We pull up to the valet area and are helped from the vehicle before being escorted through the grandiose front doors. I give the door attendant our names, and then wrap my arm around her tiny waist, leading her into the lavish great room. All of the traditional furniture has been removed, and the entire area has been set up to look like a casino. These types of parties are quite common throughout the circles Easton runs in, but this is the most extravagantly decorated one I’ve witnessed. Gaming tables of all kinds—poker, blackjack, roulette, and craps—lined with plush gold and burgundy felt are scattered across the room, each manned with a male and female attendant to oversee the games. Servers with trays of champagne and hor d’eoeuvres flit through the crowd of people, and a live band is set up in the back corner playing a familiar instrumental piece.
“Madden! I’m so glad you made it,” Easton’s voice assaults my ears as I feel a firm slap on the back.
Turning around, my brother and Emerson stand arm-in-arm directly behind me. He has a huge, goofy grin spread across his face, but she appears to be annoyed, and they are both staring blatantly at Blake.
“Easton, Emerson, good evening to both of you,” I greet them politely. “I’d like to introduce you to Blake Martin.”
Instead of shaking Blake’s outstretched hand, Easton pulls her into a hug and kisses her cheek. Emerson’s face goes from annoyed to pissed in response to her date’s actions, and I have to keep myself from laughing out loud.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Easton,” Blake says in her typically soft voice. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Don’t believe a thing my brother tells you,” he replies with a hearty laugh. “It’s all lies.”
Emerson steps forward in-between the two of them and plasters a fake smile on her face. “It’s great to see you again, Blake. I had no idea Madden was bringing our support team with him,” she states icily.
Before I can reprimand her for her rudeness, Blake completely surprises me with a scathing response of her own.
“Likewise, Emerson, a pleasure once again,” she retorts with a smirk, “and yes, as Easton’s assistant, you know as well as I do that’s what we support staffers do—make the boss-man happy in any way possible.”
I’m not sure who’s more shocked at Blake’s aloof remarks, but if I didn’t already want to fuck her brains out, I definitely would now. Whereas I want her to submit and allow me to take care of her in every way possible, the feisty way she just held her own up against the bitchy Emerson Lister was sexy as fuck. It appears there are many more layers to this exquisite young woman than I originally thought.
Finding my voice again, I nod my head slightly at the other couple as I place my hand against the small of Blake’s back. “We’re going to grab something to drink and engage in a few games. We’ll see you both later?”
Easton smiles and nods, while Emerson continues to stand in disbelief. “Sounds good, bro,” he says, “and I’m impressed.”
I lead Blake away from the two of them, and as soon as we’re out of earshot, I dip my mouth down to her ear to whisper, “You have no idea how beautiful you are, sweet girl.”
Looking up at me, she smiles innocently and mouths the words Thank you.
After we each get a drink and taste a few of the appetizers, we find a poker table that has two open seats together. I doubt she’s ever played Texas Hold ‘Em before, but I’m sure it won’t take her long to figure it out; plus, we aren’t playing for real money, just door prizes. Everyone at the table greets us with a smile and a warm welcome, and I immediately notice a starting guard for the Lakers sitting on the other side of her. I should attempt to strike up conversation with him, in hopes to discuss the gaming line, but I’m too worried about taking care of her and making sure she’s comfortable.
“Do you need me to explain the rules, or do you think you can pick it up on your own?” I ask quietly, not wanting to embarrass her.
“I’ll be fine,” she whispers back as the dealer distributes the first hand.
After she wins three of the first four hands, I wonder if she’s having a bit of beginner’s luck, but nearly an hour in, she’s taken nearly everyone at the table’s chips—including mine—and using terms I’ve never heard before, like ‘implied odds’ and ‘gutshot straight draw’. Throughout it all, she continues to scan the room every so often, as if she’s looking for someone she knows or expecting to see a familiar face. Perhaps she’s keeping an eye out for Emerson, but I’m not quite sure. She remains polite and courteous when anyone speaks to her, but it’s obvious she’s way out of her comfort zone in this room full of strangers. Yet again, another layer of Blake is revealed, and I add another slew of questions to my list to ask her once I get her alone.
As the night grows late, a booming voice over the speakers announces it’s time for some awards dealing with the charity, as well as a few speeches. Several people get up to talk about the money the event has raised, and to discuss how the proceeds from last year’s gala were spent. The final speaker to talk is the basketball player that was seated next to Blake for most of the evening. He talks about how the charity is near and dear to his heart, because his mom was an abused woman when he was growing up, and that it means so much to him now to be able to help other women in similar situations. Then, as he concludes his speech, he announces the winner for the main prize of the evening—a week-long trip for two to New York City, including tickets to see the Lakers and Knicks play in Madison Square Garden.
“And the winner is not only the best female poker player, but the best poker player period I’ve ever seen—Miss Blake Martin. Please come up here to collect your prize.”
Exuberantly, I turn to congratulate her, but she’s gone.
THE MOMENT THE GUY with the microphone says something about the “best female poker player”, my stomach freefalls into a pit of panicked trepidation and I bolt. I have no idea where I’m going, but there’s no way I can handle the attention of all those people on me. I knew I wasn’t ready for something like this; it was only a matter of time before it became too much for me to deal with. Throughout the evening, I’ve done my best to skim the crowd, but with everyone constantly wandering around, it was difficult to get a firm handle on all the guests here.
Soundlessly slipping through the first door I stumble upon, I walk out into the massive, lush backyard. A large geometric-shaped pool takes up the majority of the space, and is surrounded with perfectly trimmed hedges and colorful flowering bushes. Strategically placed lights are spread around the lawn, highlighting the Tuscan-style pergola off to the left. What the fuck am I doing here?
Sucking in a huge breath of fresh air, my nerves settle down a tiny bit, but I’m still a long way from calm. I hastily slip out of my heels and reach down to pick them up, knowing I’ll move faster and more quietly without them. Scampering across the grass to the right, trying to stay out of the lit areas, I make my way to the property line. Once I reach the back gate, I’m at a loss for what to do. I can’t very well hop over the fence in an evening gown, only to find myself in someone else’s yard. Grasping onto the black wrought iron fixture, I tilt my head back and stare at the starless sky, taking a few moments to compose myself.
“Blake? Is that you?” Madden’s worried voice cuts through the silent night a split-second before I hear his approaching footsteps in the grass. “What in the world are you doing out here? Why did you run away?”
Refusing to speak or to turn around to face him, I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing back the threatening tears. At this point, I’m sure this will be my one and only date with Madden, and I can only hope JDT doesn’t lose the contract over my neurotic behavior.
He continues to close the gap between us without demanding any answers. Stepping up behind me, his strong arms slip securely around my waist as his chest presses against the exposed skin of my back.
“It’s okay, sweet girl,” he whispers softly. “I’m right here.”
His presence assaults my senses, sooth
ing me on contact—a perfect combination of a citrusy, clean scent invading my nostrils, a warm, raspy voice murmuring comforting words against the sensitive skin just under my ear, and the close warmth of his body radiating through mine. For a moment, I forget why we’re out here—all of the people inside the house, and all of the reasons that sent me running from them disappear—and for the first time in forever, I feel safe and protected.
The backdoor to the house opens, and the voices of people wandering outside tears me from the tranquil, idyllic trance Madden lulled me into. My body tenses as the sound of reality crashes down around me, encompassed by the dreadful thought of returning to the party, but thankfully, his arms tighten around me in response.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says lowly, his face still nuzzled into my neck.
Nodding at his suggestion, he slowly releases me from his embrace, only to grab my hand and guide me through the yard and house, out to where the valet waits. He smiles and gives several people an acknowledging head bob as we make our way out, but we stop to talk to no one. It isn’t until we’re safely inside his car does he speak again.
“You’re coming home with me. It’s non-negotiable.”
“Blake, wake up. We’re here.” Madden’s low voice pulls me from my half-asleep state as he kills the car engine. “Come on, sweet girl. Let’s get you inside.”
Slowly, I open my heavy eyes and take a look around at my surroundings. My gaze doesn’t make it past his handsome face, concern and compassion both etched across it.
I smile slightly at him, still uncertain who this man really is and why he’s taken such an interest in me. After my disappearing act tonight, I was sure he’d want to drop me back off where he found me as soon as humanly possible. Why he brought me to his home, I’m not sure.
“Sorry,” I mumble, staring straight into his piercing blue eyes.
He doesn’t give me the opportunity to say what I’m exactly sorry for. “Shh, no need to apologize. We can talk later, when you’re rested and feeling up to it. Now, let’s get inside. You good to walk?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answer softly before opening the car door and climbing out.
He follows suit and is by my side in the blink of an eye, his hand once again guiding me with slight pressure at the small of my back. Peering up at the home, it’s difficult to get a clear picture due to the late hour, but I can tell it’s a cream-colored, two-story stucco home with a terracotta roof. Very California-esque. We enter through the back door, the one closest to the driveway, and walk directly into a modern kitchen with top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances.
“Welcome to my place. Please, make yourself at home,” he says once we are both inside. “Why don’t you sit at the island, and I’ll grab us a few drinks and snacks to take upstairs? Anything you like? Don’t like?”
Cautiously, I take a seat on one of the stools and watch him move comfortably around the kitchen. “I’m good with whatever. I’m easy to please.”
“You trust my selections?” he teases, looking over his shoulder and flashing me a playful grin.
Smiling back at him, thankful for his attempt to lighten the mood, I nod. The entire scene playing out before me is surreal in so many ways. I’m not even sure what to make of it anymore, so I’m going with what feels right. At lunch today, I was concerned about sharing an intimate dinner—a ‘date’ as he labeled it—with this astounding, yet extremely intimidating man; now, as midnight approaches, I’m sitting in his kitchen as he makes snacks for me after I had a mental breakdown and ran away from him at a charity gala. I know how to make a lasting impression, if nothing else.
“Come on, let’s go upstairs,” he commands, carrying a wooden tray loaded with an assortment of food and beverages.
I follow him up the stairs into what I assume is his bedroom, and as I wait for instruction on what to do next, I assess the area. It’s a good-sized room with all of the standard furniture and dressings—a king-sized platform bed draped in solid charcoal linens, with a nightstand on each side, a matching dresser and armoire, the windows covered with custom-made shutters, and a large flat-screen television hanging on the wall opposite from the bed. Clean and contemporary.
I’m slightly uncomfortable, not because I’m afraid he’s going to force himself on me or anything, but simply because I’m standing in his bedroom—his sanctuary—in an evening gown, wondering what in the world I’m doing here, or what happens next in this bizarre night. What in the hell am I doing here? Tuning into my thoughts, he walks over to his dresser and pulls out a white t-shirt and a pair of plaid boxers and offers them to me.
“The bathroom is right over there,” he explains as he points to the opposite side of the room. “Take a shower and put these on. You’ll feel better; I promise. Towels and facecloths are in the linen closet, and help yourself to anything else you need. I’ll shower and change in the guest bathroom and meet you back in here.”
“Thank you, but I can use the guest quarters,” I argue. “You use your own stuff.”
“Blake, get your ass in my bathroom before I carry you in there and strip you myself,” he warns.
Tentatively accepting the clothes from his outstretched hand, I scamper into his bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me with an exhausted sigh. The bathroom is a direct extension of the bedroom—minimal decoration, tidy and neat. I walk over to the mirror slowly and wince as I see the fatigued image reflecting back at me. I look like shit; no wonder he insisted I take a shower. My once purposely-messy updo is now nothing short of a bird’s nest, and faint black streaks under my eyes exist where the few tears I tried to hold back escaped anyway.
Still in disbelief of what I’m about to do, I wriggle out of my fancy dress and turn the shower on its hottest setting. After hastily removing all of the bobby pins from my hair, I grab a towel and washcloth from the narrow closet and step under the hot, forceful spray. Not wanting to take a long time, I hurriedly scrub my body from head to toe, taking only a few moments to revel in the scent of Madden’s orange juniper shampoo and body wash.
Turning off the water and emerging from the oversized, subway-tiled shower, I dry off just as speedily, forgetting about the scabbed over wounds on each side of my ribcage. I don’t want to put on the same thong panties I was wearing, and the dress didn’t allow for a bra, so I slip into his v-neck undershirt and boxers without any underclothes. The thought of his clothes rubbing against my most intimate body parts turns me on more than a little, but I force myself to stay focused and resolute about not having sex with him—not like this anyway.
I use the only comb I can find to pick through the tangles of my hair, and then spread toothpaste across my finger for a makeshift toothbrush, figuring something is better than nothing. Taking one last look at myself in the mirror before reemerging into his room, I concede it’s definitely an improvement, and more than that, I do feel one hundred times better.
Madden is lounging on his bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his back resting against the headboard, surrounded by the food he brought up and watching SportsCenter on TV when I step out of the bathroom. Shirtless with only pajama pants on, I’m now positive he can hear my thoughts, and he’s testing the vow I made to myself about not sleeping with him. He looks up at me and flashes his most charming smile, causing all kinds of alarms to go off in my head. I need to stay physically as far away from him as I can.
“Do you feel better?” he asks as his eyes sweep the length of my body, taking in every inch of my frail frame. More alarms sound as the fire begins to spread.
“I do, thank you,” I reply, standing frozen under the threshold. I’m trying not to gawk at him, but it’s damn near impossible. His torso isn’t overly muscular, but his pecs are defined, and even from across the room, the ripples in his abs are visible. A light patch of sandy hair dusts the center of his chest, and a darker trail extends from his belly button down into his pajama bottoms.
“Come over here and eat something,??
? he commands, patting the bed next to him. “As much as I’d like to, I’m not going to attack you.”
I do as he requests, still hesitant to get too close; however, he doesn’t give me the option once I’m on the bed, as he somehow picks me up and sets me in his lap so that I’m facing him, my legs astride his. I know I should be petrified, but I’m not; I’m enthralled by the way he makes me feel and forget to think. When I’m near him, he makes me feel safe in some strange, inexplicable way. Cupping my freshly-washed face in his gentle but strong hands, he stares into the depths of my eyes as if he’s trying to read all my deep, dark secrets, things I hope he’ll never know.
“Blake,” he says my name, more as a breath than a word. “When this happens between us—and it is inevitably going to happen—I want you to be one-hundred-and-ten percent definite about it…about me. I will prove my trustworthiness to you, no matter what it takes, and once you surrender, I will take care of you completely. I want you to be mine, but for now, slow and steady, sweet girl.”
BEFORE MY BRAIN CAN EVEN compute words like trustworthiness, surrender, or mine, his lips tenderly brush against mine, causing me to completely lose my train of thought. Drawing back slightly to look at me again, still holding my face in his hands, I whimper at his retreat. I’m frustrated with the tease of a kiss, a mere hint at the taste of him I now realize I crave so badly. One corner of his mouth curls up in a lopsided smirk, and his eyes gleam with a mischievous twinkle, my muffled cry confirming what he apparently already knew. As I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip to soothe the trail of tingles he left in his wake, his gaze darts down to my mouth and a low, carnal growl escapes from the back of his throat.
Time stops as he brings his soft lips back to mine. Patient yet purposeful, he kisses me as I’ve always dreamt about being kissed. Completely in tune with one another, our mouths part simultaneously, and as we breathe together as one, our tongues meet for the first time. His hands smoothly glide around the back of my neck and up into my wet hair, while mine splay widely across his bare, chiseled chest, our mouths moving in synchronized motions like each was made to compliment the other. The kiss comes to a natural, gradual end, and he presses his forehead to mine, murmuring, “Sweet, sweet girl.”