Page 23 of Playing By His Rules

Her voice wavered and she sounded uncertain to find him waiting in the lobby for her—as well she should be after ghosting him, Rick thought. He deliberately schooled his expression into a stern look as he adjusted his suit jacket and closed the distance between them.

“You left this morning without saying goodbye,” he said without preamble, purposely sounding upset about that fact. Which, in truth, he was.

“I’m sorry.” She shifted on her heels, her cheeks warming with genuine contrition. “I . . . I’ve never been in that kind of position before and I assumed it was for the best.”

“You assumed wrong,” he replied, and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his slacks, mostly to stem the urge to slide his fingers around the back of her neck to bring her mouth to his for a deep, thorough kiss that showed her just how inaccurate her thought process had been. “And honestly, I have a mind to punish you for making a decision like that without even asking what I might want.”

A slight frown furrowed her brows. “Punish me?” she asked, her tone wary.

“Yeah, punish you,” he murmured, and leaned closer, so that his next words were for her ears only. “As in, bend you over the nearest flat surface and spank your bare ass until it’s on fire, so you don’tassumeanything again.”

She sucked in a startled breath, but those gorgeous blue eyes darkened with lust at that sensual threat, telling him everything he needed to know. She still wanted him just as much as he craved her. That last night had been more than just a random hook-up for her. And mostly, it affirmed that she wasn’t opposed to his erotic form of discipline.

He smiled in satisfaction. “You like that idea, don’t you?”

Her tongue skimmed restlessly across her bottom lip, painted a soft shade of pink. “I . . . uh, plead the fifth.”

A low chuckle escaped him. “You don’t need to answer the question, sweetheart, because there’s no mistaking the desire in your eyes or hiding the flush on your face that’s tempting me to deliver that particular punishment, with a whole lot of pleasure.”

She swallowed hard. “I . . . I should go,” she stammered, and glanced toward the elevator that would take her to the club for the evening, which was clearly why she was here. To work and earn a paycheck.

Ignoring the twisting sensation in his stomach at the thought of her entertaining another man for the night, he arched a brow at her. “Do you really want to go up to The Penthouse?”

Her chin lifted a few inches, indignance flashing in her eyes. “Want andneedare two different things.”

Yet they were also the two things that described Rick’s attraction to Madison—he wantedandneeded her. More than he thought possible. “Come and have a drink with me instead, just the two of us, and I’ll pay for your time. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. If you don’t like what I have to say, then you’re free to head upstairs.”

Relief etched her expression at his overture, and she nodded. “Okay.”

Tucking her hand into his arm, Rick led her the opposite direction of The Penthouse elevator and into a nearby lounge that served cocktails. The place was as upscale as the hotel, with velvet couches and seats, private alcoves, a full-service bar, and live jazz music. He found a secluded spot with a loveseat and glass topped table, and after they were seated a bar waitress came by to take their order.

Rick opted for his normal Macallan, and Madison ordered an apple martini. Once their drinks were delivered, she picked hers up and took a sip, while he did the same. Her gaze drifted toward the bar, which was close by, and when he saw her visibly stiffen, he automatically turned his head to see what had made her tense up.

It took him a moment to identify the familiar looking blonde-haired guy sitting at the bar by himself, a glass of dark liquor in his hand, his narrowed gaze aimed toward where Rick and Madison were seated. His stare was insolent, contemptuous even as it slid over Madison, and Rick’s palm itched to smack the slight sneer off his lips as recognition dawned.

“That’s the guy that bothered you last night at The Penthouse, isn’t it?” he asked, and felt his protective hackles rise at the man’s arrogant demeanor.

“Yes,” she said, breaking eye contact with the guy to look at Rick. “His name is William.”

“I’ll be right back,” Rick said, intending to deliver a message to William—to either fuck off or die, and don’t ever look at his girl that disdainful way again—but Madison grabbed his sleeve in a tight grip before he could stand.

“Please, don’t say anything to him,” she said in a rush, a tremulous note to her voice. “I don’t want to make a scene, and he strikes me as a pompous jerk who would welcome a confrontation, or a fight.”

Rick couldn’t disagree, but he already knew who’d win either. “The guy is clearly an asshole who needs someone to give him an attitude adjustment in the form of my fist connecting with his jaw.”

Madison visibly winced at the image he’d painted and shook her head. “I appreciate your chivalry on my behalf, but I can deal with the insulting looks. As long as he keeps his distance and leaves me alone, then I’m fine.”

Rick considered her request and begrudgingly decided to respect it. As much as he’d like to let loose some aggression, he didn’t relish the thought of getting arrested for assault and spending the night in a jail cell, instead of with Madison.

And then William made the choice even easier on Rick when he tossed the last of his alcohol back in one shot, then walked out of the lounge. Rick figured he was probably heading back up to The Penthouse, and he was grateful that Madison would remain right there with him.

After he was gone, Madison leaned back against the loveseat and relaxed. Wanting to distract her and put the focus back on them, Rick went for a lighter conversation before he broached the subject of Madison possibly spending the week with him while he was in Vegas. Besides, he genuinely wanted to learn as much about her as possible.

“So tell me, before the company you worked for downsized and laid you off, what did you do?” he asked.

“I was a design consultant for a home builder,” she said, smiling at him and warming to the subject, just as he’d hoped. “They build custom homes and estates, mostly in the Summerlin area, and I helped buyers pick out the flooring, countertops, window coverings, and fixtures—those kinds of things.”

He rested an arm along the back of the small couch, letting his fingers gently sift through her soft hair, while trying not to think of how good the strands had felt wrapped around his hands last night. “So, like an interior designer?”

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