Page 27 of Roughing the Player
“Orgies?” He arches a brow.
That small gesture gets my motor running. But I’m here as a professional, and I can’t react this way to him. Unfortunately, my body is not listening. “Yes.”
“Sometimes.”
My cheeks flush with heat as I picture him and several women doing the dirty deed on that bed.
He steps forward and cups my cheek with one of those big palms of his. “You should see your face right now. It’s bright red.”
I slap his hand away. “I just hope you sanitize those things between uses.”
“My hands?” He holds them up.
“Your toys.”
The corner of his mouth twists upward in a smirk. “I had a cleaning service that came in regularly.”
My eyes grow wide. “And they didn’t mind?”
“Mind? They loved it. It was extra money for them.” His gaze bounces around the bedroom. “I’ll have to find another cleaner in Chicago.”
I jab a finger into the center of his very hard chest, reclaiming his attention. “No wild parties, remember.”
“Oh, don’t worry. It’ll be only one guest. Maybe two.”
“At the hotel, you said you’d keep your nose clean.”
“A temporary lapse of judgment.”
Should have known he was playing me. It shouldn’t bother me. Yet it does. But my feelings are not important. I’ve been assigned keeper duties, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. Aiming to put the fear of God in him, I harsh my voice and issue a warning. “Brock.”
Unfortunately, it doesn’t bother him in the least because he grins right back. “Ellie.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Darling. I’m a lot of things. Disgusting is not one of them.” His sizzling gaze lands on me. “Want to take the orgy room for a spin?”
Wow! It took him all of ten minutes to proposition me. But I’m not falling for it. “I’m not going in there. No way. No how.”
“Afraid you’ll like it?”
“Afraid I’ll catch a sexually-transmitted disease.”
“Your loss.”
“Uh-huh. Now about this room—”
A rat-a-tat-tat clamors at the front door, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Who on earth could that be? I’m not expecting anyone. But maybe he is. Maybe he met someone at a bar and asked her to his place for some bouncy-bouncy on his orgy bed. I scrunch my eyes and glare at him. “Did you invite someone?”
“A woman, you mean?” Without bothering to wait for an answer, he says, “No. The only chick I know in Chicago is you.”
“I’m not a chick, or a honey, or whatever you call women.”
“Gotcha, darling.” He wraps a finger around a curl spilled over my shoulder.
Before I can tell him to stop calling me darling, there’s another more insistent knock on the door.
“Maybe I should get that?” He nods toward the living room.
