Not the Marrying Kind Page 5

  “I’ve been climbing out that window since I was eleven years old,” I countered. “I would never fall.”

  The man-in-shadows chuckled, as if surprised. “I should never have doubted you, princess.”

  Something about his voice was vaguely familiar.

  Something about his voice was extremely fucking sexy. Low and raspy, like the hint of a flame against your skin. There was a carelessness to his words. They were loose, unguarded, almost song-like.

  “The last man who called me princess didn’t survive the night,” I said, brow arched.

  “More apologies. I was only referring to that tiara on your head. Makes you look like royalty.”

  I touched it, the sparkling diamonds all but forgotten during my two hours of jumping around. “I’ll let it slide since you were accurately referring to my aristocratic appearance.”

  I was still standing, hand gripping the window for support. He sat in my favorite spot, one knee up for his arm to rest on. His other leg stretched out in an arrogant dominance of space. The mysterious stranger leaned fully into the light of the streetlamp. He was white, with black hair, messy as if a woman had been running her hands through it. His strong jaw was scruffy enough to be appealing. Those eyes were dark and much too dangerous.

  And against the backdrop of his plain black tee-shirt, his muscular arms were covered with tattoos that reached all the way to his knuckles. He looked like a modern-day rake, the kind of man that exists solely to lure women into the best kind of sin.

  But it was his smile that had me tightening my hold on the window—a precaution against real-life swooning. A first for me, and not a sensation I’d ever expected to experience.

  “Fair warning,” he said, voice like silk. “I’m no Prince Charming.”

  “Excellent,” I replied. “I’m not the kind of princess who needs saving.”

  “That’s goddamn obvious. And I mean that as a compliment.”

  I licked my lips. Caught the raw hunger in his gaze. “So if you’re not the hero on the white horse, then who are you?”

  He smiled at me once more. And my body filled with tiny fireflies of excitement. It was the kind of cocky, crooked grin I imagined the Devil employed to do his bidding. It spoke of whispered, illicit words and slow, teasing seduction.

  “Easy.” The rough edge of his voice made me shiver. “I’m the princess’s dirty little secret. After Prince Charming gives her a chaste kiss on the cheek, she lets me in through the window. I stay all night and sneak out before dawn.”

  That fluttering in my belly turned hot as a bonfire on an autumn night, orange embers floating up into a starry sky. I felt them from the top of my head to the very tips of my toes. And I was pretty sure I knew what it was.

  Sparks.

  7

  Fiona

  The sparks momentarily stunned me into silence. And they were complicated by the man who’d incited the blaze. He’d just implied he was good for only one thing—and one thing only.

  And I was no longer interested in men like that.

  But this feeling was a new and seductive one, and I must have stared at him long enough to make him concerned. He ducked his head to catch my eye. “Are you gonna sit here with me? Enjoy the night air?”

  Heat blossomed in my cheeks, but I kept the haughtiness in my tone. “I’d sit if one of us wasn’t man-spreading all over the fucking fire escape.”

  The anti-Prince Charming unleashed another charming grin. The spreadsheets-and-contracts side of my brain was urging extreme caution. Maximize the efficiency of your outcomes! No sexy distractions!

  “Point taken,” he said. He shifted, made significant room for me. I slowly sat down, careful to keep us from touching in any way. Except the moment I did, and we saw each other in the streetlight, a burst of recognition came over us both.

  “Wait, are you—” I started, just as he said, “Fiona Quinn?”

  I laughed a little, slightly confused. Leaned over closer. “Max Devlin?”

  “The one and only,” he said, amused.

  My memories of Max were hazy. We were the same age, but he’d gone to a different school, hung with a different crowd. Of course, we saw him at The Red Room often when we were teenagers, but it was nothing more than a passing, friendly acquaintance. The little I knew of him then was that he was a charming, shameless flirt with a playboy reputation.

  A reputation that was, apparently, still true.

  I blew out a breath, still startled. “I haven’t seen you in… what, six, seven years?”

  “Sounds about right,” Max said. “I’m in town for a few weeks, helping Pop with some things. It’s my first night back.” His posture relaxed even further, smile widening as he took me in. I did the same—I couldn’t help it.

  Because the man in front of me wasn’t a teenager anymore. The man in front of me, with his broad shoulders and confident sexuality and hot, rumbling sex voice was the living embodiment of cocky bad boy.

  And he’d given me my first ever sparks.

  I cleared my throat. Pictured my contract—with its clear language and ambitious outcomes—until there was a corresponding fortitude in my spine. “So, where have you been?”

  His eyes crinkled at the sides. “Little bit of everywhere, but most recently Maine. Before that, Nashville and Colorado. Where have you been?”

  “NYU and then Columbia Law,” I said, brow arching. “I’m in estate planning at Cooper Peterson Stackhouse.”

  A recognition flashed across his face. “That’s right,” he said slowly. “Pop told me you were a fancy lawyer now.”

  I touched my tiara. “I’m quite adept at helping wealthy widows keep their kids out of their last will and testament. Ensure that their ten-million-dollar estate all goes to their toy poodles.”

  He whistled beneath his breath. “Damn. That’s ice cold.”

  “I’ve helped put a lot of poodles in diamond-encrusted collars.”

  His laughter was as low and sexy as his voice. “Lou and Sandy are cool with their daughter having such corporate roots?”

  “If by cool, you mean confused, then yes,” I said. “I think they’re still secretly hoping I’ve been a mole this whole time, working to take down capitalism from the inside.”

  “Playing the long con, I see,” he said, amused. “Did your sister end up becoming a tattoo artist? I have a vague memory of Pop telling me she had her own shop in Washington Heights.”

  “She does,” I said. “My parents get free ink whenever they want.”

  He held up his tattooed arms, pretending to examine them. “Maybe I should go to your sister for my next tattoo.”

  “Or you could come to me, and I’d make your last will and testament.” I crossed my ankles and tilted my head.

  “You drive a hard bargain. Is that your idea of a wild night?”

  “That’s about as wild as I get,” I said. “Checking off all of the action items on my to-do list. Maybe sneak in getting caught up on my emails if I’m lucky.”

  He narrowed his eyes with a sexy smile. “Slow down, Fiona. The night is young.”

  I ducked my head and cast my eyes out to the street below, needing a little distance. I wasn’t used to scrambling for a mental foothold.

  “I saw you down there,” he said, calling me back. “Didn’t know it was little Fiona Quinn at the time, though.”

  I gave him my best Roxy impersonation. “Who’s little? We’re the same age.”

  His brow arched like he was enjoying the challenge. “So sorry. What I should have said was that I spent the night wanting to buy a drink for the tiara-wearing bombshell kicking ass down there in the pit.”

  “You mean my sister?”

  He shook his head. “No, I do not, princess. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you.”

  I ran my tongue across my teeth and watched his fingers tighten in the grate. “Is that why you gave me such a line when I stepped out here?”

  That same gaze traveled a leisurely path up and down my body.
“That wasn’t a line.”

  I adjusted my tiara and kept my expression as unaffected by his flirting as humanly possible. Even though Max’s words were so laced with desire it made me want to crawl to him on my hands and knees. Except I didn’t need a contract to point out the abundance of red flags that probably followed this man wherever he went. And I refused to be swayed by men who prioritized sex over emotional intimacy.

  “I haven’t forgotten what the girls used to say about you,” I said. “You’re not going to be able to flirt your way into my pants.”

  His jaw was set, but his grin was a tease. “I’m a lot older now and not much of a flirt. I tell women what I want. I’m no prince, but I’d gladly sneak into your bed and make it worth your goddamn while. All night long, as many times as you wanted it. Say the word, Fiona, and I’ll worship at those pretty feet.”

  The cool city air was stretched taut between us, charged with electricity. I held my breath, counted to a silent ten, and hushed the primal part of my brain that wanted to be worshiped tonight. Even still, a barrage of fantasies crowded my thoughts—of nails on skin and teeth on lips and a skilled, talented lover committed to my pleasure.

  There was no doubt I could crook my finger, say the word, and Max would fuck me so thoroughly I’d come out the other side understanding all the secrets of the universe.

  Not once in my life had I ever felt this way. Not once had my sexual attraction to someone been this immediate. Was this real lust? Because no way could this be the same as the instant chemistry my sister had with Edward.

  It didn’t fit my plan.

  When I finally exhaled, it was as shaky as my fingers, trembling beside me. “Sadly, I’m not interested in taking anyone home tonight.”

  His cocky smile widened, like we were enjoying a chess match. “A lot of women are more than happy to have me do their bidding. Sexually, that is.”

  I closed the gap between us by a few inches, enough to catch the humor in his expression. He was having fun, even though I was about to turn him down. “I know a bad decision when I meet one, Max Devlin.”

  His brow lifted. “That so?”

  I raised a shoulder. I was only going to back down if he proved me wrong.

  “Guess you’re right about that. I’m the best bad decision you’ll ever make, Fiona. And that’s a promise.”

  It wasn’t the arrogance in his tone that convinced me he wasn’t boasting. It was that leisurely, panther-like posture. The confident way he took up space and moved his body. Every word he spoke was deliberate and intentional.

  “Do you ever stay more than one night, though?” I asked.

  Emotion flickered across his face. But then he cranked up his grin. “Never. Another promise.”

  Not this time.

  I gave him my most placating smile and hoped my words sounded firm and decisive. “Then I’m definitely not interested. But good luck warming your bed tonight. Though I doubt you’ll need it.”

  8

  Max

  Good luck warming your bed tonight.

  Fiona Quinn wasn’t interested in sleeping with me.

  Which was totally fine. I didn’t get turned down often, but it wasn’t completely unheard of.

  And this probably wasn’t related, but my palms were sweating for, like, the first time ever.

  “Your words cut like a knife.” I grabbed my chest, mimed being in pain.

  She assessed me with a cool, sexy confidence. Between her blazer-and-diamonds combo and that fucking tiara, Fiona was the bossy good girl I’d never realized I was obsessed with. “I doubt I even bruised that ego of yours.”

  I shrugged. Cracked a smile and enjoyed the one she gave in return. “It ain’t ego. I’m just a man that lives for pleasure. Yours in particular.”

  Those lovely lips of hers twisted, full of mischief. Fiona Quinn was in on a joke the rest of the world couldn’t hear.

  My vague memories of her were of a skinny spitfire who loved to study and took no shit. The gorgeous woman in front of me definitely didn’t take any shit. And had all the makings of a spitfire. Green eyes bright with intelligence, smudged with black eyeliner. High cheekbones, pale skin, and golden blond hair that shone in the streetlights. I couldn’t believe my fucking luck when she’d climbed through that window like a dream.

  Because I’d been watching her all night—without realizing it was her. All I could see was a whirling dervish in the middle of the room, a woman singing at the top of her lungs while dressed like she was going to a board meeting. Hot blond with great taste in music was absolutely the type of woman I enjoyed seducing for a night.

  “I’m sure you’ll survive to charm again,” she said. “But if I was currently looking for a one-night stand, I’d happily give your work here tonight a strong B- for effort and creativity.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying what I wanted. Because the real work started the second her clothes came off. I’d make her come over and over until she upped that grade to an A+.

  I whistled low, beneath my breath. Her expression was playful, flirtatious. “Damn. Be gentle, princess. I got back to the city like five hours ago, and you’re already breakin’ my heart.”

  She bit her lip. “Tell me the truth. You don’t like gentle from the women you take home, do you?”

  “I like all kinds of women,” I said. “Including women who prefer a man on his knees.”

  Even beneath the streetlight, I caught her flushed cheeks, heard her intake of breath. If we had sex, it would be a battle of wills, and I’d love every second. Dominance and submission, challenge and surrender.

  “Who is your type? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “A man who doesn’t fuck me and leave. So thank you for your straightforward honesty about your intentions. It’s appreciated.”

  I didn’t like thinking that someone had lied to her.

  “I fuck around, but I’m not an asshole,” I said firmly. “I’m a cards-on-the-table guy. Honesty means no hard feelings, right?”

  “I think it depends on who you’re being honest with. And what about,” she replied.

  “I’ve never thought about it like that,” I said. “Either way, I won’t lie to you.”

  Telling the truth was simple for me. It was part of Mom’s way of life. Be upfront with the people you love, and you can’t disappoint them. Why people lied or told half-truths was beyond me. Why make things complicated?

  Fiona nudged my leg with her foot. “Okay then, Mr. Tell-No-Lies. You weren’t really watching me dance right?”

  My voice dropped. “I was captivated by you from the second you stepped onto that dance floor. You were the only woman I saw all night.” For some reason that truth hurt a bit at the end. And my palms were still sweating.

  She looked down at her lap with a sweet smile, suddenly demure. I didn’t get the shyness. She must have men lined up down the block for her. “I’m bumping your grade up to an A-, by the way.” She narrowed her eyes. “Still no fucking, though.”

  I laughed, and it seemed to release some of the sexual tension between us. “So tell me about this guy you’re looking for. Some fancy lawyer named Brett, I bet. Has a few boats and a bunch of investments?”

  She leaned in with a serious expression. “Wait. Brett sounds perfect for me. You have his number?”

  “You’re a real goddamn tease, you know that?” My smile was as happy as hers. All this talking about not having sex was more fun than the last time I had sex.

  “Oh, I do,” she said serenely. “But to answer your question seriously, I’m searching for my soul mate. My potential future husband. And to do that, I’m currently in a period of…” Her lips twitched. “Light celibacy.”

  “Never heard of it,” I drawled.

  She held her upturned palms out. “And that’s why I turned you down.”

  That sounded like the end of our conversation to me. Before she could decide to go, I asked her a question I thought about a lot.
“You don’t think it would be boring? Being with the same guy forever?”

  Her laughter was even prettier than that fucking mouth.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “God, I hope my soul mate isn’t boring.”

  “Okay.” I grinned. “Then what’s he like?”

  “Career-driven. Wants to put down roots with me here in New York City. And wants to get married, of course.”

  I stroked the bottom of my lip with my thumb. “Shit. This isn’t looking good for me.”

  She arched her eyebrow, waiting.

  I ticked off my fingers. “I’m not interested in climbing any kind of ladder. I’ll never put down roots. And I’m not the marrying kind.”

  “Then that settles it,” she said.

  I mimed wiping my forehead. “Whew. And your future husband sounds like a real snooze-fest.”

  She laughed again. “Shut the fuck up. There’s nothing wrong with lusting after a man in a nice tailored suit with a nice corporate job who believes commitment is still wonderful and romantic.”

  “Yeah, but you want to fuck a nice guy forever?”

  “Being nice doesn’t mean he fucks nice,” she said, lips pursed.

  My chest tightened again, nostrils flaring. I wanted to… fight… Fiona’s husband? Who wasn’t even a real person yet. I must have had too many beers. That plus the kinda confusing sensation I had being in The Red Room tonight, like nostalgia but more bittersweet.

  It made me ache. It had a fucking edge to it.

  Maybe it was because I spent the night with Pop, and old timers I knew from way back, and got to watch The Hand Grenades shred a set. It made me feel like a kid again.

  “That’s true, I guess,” I finally said. “I’m a nice guy, and I don’t fuck nice.”

  She tapped her chin. “And how many suits do you own?”

  “Women prefer me out of whatever clothes I’m wearing. The clothes aren’t the point.”

  She didn’t take the bait, though. “How much talking do you and these women do before and after?”