Eight Dates With Romance: An S. L. Scott Valentine's Day Collection (9 page)

I look back and there’s two hundred dollars on the seat we just vacated. The driver waves just as Dalton takes my hand, and we run to an island in the middle of The Strip. “We’re not supposed to stop here,” I say, worried we’ll get in trouble, or worse, hit by a car.

It’s barely wide enough for the two of us to stand there, but he says, “I know, but look up. Look around, Holliday. We’re in the middle of it all, the entire Strip.”

Holding tight to his side so I don’t fall off the small curb, I look up and then around and smile. “Wow. What a view.”

He surprises me by kissing me all of a sudden. And if I didn’t know better, I would swear in that moment in time, the entire world revolved around us.

“
I
f I tell
you all my tricks they won’t work anymore. So let’s just say I like to surprise my dates and do something unexpected, something special just for them.”

~ Johnny Outlaw

“
I
’ve never been
on a date to a 7-11 before,” I say, squinting under the bright fluorescent lights of the convenience store.

“
S
adly
,” Dalton says, looking at me over his shoulder, “I have.”

Checking out the goods he’s eyeing up, I laugh and hand him a Twix. “I’m getting hungry.”

“I offered to buy you a fancy French meal earlier, but you …” He leans down and kisses my neck adding a little sucking action that gives me goosebumps. “decided you were hungry for other things, like me.” He stands up all proud. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I still am. So get your treats and let’s get out of here. You’ve got me all worked up and I’m starting to feel like everyone is staring at us.”

“It probably just feels that way.” We both scan the place. “Correction,” he says, “everyone
is
staring at us. Just follow me and stay close.”

“That sounds so ominous. Are we robbing the place?”

Chuckling, he says, “Get your sweet ass up there and let’s buy this stuff. Do we have everything?”

“More than we need, but if they had Big Red, I’d be all over that.”

“Wow, I haven’t had one of those since I was a kid back home.”

“I crave them sometimes. Reminds me of my childhood.”

“Who knew a soda could hold that much power,” he says, as we step into line. When it’s our turn, Dalton dumps all the junk food onto the counter. Other than one can of Monster Energy, a Gatorade, a Twix bar—large, an extra-long Slim Jim, and a big bag of Bugles hitting the counter, the entire store is silent and still staring at us.

He pays and grabs the bag in one hand, my hand in the other and we hurry out the door. “We should get going or people will follow us.”

We choose to walk down a dark alley on the back side of a large hotel, lurking in the shadows where occasional car lights find us.

I stay close to his side, a little nervous. “Do you think this is safe? I mean, you may be famous, but we could still be attacked back here.”

Stopping, he pulls me closer to the building. We keep walking, but he explains, “I’m not afraid, Holliday.”

“What if they have a knife or a gun?”

“Then we should walk faster.”

“Real comforting.”

We take a right onto a main road where the sidewalks are wide and not crowded. There are enough people around to make it feel a little less dodgy, but vacant enough that one of the biggest stars in music today can go without notice. We share the Monster drink as we walk, passing it back and forth, and talking about our pasts.

“When did you lose your virginity?” he asks with a sly grin aimed in my direction.

“Upstairs, earlier … with a security guard,” I deadpan.

He follows a loud laugh by saying, “You’re such a liar.”

“Okay,” I say now laughing too. “It was high school. Senior year, after prom.”

“No way,” he chuckles. “That’s such a cliché. I expected something more unique from you.”

“Don’t hold back or anything. Sorry to disappoint,” I reply sarcastically. “How about you?”

“The back of my Ford truck. I set it up with an air mattress in the back and parked in a field. I stole a bottle of red wine from my parents and played Barry White on the recommendation of this guy Steve from school who scored with all the girls.”

I smile. “I love that you went to so much effort. Tell me about her.”

“You want to know about my ex-girlfriend?” He seems surprised.

“I want to know about you and she’s a part of your past, so tell me about her.”

“Okay. Her name was Patty O’Toole. She was head cheerleader and with a name like that, she was lucky she was hot. Every guy in school wanted to date her—”

“But you got her.”

“I got her because I was a right fielder and star player. After I was injured, she started dating Ricky Brouchard, my best friend and replacement on the ball field.”

“So did the Barry White work?”

“I think it was more the wine. There was nothing smooth about my moves back then. We had sex and then I puked over the side of the truck bed.”

“Very romantic.”

He chuckles. “I’ve learned a few things since then.”

“I can vouch for that.” I take a drink from the can and then see the hotel sign ahead. “There it is.”

Anxious to get back to the hotel, he takes my hand and we pick up our pace. I can tell he wants to continue what we started in the restaurant as much as I do.

As we approach the parking lot of the hotel, he stops us, and says, “People will recognize me in here. If we get separated or get crowded in, go to my room and wait for me.” He pulls his room key out of his wallet. “Here, take this.”

Sticking it into my back pocket, I say, “Will you be all right?”

“I’m used to it, but I don’t want you hurt and I can never judge how these things will go.”

“I’ll take the bag so you have your hands free.” He hands it to me and I ask, “Why does it feel like we’re going into battle?”

He doesn’t answer, but looks ahead. I see his eyes focused forward, his shoulders tensing as if on high alert. “Meet me at the room. Promise me.”

The situation hovers over our heads like a rain cloud. “I promise.”

Under the hotel carport, the chatter starts. It grows as we approach the doors.
Then they descend.
Out of my peripheral, I see him swarmed. Dalton stops, his eyes connecting with mine for a brief second before he turns his attention to signing shirts and anything else people shove his way, including their bodies. I see the transformation before my eyes. The Dalton who was just holding my hand is now all business and in full Johnny Outlaw mode—laughing, posing, owning everybody’s attention in the vicinity.

Keeping my promise, I go, slipping inside undetected by any of his fans.

Just as I step into the elevator, a couple walks in behind me. He’s in a T-shirt that has the sleeves ripped off and wearing a bandanna around his head. She’s dressed very risqué, but we’re in Vegas where anything goes.

On the other hand, I catch a glimpse of myself in the shiny brass elevator walls as I’m entering Dalton’s keycard and pushing the button. The guy does the same but pushes the floor below mine. I stand there mortified that I’m just now remembering that I washed my face before I went out with Tracy tonight. I have no make-up on, my hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and I’m wearing one of my old T-shirts. And yet, this guy smiles at me.

If I could ball up nice and tiny and disappear right now, I would. I just look down at my slip-on espadrilles and pray they are too busy making out to notice me.

“You with Outlaw?” The guy’s voice is rough, like he smokes too many cigarettes.

When I look up, they’re both staring at me, the girl’s expression a lot less friendly than his.

“You’re with Johnny?” she asks as if it’s the most shocking thing she’s ever heard, or disgusting. I’m not sure.

My defenses kick in, so I stand a little taller. “Yes.”

The guy smiles, lazy like a stoner. “Dude.”

I’m not sure what that means, but it seems like a good thing. The doors open and he walks out. She’s draped on him like a pelt, but takes her time to glare at me in disgust one last time when she passes.
It does wonders for my ego.

The doors close and I get off one floor higher. I let myself into the suite and walk to the bar, setting the junk food bag down. There’s a fruit tray along with a basket of fruit on the dining table with a note.
Dear Mr. Outlaw, Fantastic show. Thanks for coming to Las Vegas. We hope you enjoy the rest of your stay. Sincerely, The Palatial Hotel Staff.

Not sure when Dalton will walk in, I set the note down and dig into the platter. I’m hungry and can’t imagine he’ll take this with him tomorrow. I slip onto the table, letting my legs dangle, waiting. As the minutes pass, I start to feel a little ridiculous, a little stupid, and doubt starts creeping in.

Dalton enters, startling me when the door flies open. It bounces back from the impact and closes behind him. His energy is different than when he performs, more like coming down from an adrenaline rush rather than riding high on one. His eyes lock on mine and he comes toward me as I bite into another strawberry. He tosses a handful of condoms on the table beside me. I gulp.

With strawberry still on my lips, I glance at the condoms, then ask, “How many girls were you planning to sleep with this weekend?”

“I wasn’t. My bandmates gave them to me because we already used what I packed.”

My mouth is licked and the strawberry stolen from between my lips. “Fuck, Angel. You’re delicious.” The tray is pushed across the table and the fruit basket knocked off entirely. Leaning over me, he asks, “You ready for me?”

Surprised by the commotion, I nod, suddenly turned on and food forgotten.

“Get naked. Now,” he demands. Leaning back on my elbows, I tilt my head to the side and start to pull the rubber band from my ponytail, but he grabs my wrist. “Leave the hair up.”

Shit.

I unbutton my jeans, sliding the zipper nice and slow, the sexual tension already thick in the room. Music starts playing as he sets his phone on the bar behind him and I lift my ass up off the wood tabletop, balancing on my elbows. He takes my shoes off and then my jeans, yanking them off by the hem, pulling hard enough for me to end up straddling his waist. Dalton looks down at my exposed lace panties while rubbing his thumb across his bottom lip several times in a calculating fashion.

When his eyes meet mine, my desire flares to life, and he asks, “So I’m going to ask you nicely, do you want to keep these panties?”

I know how to respond this time. “No.”

“Right fucking answer.” He rips them on one side and then the other, exposing me. Bending down, he licks me, his tongue slips deeper and my head hits the table with a thud. He squats at the end of the table and pulls me even closer, draping my legs over his shoulders. His tongue double thrusts inside me while sucking where I want him most.

My fingers weave into his hair and pull unintentionally as he continues pleasuring me with his mouth. Closing my eyes, I feel every nerve he flames and hear his every breath and moan mingling with mine. My hands grip as he holds me tighter. He doesn’t relent. He sucks, and with my back arched, my orgasm hits me hard.

I squeeze my thighs together, his head trapped between until the vibrations cease. I fall back, my body weak from the release. I hear him undoing his belt then unbuttoning his jeans. It’s not going to pretty or graceful. He’s going to fuck me just like I asked him to earlier, and my body trembles in anticipation from the thought.

When I look up, our eyes connect and we still, only for a quick moment, and I read something deeper in his expression than either of us would say. He takes a condom, putting it on before his fingers slip between my legs. Bringing them back to his mouth, he slowly sucks them in. Reaching down, he touches me again and guides himself inside. Grabbing hold of my outer thighs, he pushes forward until his pelvis is pressed against mine. A sharp breath is forced out. I take a deeper one, then encourage him, “Move.”

His eyes are closed; his face is contorted in his own sweet agony. When told to move, he starts moving. Thrusting. Fucking. He gives no reprieves, takes what he wants, what he desires and needs. His hands plant firmly down on the wood surface and I hold the edge of the table while wrapping my legs around him, holding me in place. His shoulders are strong, every muscle in his arms working toward the common goal. “Fuck, you feel good, Angel.”

I grab onto his shoulders and he lifts me up, still inside of me and moves us to the edge of the kitchen counter. I push against him, our rhythm out of sync, making me feel every thrust even deeper. The sound of our bodies together is an aphrodisiac for all the
more
we spoke about.

Suddenly my hair is grabbed and pulled back, exposing my neck to him. His body quickens as his teeth scrape along the front of my throat and downward, his tongue teasing the dip at the base. “I’m gonna come so hard,” he says. I’m getting close, but by his erratic movements, he’s closer. He grabs me by the ass and slams into me, feeding his orgasm. “Fuck!”

His body stills against mine then he drops forward, resting his head on my chest. “Fuck,” he repeats. Stroking his hair from his forehead, I kiss the top of his head. Turning, he puts his chin on my chest and says, “Be careful. I can get used to this.”

“It could be habit forming,” I reply.

He helps me down, holding my arm as my legs adjust. After a few minutes in the bathroom, I come out and see him lying on the couch. I crawl under the blanket and snuggle to him. Our breathing hasn’t regulated yet, though it’s calmer than before. I rest my ear on his chest, loving the sound of his thumping heartbeat.

A few minutes pass before I peek up at him and whisper, “I really lost my virginity junior year in the parking lot after at a Puddle of Mudd concert.”

His smile shows his struggle not to laugh. “You lied about losing your virginity?”

“I was embarrassed that you’d think I was a slut for being seventeen, and worse, having bad taste in music.”

“You slept with me just hours after we met, so there’s that.”

“Nice,” I reply with a giggle, hitting him on the chest.

“And I’m definitely judging you by your choice in music.” He pulls me close and kisses the top of my head. “But you’re still fucking sexy as hell and I have a feeling your musical taste has improved since then.”

“It hasn’t. I still have one of their CD’s that I sneak and listen to sometimes and I have a couple from this little known band called The Resistance.” I smile against his chest, rubbing my finger over his abs.

“You already know I think that band sucks. I hear The Rolling Stones might tour. If they do, I’m taking you, so you can hear real music.”