Trademarked: Bad Boys Need Love Too Page 4

  I don’t fight it. Not because I’m obsessed with at least one muscle on Parker Kent’s body, but because I’m hungry. And no one wants to deal with me when I’m hungry. Including me. Hungry me is a bit like un-caffeinated me; a raging bitch.

  “Woo-hoo. Go Breezy,” Tim says softly from his cubicle as we pass it, but he doesn’t pop his head out. He must know this is at least partly his fault. I’m going to remind him of that when I get back. I might even buy an extra shake to put on my desk just to taunt him.

  “Bree-Anna, are you off to lunch?” Malcolm stands outside his office with a cup of coffee in his hand. He was talking to Marissa but comes to an abrupt stop to raise both eyebrows as he takes in my companion. “Parker Kent?”

  Marissa ogles the package. Her gaze is stuck on his crotch and refuses to move. She twirls a lock of dark hair around her finger and flutters her eyelashes at it. Not at Parker. At his dick. She’s openly flirting with his penis. She’s all about the Pussy Assassin.

  “I’m borrowing Bree for the afternoon,” Parker answers Malcolm for me, his palm resting on the small of my back.

  “Lunch,” I amend. Ignoring the way his touch shoots warmth under my skin. It isn’t nice. He isn’t a gentleman. Who knows where that hand has been? My lady bits don’t care. They swoon over it. They want his hand, and they want it between my thighs. An entire afternoon with Parker Kent is a very bad idea.

  “Afternoon,” Parker argues.

  He probably thinks he can use our lunch date to persuade me to spend the whole afternoon with him. This isn’t a date though. No, it’s definitely not a date. This is... what is this exactly? What am I getting myself into? Is it bad that there’s a real possibility he could charm me into spending more time than I have to with him?

  “I want to go over the details of my policy with Bree. Okay if I borrow her?” he adds for Malcolm’s benefit.

  “Of course.” Malcolm’s eyes are almost as bright as the top of his head. His pupils morph into dollar signs. There’s no help coming from my boss. As far as he’s concerned whatever Parker wants he gets. At least until it’s time for him to claim on his policy. But even then, I have the feeling special consideration might be made. “I’ll see you in the morning, Bree-Anna.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Parker

  “Breezy, huh?” I ask as I put our order—shakes, fries, and Shackburgers— on the table and slip into the booth beside her. There are chairs on the opposite side of the table, but that seemed too far away.

  Her green eyes widen, the amber flecks in them catching the sunlight that streams in through the windows. Taking off her glasses, she folds the arms and pops them into a pocket in her purse. “Just a nickname.”

  “Is it because you’re like a breath of fresh air?”

  Her lips twitch into a smile as she tears the lid off her shake. Her thigh brushes against mine. She doesn’t acknowledge the hum of our connection, though my cock fucking does. It pulses and fills out the space behind my zipper until it has nowhere else to go.

  Picking up a stringy fry she swirls it through her drink. Her head back like a bird she pops it into her mouth and moans.

  Fuck me backwards and inside out. That noise has a strange effect on me. I want to snatch it out of the air and shove it in my pocket. Take it home and keep it. If a sound could be a pet, then I’m one moan away from becoming a crazy cat lady. Only with Bree’s moans.

  She’s staring at me when I remember where I am. Chocolate darkens the corner of her lip. Ignoring it the best I can, I steal one of her fries and dip it into her drink before sticking it in my mouth.

  She draws a breath through parted lips and glares at me. “You’ve got your own shake and fries, Mister.”

  “I didn’t think strawberry would have the same effect.”

  “It doesn’t,” she agrees. “But I don’t share.”

  When it comes to Bree, I don’t want to share either, and I’ve only just met her. But that isn’t what she’s talking about, and there’s no way I’m going to leave her shake alone. I thread another fry through the creamy concoction and chew on it. “The nickname? How’d you get it?”

  She squints at me and rolls her eyes, and I’m thankful there aren’t any thumbtacks in the immediate vicinity. Although there’s a small mom and pop grocery store a block away. We passed it on our walk. I need to tread carefully. The woman has it out for my junk.

  Unwrapping her burger, she takes a huge bite before dunking another fry in her shake and speaking with her hand in front of her mouth. “I may have a track record for abandoning dates.”

  I’m fascinated by her mouth. I want to take her hand and drag it away from her lips so there’s no way I’ll miss anything she has to say. “Don’t like dating?”

  “Why are we talking about this?” she asks.

  “I’m trying to get to know you better,” I admit. It’s purely selfish. She’s been stuck in my head like a record on a loop all week, and despite the fact that I probably need to start wearing a cup around her, I need to know what makes her tick.

  “Fine.” She turns to face me, and her knee grazes my leg. There’s a flash of electricity in her eyes. It darkens her pupils and flutters her eyelashes at the same time it slams through me and makes the hair at the back of my neck stand on end. “I don’t like dating. I have better things to do with my time than sit through a bad first date.”

  “Is this a bad first date?” I ask. Not that this is a date, but if it were, would she have breezed out on me already?

  “It’s not a date,” she says. “It’s lunch with a client.”

  “A client you don’t like,” I respond. “But if it was a date?”

  Silent, she jabs more potato strings into her milkshake before finally admitting, “I’ve been on worse dates.”

  “So you like me.” I grin. Best news I’ve heard all week. My cock twitches like a cheerleader on crack. And this is now totally a date as far as I’m concerned.

  “No.” She scowls. “I don’t hate you. There’s a vast difference. And this is definitely not a date.”

  “It totally is,” I counter. Not that I have an inkling of what stands for a date these days. It’s been five years since I’ve bothered with anything more than casual. There are apps I have no idea about now. Swiping and tapping and all kinds of ways to interact with the opposite sex, none of which seem to support any real courtship anyway according to my sister, Jeanie. It all seems a tad too complicated when it’s easier to walk into a bar or club and find a suitable companion for an evening of frivolity.

  She presses her lips together, most likely holding back laughter, as she shakes her head. I’d almost say she’s pleased with my insistence. “You wouldn’t know a date if it bit you on the ass.”

  “That’s probably true.” I shrug as though it doesn’t matter that she discounts me so easily. “But you could teach me.”

  “Look.” She wraps up the remains of her burger and stands. Tossing it into her purse, she slips the strap over her shoulder. “You’re Parker Kent. Sexiest Bad Boy of The Year contender. Billboard Terrorist. King of casual hook ups. And I don’t do casual. So let’s pretend this bizarre conversation never happened and keep things professional.”

  She slides out of the booth and takes off in the direction of the door, but this can’t be the end of our conversation. My cock might be thinking about sex. Down boy. But a casual hook up is the furthest thing from my mind. Jumping up from the booth, I chase after her.

  I catch her at the door. Her shoulders stiffen when I grasp her elbow, but the curve of her neck as she glances at me is graceful. The pulse at the base of her jaw flickers like a homing beacon; the strand of strawberry blonde hair waving in front of it is a matador’s cape.

  I want to press my lips to her skin and find out what it tastes like under the citrusy vanilla scent she wears. Everything about her calls to me. She’s gravity, and I’m trapped in her orbit. For a second sheer terror turns me inside out. If I start something with her will I be
able to stop? But I’m not a coward. “Go on a real date with me, Bree. Tonight?”

  “I don’t think so.” She pushes open the door and we step out onto the pavement.

  “Tomorrow?” Without letting go of her arm, I adjust my baseball cap and slide my sunglasses into place. People don’t bother me. Unless they’re stampeding and asking for autographs.

  She doesn’t try to rip her elbow out of my hold. I take it as a sign that she’s not completely opposed to my questioning, like maybe she even enjoys it a little.

  “I have to wash my hair,” she responds. Again, it isn’t a no. She’s relaxed as we stroll toward her office, and she throws furtive glances my way under her lashes that make me want to do the same. But I’m too busy watching her the whole time. She’s breathtaking. So beautiful that the idea of not seeing her again soon makes my chest ache.

  “Sunday,” I throw out on a breath. Jeanie’s coming into town and I promised my Sunday to her, but she’ll forgive me. Maybe. She’s been travelling these past twelve months in Europe. She won’t be pleased if I blow her off, but if I don’t secure a date with Bree now I doubt I’ll have any luck later when she’s had time to consider it.

  Bree stops in the shadow of an overhead balcony. She tucks some of that pink hair behind her ear and dusts her lips with her tongue. Her eyes are as green as a forest dappled with sunlight and as easy to get lost in. Somebody send a search party if I don’t find my way out. Actually, forget that. I could stay in them as long as she’ll let me.

  “Tell me something,” she says.

  “Sure.”

  “Why are you being so insistent?”

  On the surface the why is easy. She’s a beautiful woman who has an intense, physical effect on me. She also isn’t easy, and the chase is thrilling. Even if it is somewhat daunting for the man downstairs. Under that my need to know her is pricklier, like I’ve swallowed a cactus. It’s probably best if I don’t examine the sensation too closely, lest I take my eye out with one of its spikes.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. I haven’t asked anyone out on a date in years, but I want to get to know you,” I tell her, reaching out to coil a strand of her hair around my finger. It’s as silky as I expected it to be.

  Shorter than me by a good head, she cranes her neck to keep eye contact as I follow that strand up to her scalp. Fuck, I want to use it to pull her closer so that I can kiss her. I dart my tongue over my bottom lip, my mind trying to register her taste without having gotten close enough to have any knowledge of it. I bet she’d be sweet. Salty, chocolaty sweet.

  But I don’t think I have the kind of luck up my sleeve that would have her allowing me to kiss her. I’m an actor, sometimes model, not a fucking magician. My fingers graze her hip, the soft curve underneath her business skirt makes me groan, and she blinks long and slow, like she’s as drunk on this moment as I am.

  One of her hands grips my bicep as her knees wobble. “That’s it?”

  I almost can’t remember what we’re talking about. It doesn’t seem as important as her lips tip toward mine. “You’re different and interesting, and you don’t like me so much. On top of that you’re gorgeous. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. That should be obvious.”

  “By your constant text messages.”

  “Exactly. The ones you replied to make me think you might like me a little more than you want to let on. I’d like to explore that.”

  “Okay,” she says. “One date. Saturday. A proper date. We won’t end up back at your apartment. Or mine. I’m not going to ask you to come inside to eat my cookie.”

  Fuck, I really want a cookie. Other than the unhealthy lunch we’ve just shared it’s been ages since I’ve had junk food, self-induced as a result of having to strip down for the cameras, and cookies are my weakness. “Is it a double chocolate chip cookie?”

  “No.” She furrows her brow.

  “Peanut butter?”

  “It’s not that kind of cookie.” Her hand drops from my arm.

  “What kind of cookies?” I would totally settle for any type of cookie at this point.

  She laughs. Possibly at my obsession with cookies. I can’t be sure, but the sound is musical and I fucking love that it’s at my expense. “The cookie is a metaphor.”

  “Metaphorical cookies? Way to ruin my buzz.”

  “For my vagina,” she blurts. “It’s a vagina cookie.”

  “Well, fuck.” I smile at her sheepishly. She has me off my game. Never mind, I can recover. “Now I’m really craving cookies.”

  ***

  A Friday night out with Dutch is usually one of my favorite pastimes, but a couple cocktails in and I’m bored out of my fucking mind. My best friend since primary school has this blonde draped over his lap, his fingers knotted in her hair, his mouth stuck to her like he went and licked a damn ice sculpture. The girl is all skin and bones in a flesh colored mini dress. Completely bland. Totally his type. Easy to have and even easier to forget. Not like Bree. Her red hair taunts me with its citrusy scent, her green eyes laugh at me. And she’s not even here.

  “What do you want to do, Parker?” Her friend, a brunette in a black and purple sequin number grips my jaw to try to get my attention. “Do you want another drink? Or should we, maybe, get out of here?”

  I’m not feeling it tonight. Not how she croons my name, or the breathless flirty way she suggests we take this party elsewhere. And her tits pressed against my bicep is annoying. “Sorry, what’s your name again?”

  “Kelly,” she says, her eyes widening for a moment before she decides she doesn’t care that I couldn’t be bothered getting her name when they first joined us. Too bad she doesn’t understand I’m not interested in her at all. She leans in closer to whisper in my ear, “But you can call me whatever you want to.”

  My attention is caught by movement across the room. The moment Bree fills my line of sight I’m mesmerized. It’s like I’ve been seeing everything in shades of gray until now. Bree is the only thing in living color. Breathtakingly bright. Her almost pink hair, that raspberry skirt. Fuck, that skirt ought to be illegal.

  “Parker,” the girl beside me says. “I want to get out of here.”

  “Great,” I say, picking up my phone, unable to drag my gaze away from Bree’s fluffy, gauzy, thigh skimming skirt that she’s teamed with a T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, revealing the sweet spot of her neck that my lips are desperate for. She’s not what I expected outside of work. “Let me call you a cab.”

  “B-but, that wasn’t what I meant,” the girl says. “I meant you and I should—”

  “Sorry, I’m not interested.” Slipping out of her clutches, I leave Dutch and the girls to their night and make my way to the bar.

  Her back is to me as I approach and she’s with some guy. A tall blond in designer jeans and a painted-on T-shirt whose mouth is practically attached to her ear. Has the man never heard of personal space? Because I will be happy to teach him. My jaw cracks painfully, my teeth clenched together. I need to get it together. Reacting like this isn’t me, but then neither is my interest in her.

  He lifts his head, and I catch a glimpse of his face. The tension eases out of my jaw immediately. It’s my good buddy Tim. The only guy who probably won’t make my teeth hurt if he gets up close to her.

  She’s wearing stockings, the kind that have lines down the backs and bows at the ankles. They’re so fucking cute, really. Adorable. Except those lines run right up under her skirt, and my cock jumps like a cheerleader. Two, four, six, eight... Let’s get in her panties. Can’t wait.

  I blame it on our cookie conversation yesterday. Since then my brain has been conjuring up images of pulling her legs apart like two halves of an Oreo and licking the cream from between them.

  My arm grazes hers as I move into the space next to her. Her T-shirt has a huge As If printed on the front. The collar hangs to mid bicep, and her pink bra strap peeks through. Fairy dust in the form of freckles cover her bare skin, a map for my mouth.
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  I bump against her gently, and she glances at me. Her eyes grow like two moons. “Oh. What are you doing here?”

  Tim grins from ear to ear, reaching around Bree to offer me his hand. “If it isn’t my bestie.”

  “I’m your bestie.” Bree glares at him, outraged, and slaps the back of her hand against his chest. “You can’t just decide Parker Kent is all of a sudden your best friend because he’s hot.”

  “You think I’m hot.” I smirk.

  “I didn’t mean that,” she says.

  “Sorry, Breezy, but what I have with Parker is more complex than that. He’s the Padawan to my Obi-Wan-Kenobi,” Tim says.

  “That doesn’t even make sense.” She steps up as the guy ahead of her takes his drinks and departs.

  “That’s because you don’t understand Star Wars,” Tim says.

  “No, it’s because you’re both Sith.” She sticks her tongue out at him before yelling her order to the server.

  Taking cash out of my wallet, I lean over her shoulder. “What did you order?”

  “A Kamikaze.”

  “Sounds dangerous.” My lips are pressed to her ear and the scent of her shampoo is mesmerizing. Fresh and as lush as a rainforest.

  “Mmm.” She nods.

  I hold up three fingers above her head along with the money, and the server nods and takes the cash out of my hand.

  “I was going to pay,” Bree says. “It was supposed to be my round.”

  “Let him pay,” Tim says, practically high fiving me with his eyes. “He’s loaded. You’re an insurance rep.”

  “Nice,” she mutters.

  “One of the best,” he adds.

  “Too little, too late.” She puts her palm up in front of his face, but her smile gives her away. “Next round is on me though, so you two can back off with this ‘macho men pay’ bullshit.”

  Her mouth outside professional constraints is a little filthy. I wonder if her vocabulary extends to the word cock, and if I can get her to say it. “That’s not what I was doing.”

  She picks up her drink and takes a sip. “What are you doing here anyway? Are you stalking me?” Tim laughs, and she flashes a glance at him. “Tell me you two didn’t plan this.”