Last Resort: S.I.N. Series Read online

  Him, as in the devastatingly handsome—devastating everything—man who is standing a few feet from me. I’m met with a pair of amber-colored eyes that hold amusement as he studies me. He has dark lashes, a strong jaw, and a mouth that I already know was made for sin.

  I probably look like an idiot as I stare at him, mouth open and mute, while I take in his dark dress shirt and rolled-up shirtsleeves that showcase sexy forearms and strong hands.

  My gaze finds its way back up his chest and broad shoulders, over his lips that break out into a half-cocked grin, to meet his eyes again. He lifts his eyebrows as if to ask me if I like what I see.

  “I wouldn’t answer that text,” he finally responds when he knows he has my full attention.

  “Why’s that?” I turn to face him and lean my hip against the edge of a barstool. He’s . . . beautiful for lack of a better word. Beautiful, when I’ve never considered a man to be beautiful before in my life.

  What in the hell is he doing talking to me?

  “Because any man who is texting you instead of being here by your side isn’t worth your time.”

  “And let me guess, you are?”

  He takes a sip from his drink but keeps those eyes on mine over the rim of his glass. “That remains to be seen now, doesn’t it?”

  I snort and give a roll of my eyes. “No offense, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.” I may say the words but hell if I can’t stop staring at the man. I’m not sure if it’s the dim lights of the club or just him in general, but he gives off a vibe that makes me want to step closer and see if it’s real.

  “Why’s that?”

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender interrupts.

  “Tom Collins, please,” I say and slide a ten-dollar bill across the bar top.

  “Another Johnnie Walker Blue,” the man beside me says as he holds up his glass.

  “Thank you, but I don’t need you to buy my drink.”

  “I’m aware you don’t,” he says, pulling my money back and putting it in front of me as he replaces it with a twenty. “But oblige me.”

  Oblige him? Like that’s a term you hear someone use every day.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  “So, Tom Collins.” There’s that grin of his. “Why is it that I’m barking up the wrong tree?”

  “Well, Johnnie Walker, I assure you that whoever you’re looking for, I’m not her.”

  His eyes take a long, languorous appraisal of my body, my skin heating under the intensity of his gaze before he gives the slightest nod. “That’s where we disagree, then.”

  I give a half laugh and shake my head. “Glad you think so, but I’m sure you have women falling at your feet most days and—”

  “True. I mean it’s a tough gig, but somebody has to do it, right?” He gives a half-cocked smirk that is so stunning it’s breathtaking.

  For fuck’s sake, why is his arrogance so sexy? Why does his stoic expression and those words falling from his lips do things to my insides? But it’s the chuckle that he emits, the one that rumbles its way between the apex of my thighs, that has me giving a little shake of my shoulders.

  “Cute, but rest assured, I don’t beg, and I’m far from interested.”

  Who the hell is this girl right now?

  “Is that a challenge?” he asks, those eyes of his freezing me in my place as a ghost of a smirk plays on his lips.

  “It’s a fact.”

  “Everyone begs. When it’s good enough . . . you beg.”

  “Smooth. I bet you get all the girls with lines like that.”

  Another chuckle. A deliberate sip of his whiskey that says I just might be right. A glance away and then back at me.

  “Shh.” He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “I’m not one to kiss and tell.”

  “Why me?” I ask.

  “Why you, what?”

  “Why are you buying me a drink instead of one of these other ladies?” I look at the various women lining the bar.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters.”

  “Because of Betty Bradshaw.”

  “Betty who?” I laugh.

  “Betty Bradshaw. She broke my heart in the third grade when she dumped me after I bought her Twinkies instead of Ding Dongs.”

  “A girl after my own heart,” I tease. “Everyone knows a Ding Dong is better.”

  The look of disdain mixed with the grin he’s fighting from the ridiculousness of my words has my own smile widening.

  Yes. I did just actually say Ding Dongs are better to a sexy man.

  Johnnie clears his throat. “For the record, Betty broke my heart. Right there in the middle of the attendance line. She told me she preferred Jimmy Rodgers because he brought her Ding Dongs and not Twinkies.”

  “And what, pray tell, does this have anything to do with why you offered to buy me a drink?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” He flashes a boyish smile. “But I thought it might keep you here a little longer so it was worth a shot.”

  “Ah, clever and handsome.”

  “It’s a hard combination to beat.” He taps his glass against mine. “You should try it.”

  All I can do is shake my head and smile into my drink. Is this flirting? Is he actually flirting with me?

  It feels weird and exciting and yet, I just broke up with Clint hours ago. I should not be flirting. I should be . . .

  “I’ll ask it again, Collins,” he murmurs just above the fray. “Why am I barking up the wrong tree?”

  I study this man who makes me feel uncomfortable in all the best kinds of ways. I know the last thing I need right now is to stand here and flirt with him, and the best way to prevent it is to be dead honest. A player like him will run at the first sight of what’s perceived to be an emotionally unstable woman.

  “Because I just broke up with my boyfriend. Anything with me would be a rebound and we know how those go.”

  He doesn’t flinch. “Messy. Complicated. Fleeting.” He smirks and gives a shrug as if he’d be up for the task. “Rebounds can be a good thing.”

  Well, that just backfired.

  And why am I glad that it did?

  “Or they can be a disaster,” I counter.

  “Not if you pick the right person to rebound with.”

  “Let me guess, you like to play the part because of the fleeting portion of your answer? Less strings. No attachment.”

  “That and the great sex.”

  “Should I assume that you provide them with the great part of that sentence?”

  “We’ll just say I’m a definite, contributing factor,” he says with zero shame.

  “You sure think highly of yourself.”

  “It’s not my fault women aren’t looked after properly. I mean, if a man can’t find his way around a woman’s body . . . is he even a man?”

  I snort and roll my eyes.

  “Are you telling me I’m wrong? Are you telling me that your ex cared about your needs as much as you did his? Was sex a duty and not something you looked forward to?”

  Yes. I scream the word in my head as I think of Clint and how boring sex had gotten. Lay down. Spread legs. Moan and fake it. He groans and rolls over. And then how I’d consider if it was worth bothering to finish myself off after his breathing evened out and his soft snores filled the room. Mostly? It wasn’t.

  Then again, maybe it had always been boring. Maybe I had loved him so much at the beginning that I overlooked the lackluster sex. And then as time progressed and animosity set in, I just participated rather than enjoyed it.

  “Huh.” It’s the only thing he says but rest assured it sounds like, you know I’m right.

  “How long were you with him?”

  “Two years.”

  “Two years with the same person? Christ.”

  “Monogamy not your thing?”

  “Didn’t say that.” He gives a half-hearted shrug and shifts on his feet.

  “You didn’t have to. You implied it.”

  “You make a lot of assumptions,” he murmurs. He places a finger on the condensation about to slide from my glass then lifts it to his mouth and licks it off.

  My attention is drawn to his tongue. Hell, any woman with a pulse would be.

  “Just as I’m sure you’ve made them about me.”

  “And what assumptions do you think I’ve made about you?” He’s bumped from behind and takes a step closer to me. He smells of fresh air and the outdoors. It’s a subtle scent but one that owns my attention nonetheless.

  Much like he does.

  “Hmm. That I’m easy. That I’m so desperate for attention that I’m here in a bar looking for it any way I can find it.” I purse my lips and stare at him as I try to figure out what else to say. “That you sure as hell hope I like Starbucks so you can take me there in the morning.”

  “Starbucks?” He coughs out a perplexed laugh. “You just lost me, Collins.”

  “In case you forget my name since I’d probably become one among many of your one-night conquests, so the name part might get a bit foggy. It lets you save face. It’s better for you if the barista asks my name to put on my order than if you do.”

  Johnnie stares at me with a dumbfounded expression. But his smile mesmerizes me and the amusement in his eyes has me wanting more of his attention.

  “That’s actually quite brilliant.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So do you?” he asks.

  “Do I what?”

  “Like Starbucks?”

  There’s something about him that makes me feel daring. Comfortable. A little not like myself. I lean in close to him and whisper in his ear. “I’m an Americano with two sugars kind of girl, but I doubt you’d forget the name Collins.”

  Quit while you’re a
head, Sutton. You might be pulling off the mysterious and flirty thing but it won’t last. You’re seconds away from devolving into the awkward, fumbling idiot, so take the win and walk away while you can.

  And with that exact thought, I take my first step, trip over something—probably my own feet in the universe’s way of letting me know I’m not all that cool—and fall toward him. My hand lands on his crotch seconds before my face almost collides with his shoulder.

  But I catch myself. Somehow, I gain leverage by pushing against his crotch and shoving myself backwards. He emits a grunt followed by a grimace, and as I steady myself, marveling at how I didn’t spill my drink while registering the exact size of what I felt beneath his pants.

  My cheeks flush, and it’s way easier for me to take a long sip of my drink than meet his eyes.

  “Jesus.” He chuckles. “If you wanted to test the goods, all you had to do was ask.”

  This time he earns the roll of my eyes. It’s the only thing I can think to do other than die of embarrassment. “You really need to work on getting better pickup lines.”

  “And you need to work on making better assumptions.”

  Our eyes meet, hold, assess. “Are you telling me I’m wrong?” I ask, suddenly on the defensive. “That you’re not here on the prowl? Looking for a good time with a willing woman? Thinking you’ve found an easy target with me?”

  “An easy target? You? Hardly.” He gives a quick shake of his head but his eyes tell me there is interest there.

  Interest I both want and don’t know how to feel about.

  This is all new to me. Foreign. Being hit on in a club. Wanting to be hit on in a club.

  Desire in general.

  What the hell do I do next?

  Live a little. Enjoy feeling attractive and wanted.

  Nerves rattle around inside of me as my bravado wanes.

  “And for the record, I’m in town for work. Figured I’d grab a few drinks and relax before having to deal with my partners tomorrow.”

  “I take it you don’t like them?”

  He purses his lips for a beat before answering. “It’s complicated.”

  “Isn’t everything?” I shift on my feet. “Thank you for the drink. It was nice meeting you, Johnnie. Good luck with your partners tomorrow and more importantly, in your quest to find your morning Starbucks date.”

  “Where’s the fun in that, Collins?” He takes a step closer.

  “I know rejection isn’t something you’re used to, but yes, I came here to celebrate my newly single status and my huge promotion at work with my friend. And now I’m going to return to that celebration.”

  “A promotion? Nice. Congrats.” He taps his glass to mine.

  “Yes. Thank you. They’re over there.” I motion to the velvet-roped area where Lizzy is sitting in the center of a group of guys. He looks to them and then back to me.

  “Go celebrate then.”

  “I will.”

  “Off you go.”

  “I’m going.”

  “Then why aren’t your feet moving?”

  Because I don’t want them to.

  I should want them to. I should want the hell away from all men. I should be traumatized after what I allowed Clint to do to me . . . but it feels so good to flirt. So good to see a man look at me with desire. So incredible to be turned on . . . that my feet don’t want to move.

  “Well?”

  Panic strikes.

  Sheer and utter panic.

  “Who would have you if you left me, Sutton? No one else will find you attractive.”

  “I will,” I say. “Right now.”

  Keeping my nerves in check, I walk past him and toward the first exit, every step urgently hoping my brain will stop replaying Clint’s vicious words. Shoving the door open, I welcome the sudden silence, the cool air on my face, and the immediate distance between me and a man who flusters me in ways I’ve never experienced.

  It’s been two years since you’ve flirted, Sutt. It’s okay to be unnerved and unsettled and not sure how to feel.

  Deep breath.

  Slow, deep breaths.

  I look around the dimly lit alley where people come and go a few feet from me and welcome the moment’s peace to gather my bearings and not feel like more of an idiot for running from Johnnie Walker.

  “What are you doing?” I mutter to myself. What woman walks away from a man like that? Why can’t I allow myself to enjoy something a little forbidden and let loose after two years of whatever it was?

  Go back in there, Sutton.

  You deserve to feel good after getting the promotion today.

  Go back and see where the night takes you.

  You deserve to feel something exciting after feeling so numb for so long.

  Do one more thing for yourself.

  I laugh at myself, my new motto (apparently), and draw in a deep breath to fortify my courage before I do something completely out of the ordinary and wildly inappropriate. The problem? When I go to open the door, it’s locked. Clearly, they don’t want random people walking in from outside who haven’t paid the cover charge.

  I’m a few steps down the alley toward the front entrance of Club Coquette when the door is shoved open behind me. “Collins.” I turn to see him standing there, framed in the light of the door closing at his back while goosebumps chase over my skin. “Don’t go.”

  My bravado returns as he closes the distance and stops right in front of me. “I thought you didn’t beg,” I say.

  He emits the sexiest groan before he pushes me against the wall at my back and takes the kiss he’s been working for all night.

  And holy hell can this man kiss.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sutton

  Nine Hours Ago

  My body burns—every muscle, every nerve ending, every inch of my skin—as our mouths brand and tongues taste and teeth nip. If I thought our kisses in the club’s alley and then in the backseat of our taxi to his impressive suite at The Mark were incredible, I was severely underestimating the talent of this man.

  And I’m definitely not complaining.

  But now as his hands slide down to cup my ass while we stumble our way into his suite, all I can think about is how I want more. Him naked. Him filling me. Him fucking me.

  Desire this intense is completely new to me, and I plan to revel in every damn second of it.

  Alcohol and the lack of inhibition it brings me is more than welcome as we discard our clothes in a flurry of movements. My dress. His shirt. My bra. His pants. Each one kicked or thrown aside without thought as our lips continue to find one another’s and our hands begin to explore.

  My hands immediately go to his strong shoulders, run down abs I can’t see in the dim light but can feel ridge after ridge of. Impatient, I slip my hand beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs where his more than impressive bulge is all but testing the integrity of its fabric. He’s warm and hard and thick and the feel of him only makes the ache to have him even sweeter.

  He dips down and out of reach so that his mouth can languish on my breast. My hands, desperate to have a purpose, thread through his hair. His tongue circles my nipple before his lips close over it and he sucks. The soft moan that is low in my throat becomes strangled as his hand finds its way beneath the waistband of my panties. His fingers part me, sliding between the slick flesh he finds there, and his groan melds with my quick intake of air.

  “All this for me?” he murmurs against my skin as he laces open-mouthed kisses back up to the curve of my neck. I don’t speak, can’t, because my focus is on the feel of his hair between my fingers, the warmth of his breath on my neck, and the utter bliss as he lifts my foot onto a nearby chair before tucking a finger into me.

  My breath catches and my knees become pliant as he slides that finger back out and up to my clit. He gently rubs over the bundle of nerves there so that I’m practically pushing my pussy into his hand to do more, to make me feel more. With each addition of friction, sensations ignite fireworks within my core.

  His mouth finds mine again. “You didn’t answer me, Collins,” he murmurs between kisses. “I asked you if this is all for me.”

  My brain is trying to fire but it’s so focused on his fingers. How they slide back between my seam. How they push into me and hit exactly where they need to hit inside me.

  I’m shocked into the now when Johnnie fists his hand in my hair and pulls my head back. My mouth falls open and my neck is exposed as I’m forced to look into those amber eyes that are inches from mine.