Heat (19 page)

I hoped so anyway.

Otherwise, I was going to have to step up my game.

I was going to get into her pants this summer.

Come hell or high water.

“Jesus, Mouse looks gooooooood.”

I glanced at Brett. He was annoying me, even if it was an understatement. Nev looked more than good. She looked phenfuckingnominal.

This time she was wearing a skirt. A demure, fluttery skirt that looked like it could fly up in a breeze. I started hoping for a breeze.

I smiled at her when she looked my way. Her friend immediately dragged her over to say hi. I almost laughed. The plain girls were so predictable.

“Hi!”

“Clay, you remember Frannie right?”

“Frannie. Right. What are you guys doing?”

“Celebrating! I’m taking Nevvie out for ice cream.”

I tilted my head, staring at the blush that tinged Nevada’s cheeks.

“What are you celebrating
Nevvie
?”

She glared at me, glancing at Brett and Peter.

“I got the job.”

“At the club?”

She nodded.

“Brett, Peter say hi.”

“Hey Mouse.”

Brett kicked Peter.
 

“Hey Nevada. You look, ah, different.”

She looked at him like he was an idiot. Which he was. It was hard not to like her in that moment.

A lot.

A lot more than I wanted to.

“Thanks I guess?”

Brett meanwhile was digging himself into a deeper hole.

“Yeah, you look hot. Like mega hot.”

She rolled her eyes at him. I was choking back a laugh. Life was about to get very interesting for little Miss Nevada Jones. She did not know what was about to hit her.

But not with any of these idiots.

With me.

“Yeah okay, we’re gonna go and get ice cream now.”

“Cool. There’s a party this weekend at the lake. Saturday. You should come.”

Nevada looked noncommittal. Her friend though, looked over the moon. This was something to remember. If you wanted to get to Nevada, you went through Frannie.

“Bye Nevvie. Bye Frannie.”

Her friend tittered as I waved at them coquettishly. I barely noticed. Like every other red blooded male in the vicinity, I was busy watching Nevada Jones walk away.

Nevada

“He likes you! I know he likes you.”

“No he doesn’t. He’s just like that.”

“Like what?”

I shrugged.
 

“He’s a player.”

“But he likes you. Trust me.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t kick me out of bed. Then again, he probably would. Especially since I have no clue what the hell I’m doing.”

Frannie wiggled her eyebrows at me.

“Maybe he could teach you. Guys like that.”

“Um, no. I’m not about to give my V card to a manwhore. No matter how pretty he is.”

Frannie sighed dramatically.

“He is pretty though. Admit it. You can’t have outgrown your crush that fast.”

I sighed. She had me there.

“Maybe not. But still, it’s not going to happen.”

“Uh huh. Talk to me in September. Do you want sprinkles on your cone?”

I nodded. I loved coming to the Sweet Shop on Main street. We’d been coming here since we were kids. We more or less always got the same thing. Chocolate ice cream for her, and a vanilla softie cone for me. With chocolate sprinkles. Every time.

It was kind of predictable, I know. But it was also comforting. And cheap.
 

Frannie came from a wealthy family but she had her own problems. They just had nothing to do with money. Being heavy, shy and completely left to her own devices at home had made her socially awkward to an extreme.

Add to this her crazy kinky hair, ‘the nest’ as she called it. She never even bothered to do anything with it. Not after a disastrous flat iron incident at the age of 13 which left her with a singed forehead and hair that broke off at different random lengths all over her head.

Of course, no one who saw her as ‘Freaky Frannie’ had any clue what a sweetheart she was. Or how smart. Or insightful. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend.

My mother looked after both of us most weekends growing up. Fran was practically a sister to me. And she knew all about my school girl crush on Clayton. We used to spy on him with his friends by the pool.

She wasn’t going to drop it, I knew.

As much as I loved her, I wished she would shut up about it. I was confused enough as it was.

We got our cones and stepped out into the street. I was licking the side of my cone when I saw him. Clay was across the street with a group of people. A girl was hanging on his arm. But his eyes were on me.

On my mouth.

Oh God.

He lifted his hand and rubbed it across his lip. I could tell what he was thinking. He was thinking about kissing me.

And more.

A lot more.

I had a sudden feeling that I was in deep trouble.

Because I was thinking the same thing.

Chapter Seven

Clay

I stared around the room at my father and Claire’s anniversary party. The event was to celebrate ten years of wedded bliss. As per usual with my father, it was a complete farce.

For one thing, they hardly ever touched each other. Except when someone was taking a photo. Then they inevitable moved towards each other slightly, and touched each others arms or something.

It was phony looking as hell.
 

Claire might be the perfect society wife but they had zero chemistry.

I saw Nev’s mom Dana talking with some of my father’s business partners. Then I glanced at my dad. Then I glanced back.

He was staring at her. And not in an impersonal manner. My Father looked almost… soft.

A shot of recognition went through me at that expression. It was a lot like the way he used to look at my mother.
 

Holy shit.

My father was in love with Dana?

I felt an immediate sense of resentment. He couldn’t be bothered to love his own son. Or his own wife. But he loved his fucking executive assistant / property manager???

I downed my drink and headed to the bar. I winked at the bartender and grabbed the bottle of bourbon and some ice for my glass. Then I went outside to sit by myself on the patio.

The light was getting dim. Softly glowing lanterns were strategically placed outside on the veranda. I could watch the shit show going on inside and be more or less left to my own devices.

People came and went as I slowly worked my way through the bottle. I was starting to feel good, almost as if none of this external bullshit could touch me. That’s when I saw her.

Nevada was working her way through the room, a silver tray in her hand. Her beautiful face was blank but I could tell she wasn’t enjoying this. Her hair was tied back neatly in a french braid.

And she was wearing a uniform.

A fitted black skirt with a white blouse. A tiny little apron covered her front. Black patent leather pumps were on her feet.

Dear Jesus.

My dick lurched to attention, which was admirable considering how drunk I was. It pressed against my pants, practically clawing it’s way out to get to her.

To get inside her.

Now. Right now.

Yesterfuckingday.

I poured the remainder of the bourbon into my glass and headed into the house to get my woman. And she was mine. She always had been.

Why did it take me so fucking long to see it?

Besides, if my dear Father could sleep with the help, so could I.

Nevada

I held the tray aloft and put another used plate on it. I was only cleaning up. I had yet to be trusted with a full glass of anything or an hors d’oeuvres.

It was exactly the sort of party that made me uncomfortable growing up. Not that I’d been invited to many. But my mother and I always attended the Westfield’s Christmas party. And sometimes other holidays. Like Thanksgiving. And the Fourth of July, which was actually kind of fun.

Mr. Westfield had his own fireworks most years. People sat out on the veranda and watched them while sipping cocktails. I usually found a quiet spot and watched alone or with Frannie.

I knew it was childish but I loved fireworks. They made me feel like anything was possible, kind of like I did on Christmas mornings as a kid. Before our lives had gone to hell.

Bringing me back to this particular hell.

I walked through the room, feeling invisible. Trying to sink into the carpet. Clay had been right. I’d crossed over into a different realm by taking this job. Sure it was just one time, but I felt painfully uncomfortable at the thought of crossing paths with him or any of his friends.

Thankfully, that had yet to happen.

I scooted into the servants hallway and headed for the kitchen. My tray was full. I was pretty sure I’d end up doing dishes at some point. I wasn’t really looking forward to that.

I bumped into someone and looked up.

My stomach did a little flip flop.

My luck had just ran out.

Clay’s bright blue eyes were scanning me appreciatively.

“I approve.”

“Excuse me?”

“I was wrong. You look incredible in that uniform. I would let you serve me all day.”

He leaned forward as I stiffened in shock. One arm braced against the wall and the other reached out to stroke my cheek.

“And night.”

“Clay! Not cool. I’m trying to work.”

He stepped back and toasted me with an overfull glass of booze. Bourbon I thought, not that I knew much about alcohol. I tried to brush past him but instead he grabbed me and backed me against a door. I was trying not to drop the tray of waterford crystal glasses or fine porcelain plates. That’s how I missed him turning the knob and opening the door behind me.

The next thing I knew I was in a dark pantry. Alone. With Clayton Westfield.

A very, very drunk Clayton Westfield.

He took the tray from my hands and shoved it onto the counter. He looked at me hungrily for a spilt second. And then he pounced.

His hands were on my hips, dragging me against his body. His lips found mine. I opened my mouth for air- out of surprise- and his tongue swooped inside my mouth.

I stopped thinking at that moment. The feel of him against me was overwhelming. His arms felt so powerful and strong around me. Wonderful really. He leaned over me, molding his body against mine. His hand slipped down, yanking my thigh up to his waist. Then he maneuvered himself between my legs so that I could feel him.

Oh God.

Clay was hard.

Really, really hard.

I heard a soft, needy whimpering sound and realized it was coming from me. My hands were all over his chest, shoulders and arms. I’d waited a long time to touch him, and even though I knew it was a bad idea, I couldn’t seem to help myself.

“Jesus Nev, you feel good.”

He came up for air and was staring down at me. He looked perplexed, hungry and very, very horny. For me. At least I knew for sure now that it was for me.

He dipped down a little and scooped his hips up, circling his cock against me. I felt him slide the skirt of my maids uniform upwards and grind himself into my panties. His fingers traced the edge of them.

“I can’t believe I am finding Grannie Panties this fucking hot. Promise me you’ll never wear a thong Nev. I’m not sure I would survive it.”

“I hate thongs.”

He laughed and kissed me again, his tongue swirling into my mouth. He had one hand on my ass, holding me in place so he could work himself against me. His other hand was moving restlessly upwards until it closed over my breast.

We moaned in unison at the contact.

Then he pulled away a little bit and reached down.

He was sliding my panties down.

That’s when it hit me. Clayton Westfield was trying to fuck me in the servants pantry. He was going to try and fuck me. Here.

Oh hell NO.

“Stop!”

“What? I thought you wanted this Nev?”

His hands froze but his cock was still pulsing against my pussy. I felt naked, exposed. I felt really, really pissed off.

I reached for his chest and pushed.

“Get off me Clay. I’m not fucking you in a fucking closet.”

He grinned at me, not letting go of my hips.

“So let’s go upstairs.”

“No! You are really predictable you know that?”

“It’s no big deal. You want me. And I want you.”

I stared at him, angry red splotches on my cheeks. He was right. I did want him. The bastard.

“What’s the matter Mouse? Are you still a virgin or something?”

I said nothing but something in my face must have given it away. His eyes widened.

“Holy shit girl how the hell did that happen?”

He laughed drunkenly.

“Or should I say, not happen!”

He leaned forward and breathed into my ear.

“I will be very happy to relieve you of your virginity Nevada Jones.”

I held very still, humiliation coursing through my veins.

He started messing with my panties again and I shoved him. Hard.

Clay’s big eyes widened in shock.

“Okay, okay. Jesus Nev!”

He stared at me as I grabbed the tray and brushed past him. I was close to tears as I hurried down the hallway to the kitchen. I needed to unload this tray and get back to work. Really all I wanted to do was run somewhere and hide.

And cry my fucking eyes out.

Not because he had touched me like that.

Because I’d wanted him to.

I hadn’t wanted him to stop either. A big part of me wanted him to keep going. All the way.

Yes, even though he was a jerk pawing at me in a pantry.

I could still smell him all over me. Bourbon, yes, but also fresh and clean… just
him
. I could still feel his lips on mine. I could still feel his cock.

His very large cock.

Damn him.

I spent the rest of the party avoiding Clay. He was getting increasingly wasted, sitting in corners and staring at me balefully.
 

I’d definitely pissed him off.

It was better than the alternative.

Safer.

Because if he tried to fuck me again, I wasn’t sure I would have the strength to stop him.