders. Her fingernails scraped across his nape and need tightened his ballsack.

  “Let’s go straight to bed,” she murmured. “Do not pass go.”

  He settled his palms on her hips. And edged her back an inch, despite the lurch of protest from the shotgun in his pants – which was about to lose both barrels. Then captured her marauding hands before they could pull the trigger.

  “Coffee first,” he said. “Bed later.” But hopefully not too much later.

  He directed her over to the couch, her delighted laughter echoing in his aching nuts – and gave her a gentle shove which had her toppling onto the cushions with a hiccup, all those delectable curves bouncing in unison.

  Just kill me now.

  He let out a heartfelt groan. If not taking advantage of this woman didn’t guarantee him a place in the good guy hall of fame for all eternity, nothing would.

  “Can we have coffee in bed?” She slurred the words, her smile sweet but hopelessly crooked – crucifying him more. Then palmed her face, the clumsy caress pushing the wild curls back over her shoulders. “Actually, I do feel a little dizzy.”

  Not as dizzy as him, now all the blood had left his brain on a mission that could well be doomed to failure. “Hang tight. I’ll go get reinforcements.”

  He dashed into the kitchen to start brewing something strong enough to tar the road outside.

  But when he arrived back in the living area, two steaming cups of road tar in his hands, she was curled up on his couch in a tight ball. One shoe on the floor, another hanging by a toe, her hands tucked under her head in a praying position, and those wild curls glowing gold in the lamplight.

  He placed the mugs onto the coffee table and jostled her arm. “Hey, Rosie, coffee’s here.”

  She grumbled something incoherent, and snuggled deeper into his couch.

  Rosie the Hot Kisser was out cold. And there would be no more feasting on those lips tonight or any other soft, fragrant parts of her anatomy.

  Goddamn it, so close and yet so far.

  His frustration faded as he slipped his arms under her knees and her armpits. Maybe this wasn’t what he’d been hoping to do with her company tonight, but at least he wasn’t alone.

  “Come on, Hot Stuff.” He lifted her off the couch, his heart jolting when she snuggled into his chest with a soft moan, as trusting as a child. “Let’s get you into bed, so you can sleep it off.”

  He carried her up the spiral staircase to his bedroom, aware of the scent of her hair tickling his nose, and the flushed glimpse of cleavage afforded by the straining buttons of her shirt. The sprinkle of freckles across her nose, and the chewed lip only added to that captivating combination of innocence and sin. Which was not doing his aching nuts much good. The tight jeans molding her butt completed the torture.

  Her cell played the opening bar of a dirty R ‘n’ B song. Probably another joke from her partner in crime, Tash.

  He settled her into the center of the bed and tugged off her remaining shoe. She rolled away from him. Steeling himself against the temptation to delve too far, he dipped into her back pocket and pulled out the cell. Then read the text that had popped up on her screen from a Michael Carter.

  Babe, get in touch. We’ve got a problem for tomorrow. I may have to bail. x

  The dart of something swift and sharp hit him square in the chest, the echo of old hurt and fresh anger consumed him. He turned off the cell’s ringer and slung it onto the bedside table, not bothering to pick it up when it slid off and hit the floor.

  Who the fuck is Michael Carter?

  He stomped down to the living room, his frustration returning full force.

  Was the guy her boyfriend? Maybe Rosie wasn’t as cute as she looked, if she was the kind of girl who liked to pick up guys in bars while she already had one at home?

  He threw back the cooling coffee in a couple of gulps, dumped hers in the sink.

  Not that it mattered to him. They’d only shared a couple of lip locks.

  But as he made himself up a bed on the couch, it annoyed him to realize it did matter. Way more than it should.

  Chapter Four

  ‡

  “Ahhh!” Rosie groaned as she cracked open an eyelid and then slammed it shut again – before the penetrating glare of a million suns could laser off her retinas.

  Counting a couple of beats, she eased it open this time. White sheets smelling of laundry soap swam into focus while the thundering pain of a thousand pickaxes hammered at her skull.

  Licking dry lips, she sat up in the gigantic bed.

  Hello, hangover. Where the heck am I?

  She searched the high-ceilinged room flooded with natural light. Far too much natural light. Bare red brick walls contrasted stylishly with polished oak floorboards. A pile of unopened cardboard boxes stacked in one corner and a low bedside table were the only other clues to her whereabouts. She winced, careful not to move her head too suddenly in case it rolled off her shoulders and shattered on the gleaming wood.

  Six-foot high windows on all sides with no blinds or curtains explained the winter sunshine threatening to blind her.

  Her eyes watered, but eventually got used to the glare enough to focus on the three framed photographs on the wall opposite. The pounding in her head receded to a dull thumping as she became transfixed by the images. One in saturated color, the other two in striking black and white. Each one arresting in its own way: a bare shoulderblade, the line of the collarbone strong and lithe dappled by sunlight; a pair of gnarled hands, the knuckles thickened by arthritis but still confident and capable; a baby’s round head covered with downy hair, its face partially hidden as eager lips latched on to its mother’s breast. Each image made a statement, haunting and human and desperately moving.

  She tugged the sheet to her chin, feeling exposed even though she still had her underwear on. Then she noticed the trail of clothing – one shoe, her jeans, her blouse – sprawled in a line that led to an open door on the other side of the room. The edge of a glass shower cubicle marked it out as the en-suite bathroom she vaguely remembered visiting in the night.

  The desperate urge to pee overtook her. Crawling out of bed, she headed across the cavernous room. Favoring her aching skull, she scooped up her clothing en route while images from the previous evening tumbled through her head in garish Technicolor: brilliant red strawberry daiquiris, sparkly pink penises, butter-smooth black leather and a pair of tempting hot chocolate eyes.

  Mortification followed as the events of last night slowly became clear. Or clear-ish.

  She’d jumped into a cab with a total stranger she’d met in the bar.

  Cal. His name had been Cal. And he’d been a world-class kisser. From what she could remember of eating his face off in the back of the cab on a ride to his place in… She peered out of the bathroom window while washing her hands at the stainless steel sink… Clerkenwell.

  This was Cal’s apartment. Had to be. The Dickensian architecture crammed next to brand new office space was instantly recognizable as the chic city neighborhood.

  Had they slept together? They’d certainly snogged. The memory of his tongue’s strong, sensual strokes robbed her of breath all over again. She touched her fingertips to the prickle of beard burn on her cheeks. She could vaguely remember arriving at his apartment… Staggering up a flight of metal steps. And then it all became a blur – a hot, wet, heady blur wrapped in the phantom scent of coffee and sandalwood soap and leather. The hot brick between her legs began to throb.

  But the rest of the night remained foggy and vague.

  She opened the bathroom cabinet, i
n search of heavy-duty painkillers. To find it empty. Nothing. Except a bar of soap still in its wrapping. Had he just moved in here? And where was he now? Did she really want to know? Dressing quickly, she hopped around on one shoe while she washed her face, scrubbing off the smudged mascara and making her cheeks sting.

  She tied her unruly hair into a knot, trying to ignore the pickaxes still hammering at her skull. For such a cute drink, strawberry daiquiris could leave you with a homicidal hangover. It felt as if all seven of Snow White’s dwarves were currently diamond mining right behind her frontal lobe. Heading into the bedroom, she spotted a tall glass of water on the other side of the bed to the one she’d woken up on, holding down a piece of folded paper.

  She gulped down the water and unfolded the paper. A couple of round pink pills dropped into her palm.

  Hallelujah. Painkillers.

  Knocking the pills back with the last of the water, she read the note scrawled on the paper.

  Hope your head’s not too sore this morning. Gone out to grab us some breakfast. Back soon.

  C.

  They had slept together. They must have. Had it been good? Bad? Awesome? How come she couldn’t remember a bloody thing?

  This was horrendous. After jumping the guy last night in the bar. Kissing him into a coma in the cab. Ripping his clothes off once they got back here… Probably. And then having her way with him. Possibly. She absolutely could not recall a single detail.

  Had she blanked it from her mind deliberately? Embarrassed by her slutty behavior? How could she face him this morning? When being bold and reckless and sexy was the opposite of who she really was?

  While part of her was kind of astonished she’d been brazen enough to actually follow through last night, another part of her definitely did not want to deal with Mr. Too-Hot this morning. Especially while Dopey and Co. were still chipping away at her frontal lobe and making coherent thought a major effort.

  She groaned, as panic clawed its way up her torso.

  Leave now, before he gets back with breakfast.