“What do you think?” Gemmie hands me a mirror to see the back.
“I can’t believe you even have to ask.” I smirk. “It’s fabulous, as always.”
She knows she doesn’t have to ask, but I don’t think she’ll ever get tired of clients gushing over her talent.
My eyes cannot help but wander to Rogue Seduction as I leave Gemmie’s. The reflection on the window makes it hard to see, but it doesn’t look like the lights are on. Trick’s probably sticking needles into female voodoo dolls.
*
Rachel didn’t send me a dress this week. That’s code for either the dinner party is not receiving media attention that might be free publicity for her brand, or it means she’s in New York this weekend. That will make my father’s indiscretions easier to hide.
I stare at my strapless, red chiffon dress with silver, open-toed heels that are laid out across my bed as my door intercom buzzes. I slip on my white satin robe and answer the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Hey.”
I suck in a nervous breath and tighten the sash on my robe. “Trick?”
“Yes.” His word frugality astonishes me.
I buzz him in and hurry down the stairs just as he closes my front door. Faded jeans, black boots, fitted black T-shirt, and exposed tats on his lean, toned arms … he definitely needs to gay up.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” He shoves his hands in his pockets up to his leather wristbands.
“Sorry, I’m getting ready to leave soon—”
He walks up the stairs toward me. “I know.” He continues past me, looking left then right at the top of the stairs. Turning right, he proceeds down the hall to my bedroom and on through to my bathroom.
Never in my life have I literally chased after a guy so much—only Trick.
“What are you doing?”
He fumbles through my vanity drawers and makeup bags. “Come.” He gestures with his head, without looking at me.
“I’ve already done my makeup.”
He shoves aside the clutter on the vanity top. “Hop up.”
Blowing out an exasperated breath, I do as he commands.
“The dress on the bed, is that what you’re wearing?”
I nod as he pulls out some different brushes and eyeliner. He takes a step back and looks at me. I don’t like this part. My nerves fire with anxiety, and I can feel my skin begin to flush. Trick grips the collar of my robe and eases both sides down over my shoulders, leaving them bared along with some cleavage. My breath hitches.
Lip-twitch. Ass!
He steps forward nudging my legs apart with his, then steps between them so we’re so close I don’t know if the heat between us is his breath or mine.
“Close your eyes.”
Saliva pools in my mouth as the bristles of the brush tickle my skin, each stroke slow and seductive, sending a shivering wave of goose bumps erupting along my skin. Minty warm breath hovers so close to my lips I can almost taste it. I swallow hard again.
“Cold?” That voice. It’s a grinding friction against my erect nipples barely covered by my robe.
Another swallow. “A little.” I’m not. How can he not see that I’m burning up? His presence always brings a clash of sensations—a chilling sweat.
His left hand rests on my leg, his thumb touching the bare skin on my inner thigh where my robe has fallen away.
Oh my God! It’s taking superhuman power to keep my legs from wrapping around his waist. My hands clench my robe, keeping it from falling past my breasts. It’s his breath … the heat between us is his breath, because I cannot remember to breathe.
“I’m sorry.”
“Huh?” I pant.
Great! I’ve been reduced to one-syllable noises.
“My parents were—”
“Don’t.” I find my voice and open my eyes. His brows knit together. “I don’t want to be your charity case, or your therapy, or whatever this is between us. Gemmie told me that you basically despise women, so don’t torture yourself on my account. I’m sick of disingenuous relationships and—”
He covers my lips with his finger and shakes his head like I’m wearing a straitjacket and speaking in tongues. “As I was saying…” he lifts the brush back to my eye, forcing me to close both of them “…my parents ended up homeless when I was five. I grew up on the streets. Then one day shortly after my fifteenth birthday, I returned from school and they were gone. Over the next several months I checked all the shelters and churches, but there was no sign of them. Nobody had seen them or knew anything about them. It was as if they just vanished.”
He blots the corners of my eyes with the edge of a tissue. “Don’t. I don’t want your pity.”
I open my teary eyes and he continues to dab away the moisture. “It’s not pity. It’s compassion and there is a difference. Okay?”
His lips tighten into a frown. “You’re just … alright, Darby Carmichael.” A lip twitch!