All Night Long, Page 6

  “Yay for self-confidence, but you know that things won’t always turn out the way you want them to. You’ll get it going and then, boom, it’ll get pulled out from under you. Nothing is ever solid.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s worth trying to be.” He tilted his head as he eyed her. “Are you nervous for me?”

  “Always,” she admitted.

  “Do you think I can do it?”

  “You’re one of those guys who can do anything.”

  “Except, apparently, find a good woman.”

  “You will,” she said firmly. “One who deserves you.” Her phone chirped, and she frowned at her brother. “That’s my alarm. I have to run. Free-Tail is one of the sponsors for tonight’s event at the Winston Hotel, and I’ve got temporary waiters coming in I have to train.”

  “Go for it. I’ll sit here in peace and finish my mountain of pancakes.”

  She slid out of the booth.

  “Hey.” His single word stopped her.

  “What?”

  “You can do anything, too,” Matthew said.

  “I know. And that means I can also do everything.” She winked, then turned and hurried for the door.

  The last thing Easton had wanted after his unexpected night of debauchery and sin was to leave a warm and willing woman in his bed so that he could fly up to Dallas for hours of mind-numbing depositions. Especially since, when he’d finally returned home at just after five in the evening, the sheets had turned cold and she was nowhere to be found.

  The second to last thing he wanted to do after a night of wild, acrobatic sex chased by mundane depositions, was to be standing in the grand ballroom of the Winston Hotel in Austin, trying to kick-start enough brain cells to allow him to make conversation. And yet here he was, standing right inside the doorway leading to one of the many charity balls that served to get his name in front of voters and influencers with as much efficiency as a finger swipe on Tinder.

  And considering he could barely walk straight today, he wanted to be here even less.

  Still, Easton had a goal, and he and Judge Coale had a plan for reaching that goal. Which meant that despite the fact that Selma had essentially ridden him to the moon and wrung him dry, he was at this party to work.

  He drew a breath, straightened his tie, and stepped the rest of the way into the chaos of the ballroom. Immediately, a waitress in a black tank top handed him a glass of bourbon, and he took a sip, impressed by the smooth taste with just enough burn to make it worth drinking. He looked up, realized the waitress’s tank top had the Free-Tail logo on it, and froze. Because there she was. Selma. On the other side of the ballroom.

  In a sea of business suits and conservative dresses, Selma Herrington stood out like a sexy sore thumb. She wore skintight leather black pants paired with the same logo tank top as her staff. A red belt accentuated her small waist, and her legs seemed all the longer in her four-inch heels. She wore a retro style bullet bra underneath the top, a look that some modern men probably didn’t care for, but that he thought was erotic as hell, a fact proven out by the tightening in his balls, both from the sight of her now and the memory of how she looked last night in nothing but that bra, stockings, and a garter belt.

  Her lips were painted fire-engine red and her short hair was spiky now and tipped with pink and green instead of the previous blue.

  She looked sexy as hell, wild as a forest fire, and completely out of place.

  She was also heading straight for him. A fact that his body fully appreciated. But that made his inner politician cringe.

  “Hello, lover,” she purred as she approached.

  “Christ, Selma, keep your voice down.”

  “I enjoyed last night.”

  He swallowed. “So did I.”

  Her smile was smug. “I know.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Her brows rose, but he wasn’t sure if she was offended or amused. “That’s my whiskey you’re drinking. We’re one of the sponsors of the benefit.”

  “Of course. I wasn’t thinking.” He drew in a breath, forcing himself not to reach out even as he told himself that starting this arrangement with her was a bad idea. Because clearly he was incapable of being around her without wanting to touch her. “Listen, Selma, I need to mingle. I’m going to be announcing soon, and I should do the meet-and-greet before the speeches start.”

  “Meet me in the ladies’ lounge in fifteen.”

  He blinked at her. “What?”

  She leaned closer and, thankfully, lowered her voice. “I have this feeling that you’ve never fucked in the ladies room during a party. I assumed it was on your bucket list.”

  “Selma…”

  “I want your cock in my mouth again,” she said, and he almost groaned aloud. “Or anywhere else you want to put it.”

  Oh, dear Lord, he was done for.

  “Selma, stop. We had an arrangement. And you know I can’t.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “You’d be amazed how much you can do if you just step outside your box. Your box is pretty tight, Easton. I’m just trying to help you push back those walls.” She stepped away, then blew him a kiss. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Hopefully you will be, too.”

  “Don’t bet the ranch,” he said. But as he looked around the mind numbingly dull party … as his mind started to imagine the sight of Selma on her knees as he fucked her mouth …

  Oh, God.

  He wouldn’t go.

  He couldn’t.

  But a small part of him damn sure wanted to.

  Chapter Eight

  Damn him.

  For three full minutes—he’d counted them—Easton had been talking himself in and out of going to that bathroom. What was wrong with him? He didn’t usually act so impulsively, and he could only assume that Selma had put a spell on him. She certainly had the power to make him lose his mind.

  He thought of last night with her and smiled. Yeah, she definitely held some power.

  “Thinking about winning the election?”

  Immediately, the smile left his lips, and he shifted to face Marianne more directly. “I didn’t see you there,” he said.

  “Daydreaming, I suppose.” Her smile was both sweet and flirty, and he felt a moment of guilt for having no interest in her whatsoever. Not sexually and not as a colleague. Judge Coale might think she was a good wingman, but he found her to be more like mashed potatoes—no personality of her own.

  Selma, though …

  “Marianne, I’m so sorry. There’s someone I need to go talk to.”

  He should mingle. He should play the game. He should schmooze and do all those things.

  All he wanted to do was find the girl.

  All he cared about was letting his goddamn cock rule the show.

  At the moment, he was okay with that.

  He slipped away to the hall with the restrooms, then looked back before easing into the ladies lounge. It had multiple stalls, but Selma was leaning against the row of sinks smiling at him.

  “We’re alone,” she said. “Lock the door.”

  He lifted a brow, certain they were going to get caught. And then—because he was clearly under a spell—he did as she said.

  She crooked a finger, and he walked to her, but when she started to drop to her knees, he shook his head. “No. My turn.”

  “Really?” Her brows went up.

  He grinned. “You’ve corrupted me. Might as well go all the way.”

  He looked around, then nodded to the sink. “Sit up there on the counter. Then pull down those leather pants.”

  She bit her lower lip, then leaned forward. “Why, Your Honor? Are you in the mood to eat pussy?”

  His balls tightened, and he pulled her close, then kissed that dirty little mouth.

  “On the counter,” he ordered. “Now.”

  “I hear applause,” she said. “That means people will be coming. Folks always slip away when the speeches start.”

  “Then we need to hurry,” he said, relishing the
feeling of being wild. Of going a little crazy.

  “You’re a bad influence,” he said as she shimmied her pants down, then planted her bare ass on the counter. She spread her knees, and he licked his lips.

  “I want your tongue,” she said, slipping a finger inside her.

  He heard high heels in the hallway.

  “Fuck,” she said, but he leaned forward and kissed her, then bent lower, roughly pulling her sex toward his mouth. Then he closed his mouth over the sweet, sensual taste of her. His tongue filling her, his teeth nipping at her clit.

  She squirmed, her hands tightening in his hair, her sex bucking against his face. “Fuck, yes,” she moaned, her voice a stage whisper. “Oh, God, I’m close.”

  He reached around, sucking her more and more as he slid a finger around and found her ass. He penetrated her and she swallowed a scream, then screamed again as he hit the sweet spot and she exploded, a flood of her sweet juices rushing over his tongue.

  He stood, then kissed her. “You taste fucking delicious. And you’re either going to be the best thing that ever happened to me or the end of my career.”

  She winked. “Maybe I’ll be both and we can run off to Bora Bora.”

  He laughed, but at the moment long hot days of lazy sex seemed like a fabulous idea.

  A pounding at the door made them both jump, and she slid off the counter, their eyes locking and full of laughter. She held her finger to her lips, then fixed her clothes.

  “Could someone please unlock this door?”

  “Coming,” she trilled, then hurried that way, with his hand tight in hers.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered, but she didn’t answer. Just unlocked the door and tugged it open.

  “Was it stuck?” she asked innocently, her eyes on the petite elderly woman clutching her purse.

  “It was locked.”

  “No ma’am. I just pulled really hard.” She smiled brilliantly. “Glad I was here to help. Oh, and sir,” she added, turning to him with an even bigger smile. “Thank you so, so much.”

  She met the lady’s eyes again as Easton’s head spun. “This nice gentleman helped me get my ring back.” She pointed to a small pinkie ring he hadn’t noticed. “I’d dropped it down the sink. It was my grandmother’s. I couldn’t bear to lose it.”

  “What a nice young man,” the lady said to Easton, who could only nod silently and think that ever since he’d met Selma again, he’d been living in a world gone mad.

  Chapter Nine

  On Friday, Selma arrived at Easton’s office by eight and they were settled into a conference room by eight-fifteen, fortified with a huge pot of coffee, a tray of bagels with various spreads, and two huge bowls of fresh fruit.

  By ten, their private buffet looked like a troop of hungry Boy Scouts had been at it, and the formerly pristine conference table was littered with printouts, marked up pages, yellow legal pads, and coffee cups. She’d kicked off her shoes and had tossed her button-down aside, so that she was wearing only jeans and a tank top. Easton, however, still looked perfectly put together in his gray suit.

  “I still think the up-front payment should be higher,” he said, tapping his pen as he frowned at the contract. “But if they’re going to lowball you, then the royalty needs to go way up.”

  “Either way, it’s a lot of money.” She climbed onto the credenza and swung her bare feet, then smiled at one of the attorneys walking by, who was peering in the window at her.

  “Yes, but it’s your money. You’ve earned it by putting value into your business. If they want to buy the business, they need to pay you for that value.”

  “I get it. I do. But it’s still more money than I ever thought I’d be able to sell my tiny little distillery for.”

  “Your tiny little place has developed a big reputation. And that’s because of your hard work. Don’t sell yourself short.”

  She was about to tell him that she wouldn’t when the door opened and a woman stepped in looking as if she’d just walked off a magazine ad for Corporate Woman, assuming there even was such a magazine.

  “Sorry for interrupting. I have to leave early and just wanted to make sure we’re driving together to the ranch tomorrow.”

  Selma sat up straighter, feeling suddenly inadequate and left out. Which was ridiculous. She had no claim on Easton. And, honestly, she didn’t want one. Why would she when she was leaving for Scotland soon?

  “Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it,” Easton said, barely looking up from the papers. He lifted his head, considering her the same way that she’d noticed he considered the validity of a point on the contract. “Sure. Of course. I’ll pick you up around one, okay?”

  Her smile blossomed. “Perfect.” She glanced toward Selma. “I’m sorry. We didn’t meet. I’m Marianne, one of the senior associates in the firm.”

  “Selma. One of the clients in the firm.”

  Marianne’s laugh sounded genuinely amused. “You’re in good hands with Easton. Sorry again for interrupting.”

  “Not a problem,” Selma said, unnerved by the relief that had washed over her from knowing that she was a co-worker and not a personal, intimate friend.

  Ridiculous. What did she have to be jealous of?

  But then the receptionist buzzed to tell him that a woman named Hannah Donovan had stopped by to see if he wanted to join her for lunch, and Selma knew that, rational or not, she was jealous.

  Absurd.

  Of course it wasn’t really about him. Not directly. On the contrary, she was jealously protecting their plan to fuck each other out of their systems as he worked on her deal to sell the distillery. It really wasn’t personal.

  “Selma?”

  She snapped to attention. “What?”

  “I was just saying sorry for the interruptions, but it looks like you need it. Are you getting tired?”

  “My mind’s getting a little fried from all the legalese you’re tossing at me. But it’s okay.”

  “Why don’t we continue at your place?”

  Her brows rose. “My apartment?”

  “Your distillery.”

  “Oh!” She loved that idea. She was ridiculously proud of the distillery and the idea of showing it off to him pleased her more than it probably should. “Let’s go.”

  The distillery was located in a small building in East Austin that she’d bought with money she’d borrowed from Matthew. But Free-Tail was doing so well, that she’d been able to pay him back every dime.

  “It’s not much to look at,” she told him as they entered. “The front room is for retail, though I don’t do a lot of walk-in business.” She led him into the back, introducing him to her small staff as they went, then showing him her equipment and her aging vats.

  “It takes a while to age whiskey traditionally,” she told him. “But I’ve been distilling since I was about eighteen, and I’ve learned a few tricks. And I started by selling some distilled spirits that don’t need to be aged, then graduated up to my whiskeys.”

  “But in five years?”

  “I experimented.” Her voice was casual, but she was proud of what she’d accomplished. “I talked with some engineers and worked on a system that allows for quick aging.” She nodded toward the big silver box on one side of the cavernous room. “It’s all about pressure. And I use special vats with oak cut up inside in that monster over there. Then after that, we move the product to finishing barrels.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  She shrugged. “That’s the thing with craft distilleries these days—using local ingredients and shortening the aging time. I’m not the only one, but I did come up with my system.”

  “Which also explains why Penoldi-Gryce wants to buy you out,” he added, referring to the company with which they were negotiating. “They want your tech.”

  She nodded as she looked around the room. “It’ll be weird not coming here every day. But at least I know that the whiskey I’ve crafted will continue.”

  He stepped behind her
and put his hand on her shoulder. “You don’t actually know that,” he said gently.

  She frowned, twisting around to see him.

  “Once they buy, they have control. They’ll keep your brand, but ultimately, they can make what they want. And they may even ditch your label after a while.

  “Oh.” She bit her lip. “Well, I guess that makes sense.”

  She shrugged out from his hand and went to sit on a small bench by her primary processing machine. “And if they don’t ditch it, they get to use my label on their new stuff.”

  It wasn’t a question, but when he sat next to her, he offered an answer anyway. “They will.”

  She sat, digesting that. She’d known it, of course. But somehow the truth was sinking in deeper.

  For a moment, they sat quietly. Then Easton spoke, his voice so low she almost had to strain to hear him. “My parents had a place. Not a distillery, of course, but a hamburger stand. I watched them lose it. Just ripped out from under them. And when they did, I swear they lost a piece of themselves. It’s part of why I became a lawyer.”

  She licked her lips. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “No reason. Just the way you talk about this place reminds me of the way they talked.”

  “Thanks, but it’s different. I’m making a choice. They got it taken away.” She turned to meet his sympathetic eyes. “You get the difference, right? Choice is what matters.”

  “Can’t argue there. You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

  “I have some experience with having the world ripped out from under me,” she admitted, then regretted the words. He’d ask what she meant, of course.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he studied her face. Then he simply nodded, and for a moment she felt a wave of disappointment followed by the shocking realization that she’d not only expected the question, but she’d wanted it. Wanted to share her past—her screwed up history—with him.

  Unnerved, she stood up.