His Demand (Dirtier Duet Book 1)(2)

By: Lisa Renee Jones

I follow her. I’m impatient that way. I need an outlet tonight. I need her to be that outlet.

I don’t need time to second guess myself. I make a decision. I live with that decision. I own it like I want to own this woman, at least for the night. I start walking and I’m at the hallway leading to the bathroom in about thirty seconds. I step in front of the ladies’ room door, the rush of adrenaline and anticipation pumping through me. Seconds turn into a full two minutes and then the door opens. She steps into the archway and she doesn’t look shocked. Her eyes meet mine, again with that boldness that thickens my cock that is already pretty damn hard.

Holy fuck, she’s gorgeous, and even in this dim lighting, her skin pale perfection, her eyes striking, though I can’t fully make out the color. “You lost?” she asks, and her voice is this sweet, raspy feminine sound.

“Most definitely not lost,” I say. “I followed you, but you know that.”

“I got that impression, yes.”

“I’m Gabe.”

“Gabe,” she says. “You don’t look like a Gabe.”

“What do I look like?”

“A Ken doll,” she says and it’s not the first time I’ve heard this comparison, usually with irritation that I don’t feel now as she adds, “Tall, blond, and from what I can tell, well-defined beneath that tuxedo. Why are you wearing a tuxedo, Gabe?”

“My brother got married today.”

“Are you married?”

“No,” I say. “I’m not married.” Which makes me ask, “Are you?”

“Not anymore.” And then suddenly, she closes the space between me and her, a sweet floral scent teasing my nostrils as she presses herself to me, pushes to her toes and touches her lips to mine.

I take it from there, tangling my fingers in all those red curls with one hand, molding her closer with the other, and licking into her mouth. She doesn’t hold back. This woman, whose name I don’t even know, kisses the hell out of me, like I’m the last kiss she will ever experience, and then suddenly, our lips part and linger. Neither of us moves or speaks until she suddenly pulls back and looks at me with eyes I now know to be a stunning grass green. “I’m Abigail,” she says, and then she’s putting a step between us.

I let her simply because I want to know what she will do next. I want to see her, to drink her in, and feel her close again. “Thanks for waking me up, Gabe,” she says, and then she’s walking away.

What the hell?

“That’s it?” I call out.

She glances back at me. “Afraid so.” And then she rounds the corner.

Oh no. This is not over.

I start to pursue, but my damn phone rings, and with the small chance it’s my brother on his wedding night, I yank it from my pocket even as I keep walking and damn it, it’s Reid. I stop walking and hit “answer” to hear a crazy amount of static. “I can’t hear you,” I say, and then hear, “Taking off. Call you back. Not important.”


I shove my phone back in my pocket and start moving again because Abigail is fucking important. I’m back in the bar in thirty seconds, heading toward her table, and the minute I bring it into view, I curse. Abigail is gone. I cross the bar and exit to the street, looking left and right, but she’s nowhere. She’s really gone and I have no idea why, but it feels like I just lost someone I wasn’t supposed to lose. That woman wasn’t supposed to leave. I wasn’t supposed to let her go.



Thoughts about Abigail keep me awake that night. She keeps me distracted and awake even through the New Year’s holiday. Women don’t distract me and they damn sure don’t keep me awake unless we’re fucking.

The problem is that she isn’t naked and she isn’t even in my damn bed. She’s gone and it’s pissing me off. I lay in my king-sized bed a few days later and feel alone when I normally feel pretty damn good in the giant-ass bed. I can stretch my legs. I can stroke my cock if I want to. I can do whatever the fuck I want, except apparently, Abigail. It’s not like she actually turned me down. It wasn’t like that. She didn’t turn me down. That kiss wasn’t a turndown. It was longing. It was exactly what she said: an awakening, and I want to be more than the kiss that started it. She’s divorced, burned and bruised if I’m accurate, and I want to lick every last ache she feels and make it better. I consider all the ways I might do that with great detail and when I wake up to an alarm and still alone in my bed, I’m angry with myself. I don’t get hung up on women for a reason. A really damn good reason that dates back years and needs to stay in the past. Good riddance, Abigail. My hard-on and my fantasies are now gone.