Terms of Surrender (3 page)
Nick didn't make her quake in her expensive designer shoes with fear and loathing, as had Ron. Strangely, she didn't fear Nick, not in the average sense of a smaller, weaker person fearing a larger, stronger opponent. She was more afraid of herself, the purely visceral reaction she had to him, the sexual awareness he provoked.
Nick took off his jacket, hung it on the back of the chair before her desk, rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, and rubbed his hands together.
Oh, hell.
Slany swallowed hard. The contrast of the white material against the deep bronze complexion of his forearms, the glint of a gold Italian link bracelet on his right wrist sent her stomach dipping, as if Nick was rubbing her clit between his thumb and forefinger rather than just innocuously clapping his hands together.
It just didn't take much to turn her on when it came to this man.
She tried to remind herself of the anger that suffused her earlier from Cameron Thorpe’s news about her working with Nick on Everwell.
Slany had grinned and nodded, silently seething as she swallowed down the director's spiel about being a team player, letting bygones be bygones and moving forward, recognizing the inherent command in his speech that she was going to be working with Nick, whether she wanted to or not.
"You know, Vega concurred with my idea to bring you in on this account. He said he
didn't trust anyone else in the agency to help him on a project of this magnitude except you."
Slany didn't know whether to be flattered that Nick thought that much of her or angry he hadn't thought to tell her the truth earlier when she'd stalked into his office.
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Gracie C. McKeever
"I might as well tell you now, Slany, and clear the air…"
She glared at him as he sat down in the chair across from her desk. "Yes?"
"I recommended you for this assignment."
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, more curious now than rankled.
"It wouldn't have made a difference or diffused your mood."
She couldn't honestly disagree and hated the man's
I-know-what's-best-for-you
attitude, hated that he seemed to know her well enough to anticipate her reactions in any given situation.
What she hated the most was that she still wanted him, despite his attitude.
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Terms of Surrender
"I'm going out to grab a smoke." Nick caught his oldest sister’s frown as he stood to leave, then glanced down at Brenda—the dinner guest he knew Angie and Freddie had invited as a date for him—and excused himself before heading to the back door.
The screen door closed with a soft snick behind him. He stood on the porch and took a deep breath, looking forward to his first smoke of the day.
He'd been trapped between his and Slany's offices most of the day earlier, too busy getting his ideas run through a ringer before finally getting grudging approval from Her Highness to even think about running out to catch a smoke.
Nick lit his Winston, inhaled deep, and glanced out at Freddie's freshly mowed lawn, wishing he could get as much satisfaction and enjoyment out of country living as his brother-in-law and sister did. Wished he could be as content in the suburbs as they were. He, however, liked the feel of concrete beneath his feet—not grass and dirt, unless he was playing on a football field or baseball diamond. He loved the frenetic pace of the city, always had, and his lifestyle and profession reflected this preference.
Nick took another puff as the screen door opened and closed behind him. Within a second, Angie joined him on the porch, standing on his left and out of the range of his fumes and plumes.
"You're being rude, Nicholas."
Shit, when she elongated any of her siblings' names, rather than use the intimate shortened version, Nick knew there was an unwanted talking-to on the horizon.
He'd be damned if she'd make him feel like a kid who'd misbehaved. He was a grown man, decades past needing or wanting someone to tell him how to live, even if that someone was a well-loved and respected oldest sibling who thought she was the second coming of Cupid.
All this bluster, however, went out the window the minute he turned to glance at Angela's unsmiling face. He was surprised she hadn't thrown in the "Quincy," for good measure. Should 11
Gracie C. McKeever
he count his blessings she
hadn't
included his middle name in her address, since she looked so ready to kick his ass?
Angela frowned and put a hand on her hip as she tapped a foot against the wooden wraparound porch. "Brenda is concerned about you."
He winced at the guilt that stabbed his heart, instantly tapped it down, and quipped, "Too shy to come out and tell me herself?"
"All right,
I
was concerned."
"
You
invited her."
"I just wanted to even things out."
"Since when have I been uncomfortable alone in your and Freddie's company?"
"I thought it would be nice—"
"If I met someone." Nick admired his sister's stubbornness, and despite being its target, respected her free thinking. He just wanted her to respect his. "You would have been less obvious if you'd let the kids stay and invited a couple more of our unmarried siblings."
"They all said I was on my own."
"Even your cut-buddy Evie?"
Angela laughed and punched his closest arm. "Especially her. She's still stinging from the last time you stopped talking to her."
"She makes me out to be an ogre." Nick stared at her. "You weren't scared away."
She shrugged. "You don't intimidate me."
Wasn't that the truth?
He wondered if that New Age spirituality she practiced had anything to do with her perseverance and audacity, the latter reminding him more of that galling woman at his agency than he wanted to admit, making his cock come alive in a way Brenda's shy, quiet prettiness hadn't been able to all night.
Brenda wasn't the first woman to gain Nick's passing fancy, and she certainly wouldn't be the last, his appreciation of the female form as abiding as his appetite for their company.
In the last year, he'd dated as often as he ever had, probably more. As if to prove a point to himself, he hadn't stopped seeing all the women he desired—even had a few reliable frequent flyers on standby for when he was in the mood for stimulating superficial sex.
Lately, however, he'd been less and less in the mood for superficial anything, or even sex, and for a man with as healthy an urge as his, this was unheard of.
Nick realized there was a problem four months ago when a long-time drool-worthy acquaintance and guaranteed mind-blowing lay had invited him back to her apartment—he never brought women back to his, not even frequent flyer—after a night of dinner and clubbing. After engaging in some half-hearted slap-and-tickle, Nick had practically lurched from her living room sofa and made hasty apologies before he prematurely left, able to get it up, armed and ready, but unwilling to do anything with it once he had.
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Terms of Surrender
He'd been existing like a relative celibate ever since.
Fuck, seeing Slany Breeze strut around the office every day in those sleek form-fitting outfits without acting on it had ruined him for other women!
He pictured her now, nose perennially in the air, proud gait a feline-smooth symmetry of undulating hips and shoulders. His balls tightened, despite the memory of her covered gams.
Nick wondered what kind of legs she was hiding under all those slacks.
"Thinking about Slany?"
Thinking about, obsessing over, take your pick.
He knew he and Slany were going to fuck. Didn't know how, where, or when it would happen, but knew it with a certainty that kept him perennially on edge, sometimes inciting embarrassing horny-adolescent excitement and shivering expectation. "Am I that obvious, or are you a mind reader?" he asked, knowing the latter was the more accurate answer. That frightened the hell out of him, knowing that she could read his mind, as well as his mood and facial expressions.
Nick couldn't remember when he realized he had a sister and a brother with "gifts," that he believed the impossible, but there might have been a silent blanket acceptance by the entire Vega clan somewhere around the time when EJ had lost Sinclair and turned to Angie and her New Age spirituality for solace.
EJ and Angie had subtly shared information and parts of themselves they'd kept well-hidden from the entire family before.
Nick wanted to remain skeptical, but couldn't in the face of some of the things he'd seen and heard EJ and Angie do.
"Want my opinion?" Angela asked now.
"I'm sure I'm going to get it, regardless."
Angela chuckled, unperturbed. "She's exactly what you need."
"I need someone to raise my blood pressure?" He grimaced.
"Oh, she raises a bit more than that."
Nick grunted, unwilling to admit she was right, and wondered why his sister had invited Brenda to the house for dinner if she was so bent on him and Slany hooking up.
"I wanted you to have someone to compare Slany to. This way, you'd know she's not just an itch you can scratch rubbing your dick in another woman's pu—"
"Angela!" Nick didn't know what shocked him more—that Angela knew exactly what he'd been up to the last several months trying to get Slany out of his system, or that his mother-of-five sister was capable of using such earthy language.
"She's exactly what you've been looking for, Nick."
"But I haven't been looking for anyone." His eyebrows shot up at her pointed glance and silence. "What? You think I need some Amazon to tie me down and tame me?"
Angela grinned, shook her head. "I think you already know it's the other way around."
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Gracie C. McKeever
That Slany needed a man to tie her down and tame her? Namely him?
Nick's dick twitched at the idea, accurate or not, expanding on the oft-imaginings he'd had of Slany spread eagle on his bed, wrists and ankles bound, body open and vulnerable to his bidding and whims.
Damn, he'd come in his pants on the spot and embarrass himself in front of his big sister if he didn't stop.
Angie put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, then turned to go back into the house.
"Trust me, li'l bro. It's what you both need."
* * * *
She'd been digging around in her garden as often as she could get away with the last year without killing her perennials, getting great satisfaction out of extricating the aggressive plants, imagining her hands around a certain aggressive Italian-American ad man's neck instead.
And just as quickly and easily as her fingers wrapped around the strong column of his bronze throat in her mind, Slany visualized her hands sliding into his dark chocolate hair and grabbing hold of the rich, silky strands with immense relish until he groaned.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the erotic images. Gardening had never been so stimulating before. Her pussy muscles clenched, as if to deny the flood that wet her panties at just the thought of touching him.
Slany expanded on the fantasy, could feel his hard-muscled back beneath her fingertips, smell his spicy male scent as he planted himself between her legs, hard cock poised at her weeping opening. She licked her lips, vaginal muscles tightening in anticipation right before he impaled her, and she released a low whimper.
"Damn, homegirl, if gardening puts a look of satisfaction like
that
on your face, I think I might have to take it up, too."
Slany's eyes flew open in time to see her friend, Peyton Carlyle, enter through the picket fence enclosing the outside of her large quaint brick house. She brought up the rear behind Slany's chocolate lab, Coco, traversing the front lawn.
Tail wagging, Coco leaped into Slany's lap, licking and slobbering on her cheeks, a magnificent trail of canine drool soaking her neck and T-shirt in Coco's affectionate wake.
Peyton didn't think twice about joining them in the dirt. She crouched beside Slany in a pair of torn-in-the-knees jeans, a pink midriff top exposing her belly ring, and a light denim jacket completing her ensemble. She wrapped an arm around her friend's shoulders in a gentle embrace. "How ya been, kiddo? How're things at work?"
"Do you ever ask one question at a time?"
"You can answer them in any order you'd like, just as long as you answer them."
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Terms of Surrender
Slany chuckled, sat back on her heels as her friend sat down in a free patch of grass facing her. She adopted a half-lotus position, while Coco heeled beside his favorite dog sitter.
Peyton, her mentor, was one of the main reasons Slany practiced yoga so intently and had a matching ring in her navel. No one at the job would have believed the mildly naughty location of her jewelry. Half the time, Slany didn't. It had been a crazy rebellious time for her back then, Slany spreading her newly sprung wings after breaking up with Ron.
Peyton had immediately dragged her to her favorite tattoo and piercing place to celebrate Slany's newfound freedom, talking her into the piercing and a couple of tattoos. Slany put her foot down, however, at getting the multi-colored locks Peyton sported, alternating burgundy and blonde streaks running through her shiny, straight black mane. It looked good on her too, suited her African American-Asian looks.
"Any progress with Rocky?"
Slany felt heat instantly rise to her face, knew she was fiercely blushing.
She'd let her tongue slip a time or two with Peyton about how unhappy she was working with this "Big-shit, Italian Stallion wannabe" who was making her life a living hell at the agency.
She'd immediately regretted her lapse, but hey, if she couldn't denigrate the oppressive opposite sex with her best girlfriend since college, then with whom could she do it?