Every Little Piece of Me (Orchid Valley 1)

“Can he afford it?”

He chuckles. “And then some.”

“I’ll think it’s great. He wants to spoil her, and she deserves to be spoiled.”

Marston tucks a lock of hair behind my ear before leaning forward and asking, “So why is it so different when I do it for you?”

I’m saved from trying to explain when the server appears at the table.

“What can I get you two?” he asks.

“I’ll have a martini,” I say. I started with vodka. Better to stick with it.

“The special edition Maker’s,” Marston says. “A double.”

The server gives a sharp nod and then heads toward the bar.

Once we’re alone, Marston looks at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “I assume you want to stay for a bit? We can always join Alec and Savannah in the casino.”

“Staying sounds good. This is a change of pace for me.” I look around the club. “Is this your scene? Wild nightclubs where you can barely hear yourself think? Women scoping you out from every side of the room?”

His lips quirk. “Jealous?”

I return his smile. “Not as long as I’m the one sitting here with you.”

He looks around, as if he’s barely bothered to register the space before now. “It’s not how I spend all my leisure time, but I enjoy the scene with the right company.”

I lean forward. I don’t want to miss a single word he says.

“Can’t hear me?” he asks.

“Barely.”

He wraps an arm around my waist until I’m thigh to thigh with him. Any closer, and I’d be in his lap. “Better?” he asks against my ear.

I straighten as a shiver runs down my spine. He’s so close I can smell his cologne. The heat from his leg warms mine. Memories of his hand on me commingle with my promise to spend the night with him, and it all tangles up in a ball of need that sits low in my belly. “Better,” I say.

The server returns with our drinks, and I take two long swallows of mine.

Marston settles one hand on my thigh and cradles his bourbon with the other. He watches me from over the rim of his glass as he sips.

“What else can I get you, sir?” the server asks.

Marston’s hand slips under the hem of my dress, his fingers curling around my inner thigh. The feel of his warm, calloused hands tugs on that knot in my gut—loosens it until all that fear and heartache and hope and longing unravel.

In this moment, ten years ago doesn’t matter. Tomorrow doesn’t matter. Only this.

“I think we’re fine for a while,” he tells the server, his voice low as his hand drifts higher.

I know the server can’t see us, but he’s standing right there, and my cheeks burn with the knowledge of where Marston’s hand is headed.

“Of course, sir,” the server says.

Marston sets down his glass and angles toward me in the booth, his hand creeping a little higher on my thigh. He studies my lips for a long moment before slowly lowering his mouth toward mine. “I’m going to kiss you again,” he whispers.

“Good.” I’m the one who closes the distance between our mouths, and I moan at the contact. His kiss is a sweet relief. I didn’t work him up to be better in my mind. I’d forgotten the electric charge between us, that rightness.

He cups my jaw in his big hand and tilts my head back, taking my mouth fully in a heady exploration of tongues and lips and need. I’m entirely his.

His hand slides farther up my skirt, and when his fingers brush against my panties, I know exactly where I need this night to go. I need this and him. I need . . . more.

“You wanted me to think about you in these?” he asks, tracing the scalloped edge of the lace with his fingers. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

He kisses his way from my mouth, along my jaw, back to my ear, and those fingers slide into my panties. He hisses out a curse when he skims my wet center.

My thighs part in invitation. Yes. This. Please.

“Is this what you came for, Brinley? Is this what you needed?”

I meet his eyes. It’s dark in here, but not so dark that I can’t see the hunger in his expression. But I don’t need any light at all to know. I can feel it in the way he strokes me.

He holds my gaze as he slides a finger inside me. My breath hitches. My body squeezes around him. He pumps in and out, his palm giving me delicious pressure against my clit. He’s barely touched me, but I’m so close, sitting on the razor’s edge of pleasure and release and unsure which way I want to fall.

Part of me is aware of the club music booming around us, but I can hardly hear it because every one of my senses is wrapped up in him—the way he smells, his powerful arm braced between my legs, the sound of his breathing growing rougher from nothing more than touching me.