Chapter 8

Lorali

I gasp and turn my head slowly towards the husky voice. I have to look up to make eye contact with none other than my beautiful stranger, Mr. Ian Hale. His magnificent hazel eyes shine down on me. They seem even more intense and questioning than they did before due to the black mask that has been painted around them, greener like the color of moss, with specks of amber. I lose myself in them briefly.

“Y...You remember me?” I finally stammer as I take a few steps back, putting some space between us. He’s way too close and I feel like a child having to crane my neck back so far to look up at him.

“How could I forget you? I’ll never forget how you looked on your knees before me.” I know he heard the noise from the sharp intake of air I made at his words. “I’ll also always wonder what those red lips of yours would feel like wrapped around my cock.”

My body sways when I hear his words. My eyes close of their own free will as his words glide over me and settle at the bottom of my stomach. They’re heavy and electric, sending bolts of need to my core.

When I open my eyes, he’s once again gone. Did I just imagine that or did that brief encounter even happen? Surely I must’ve fantasized the super-hot, incredibly delicious Mr. Hale verbally acknowledging a desire for me. Shit. I’ve been obsessing over him, allowing him to star in activities involving those batteries I talked to Alexa about and now my mind is hallucinating. I eventually come to terms with the fact that it did just happen because I can still feel his hot breath on my exposed shoulder. Mmm. Wait. Who the fuck did he think he was?

That was borderline sexual harassment. I look all over for him, indignantly, telling myself I need to find him and chastise him. How can he think for a second he can say those types of things to me?

After looking around for a few minutes, I locate him across the room. I begin to make my way to him, geared towards dispensing an ass chewing. Before I reach him, I stop in my tracks, losing all bravado. Suddenly an image hits me again. I picture myself on my knees before him, my lips wrapped around the velvety head of his cock. Now we have something in common, both wondering what it’d feel like for me to pleasure him with my mouth. I lick my lips in anticipation and my panties dampen in agreed anticipation.

It’d be incredible, wouldn’t it? No way a man like him would be as blunt about sex and not be willing to follow through. I’m sure any woman would benefit from being friends with him. I wonder if I could be his friend. I know there’s a smirk on my face as my seventeen months untouched core clenches deliciously at the prospect.

My mind wanders back again to our first encounter, and I’m honestly grateful that I hadn’t spilled more fabric softener on him than I actually did. Scratch that, had I spilled more I could’ve taken his pants off to wash them, putting me in the position to be on my knees… hold on.

What in the hell was this Denver Elite business man doing in a shady laundromat on the east side of town after dark?

My reporter instincts are tingling. I bet there’s some story here. Is he a drug dealer? Is he involved in gun running? Or heaven forbid is he somehow tangled up in the human trafficking that’s rumored to be going on around the city? I watch his face from twenty feet away, and I honestly can’t reconcile him with any of those scenarios.

Another image flashes through my mind, not pornographic, but an actual memory. Seth. My high school boyfriend getting carried away from school in handcuffs after the school resource officer and police K9 found two full bottles of ecstasy in his backpack.

Of course, my conscience chooses this moment to remind me that I’ve never been a good judge of character. Historically, once I was infatuated with someone I tended to stop paying attention to warning signs and red flags.

The situation with Seth is what ultimately led to my desire to be a reporter. Surely, a formal education, focusing on investigative techniques, would assist me in never being fooled again. Nothing like spending time in a police department being interrogated, interviewed as they worded it, about your boyfriend and his dope slinging habits to make you step back and reevaluate your life!

Although I can’t really see Ian Hale involved in any type of criminal enterprise, the niggling feeling that I witnessed something substantial the other night, during my first encounter with him, won’t go away.

Then right in my ear, “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” He’s closed the distance between us.

“Huh, what?” I turn towards his voice as I’m pulled from my thoughts.

My eyes land on him again. My cheeks flush guiltily. I feel as though he can see right through me and he’s able to read my questioning thoughts about him, faintly wondering which would be worse, him knowing I suspect he’s a criminal or the thoughts about me wanting to suck him off.

“Pink,” he says angling his face towards mine.

“Excuse me?” I question with a huff.

“Your cheeks are pink. You must be thinking about sucking….” Busted!

“Stop!” I scold aggressively in a hushed tone, feeling even more flushed standing before him, engaged in a conversation of this caliber. I look down and begin to fiddle with the press pass hanging from my neck.

“Ah, that makes sense,” he says. I look up, and he’s grinning down at me. Holy fucking dimples. Seeing him smile down at me for the first time, I’m lost in his beautiful eyes. I’m drowning in the tiny dips of skin on both sides of his mouth.

His mouth.

It’s now my turn to wonder what those lavish lips would feel like trailing kisses down my body. I imagine him licking and kissing his way down my stomach. Finally, his lips are landing at the juncture of my thighs. His tongue flicks out and makes its initial contact with my…

“Ahem?” Throat clearing brings me back to the here and now.

Shit. Umm. “What….what makes sense?” I’m stammering again, and chills are running down my spine, increasing my desire for him to touch me if only to warm my chilled skin.

“You’re a member of the press. I was wondering why you were standing here just drinking everything in,” he replies. “I realize now that you’re committing things to memory, so you can write about them later.”

“Am I that obvious?” The ability to finally get a full sentence out without stuttering eases me though I’m still shifting on my feet. More importantly, I’m relieved he believes I have an interest in everything at the event and not just solely on him. Chances are I’ll remember very little about this event since I’ve encountered him. I know for a fact I won’t have the ability to concentrate on anything going forward.

“Well, the press pass and the camera also provide some hints.” He winks at me.

I. Am. Gone. An incredibly handsome man, with dimples, just winked at me. I flush again, well aware that he can read me like a book, and unable to do anything about it.

He smiles wider, completely aware of the effect he has on me. I wonder if he can also tell how ridiculously wet this encounter has made me. The baritone sound of his voice, the masculine scent of his body, and the appearance of those dimples have worked together to turn me on. The culmination of it all has resulted in my body preparing itself for sex. The glint in his eyes makes me believe he can.

“It’s my first time,” I inform quietly, feeling the need to redirect the conversation away from my physical response to his open flirting.

The way his face lights up tells me I chose the wrong words if I was trying to extinguish the sexual heat blooming between us.

“I mean…” Fuck. “Today is my first day working with the social sector for The Courier,” I explain quickly.

“They throw you to the wolves your first day on the job?” He asks, losing some of the smirk.

“No! It’s not my first day with The Courier. I’ve worked there for the past two and a half years. I’m just used to working with less interactive people,” I reply.

He just stares at me, having no clue what I’m talking about.

“I just moved up from Obits,” I state flatly, slightly embarrassed that I’ve spent the past thirty months writing about dead people. It’s not very glamorous.

“Ah, I see. I can see how that’s substantially less interactive.” His beautiful grin is back, right along with those damn dimples… which I know will be the bane of my existence!

“I’m definitely more stimulated here,” I blurt before I think about my words.

Cutting me some slack, he doesn’t comment on this particular Freudian slip, but his grin tells me he caught it. Nothing gets by this one apparently.

“I actually had another event across town before this one. An art show at the Grand Hotel featuring Adama D’Amore. So I’m quite the expert now.” I smirk at him, my playfulness returning.

“Did you enjoy his show? I’ve seen some of his work. It’s quite good,” he says, fully engaged in the conversation.

“I liked what I saw. My time there was limited,” I explain. “I could only do a quick run through so I could get over here. I would’ve loved to have spent more time there, though.”

“Mmm, a woman of the arts,” he says, his voice shifting from active back to his sultry fuck me voice. “Do you only like landscapes in photography as an art genre?”

“Not particularly. I like all kinds. I love learning about an artist through his work. Photography. Painting. Sculpture. Even interpretive dance.” I grin. “I’m open to just about anything.” I openly sigh.

“What is it?” He asks, tilting his head to the side like he’s confused.

“What do you mean?” I inquire, his confusion confusing me.

“You sighed…am I boring you?” He continues to look at me with a smile.

“Ha! Like I could ever be bored around you!” The words slip out of my mouth. Quickly recovering I add, “I just get a feeling that this type of event will be the majority of my career for now.”

“This type of event?” He queries.

“You know, a high-class event, one that spends a ton of money and going all out as a way to get more money for a,” I use air quotes, “Charity.”

“This event supports Safe House. You don’t feel like money should be raised to help women from abused homes?” He barks, suddenly getting angry.

“Don’t be silly,” I retort. “Of course it should. My issue is more about spending a million dollars so rich people can rub shoulders with each other on the weekend.”

“One hundred and twenty-five thousand,” he informs flatly.

“What?” I snap, becoming confused with his response.

“This event didn’t cost a million dollars. It was put together for the bargain price of one hundred and twenty-five thousand,” he explains, his anger settling in his eyes.

I’m taken back. How did this turn crappy so quickly? “I didn’t mean to ruffle your Armani covered feathers. I guess I just don’t understand why someone would spend so much money when that organization could greatly benefit from the amount of cash dropped on hosting the event.”

“First rule of a successful business,” he responds. When I look up at him with a raised eyebrow, he explains, “You have to spend money to make money.”

“And if they don’t raise what was spent?” I ask indignantly.

“People pledge donations when they purchase tickets to the gala. Before the doors opened tonight, we had one point eight million dollars pledged already for Safe House.”

I gasp, “One point eight million dollars!?” I squeak.

“Yes,” he replies.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize softly. He doesn’t respond. “I had no idea how it worked.”

“I do understand where you’re coming from, though. So much shouldn’t have to be spent to help the people who utilize organizations such as Safe House. Unfortunately, it’s how it works.” He peers off reflectively. I nod, finally understanding. I also wonder why he seems so upset when he’s here, contributing to the vicious cycle of Denver’s Social Elite. He shouldn’t be angry with what I think. I consider myself an everyday person and if I look at this event as a way for rich people to just hang out, then the consensus with other everyday people would be the same. Surely I’m not the only one who thinks rich people waste more money on frivolous things than any person in their right mind should.

I remain silent. He gazes at me as he brings the tumbler of amber liquid to his lips. His eyes soften, and I wonder what he’s thinking, and by the sudden smolder in them I have a clue, and all I can do is meet his stare and shift my body, rubbing my thighs together. The action does nothing to alleviate the warm tingle that has settled at my clit. This entire conversation has been torture; each and every word from his mouth has been a staccato pulse at my center.

I continue to fidget, needing an escape before I climb him like a tree, so I excuse myself to the restroom.

Walking hastily around the dance floor which is covered in expensively dressed, swaying couples, I finally make it to the restroom. Several women stand at the sink, freshening up lipstick and chatting excitedly about who’s at the party.

I escape into a stall and collapse with my back against the cold door. I stand there and try to calm my breathing and my racing heart. Once I hear the other women head out, I leave the stall and turn to the sink. I grab a paper towel and saturate it with cold water from the tap and run it over my neck, trying cool down. Shit does that man get my blood heated!

I exit the bathroom, keeping my eyes down to so I can straighten my dress; I stop dead in my tracks at the sight of Ian Hale outside of the restroom.