Broken Boy

Chapter 4

Her breath dances over my lips—scotch and citrus. The heady scent of rose and lemon surround us, it's so distinct there's no mistaking its Chanel. Images of the women I knew as a child make themselves known in my mind, but I push them back concentrating on the woman in front of me, in my arms, her bare skin wrapped around me. I slide my hand up her leg until it rests on her thigh and squeeze hard, pulling her closer to me. She moans against my lips, and I can't stop my hand from going straight to my fly to release what's trapped beneath. But she stops me.

"Nyla..." My voice sounds choked to my ears.

She grins against my lips. "Nyla, what?"

I raise my hips up and press my strained slacks against her hand.

"Uh, uh," Nyla says, hovering over me.

"Please..." The words are strangled. Pathetic. Maybe Gerald, the bouncer, was right—I can't handle this one.

She smiles down at me, straddling my thighs, and pulls back just enough for me to stare up into those steely blue eyes. I can't look away—I'm a goner. The limo turns a corner, and Nyla braces herself against me, her hands digging into my shoulders. I can't stop my mind from wandering to me between her legs and her nails digging into my back.

We'd spent the night partying at various clubs across town, each chic venue with a line down the street. And each one we walked past the velvet ropes and inside without a break in our step. Bottle service and every pair of eyes in the room on us. I never got the appeal of celebrity until now. Holden had left me in Nyla's care after the contract was signed.

"Celebrate tonight," he said. "Nyla will see to your training from here."

The limo now slows to a stop. Nyla's breath feathers over my face again, and I reach for her lips with mine. She dodges my attempt so I taste the soft skin of her neck instead. Why won't she kiss me? It's infuriating in a way that I just want to drop trou and take her right here on the leather seats of the limo—no holding back. But like a good boy, I allow her to take the reins. I slide my hands under the hem of her dress and cup her bare ass. I'll be damned—no panties. This elicits a groan I have no chance of keeping quiet.

"Sweet, sweet, A.J."

"I've been called many things, but sweet ain't one of them."

Nyla hums, her gaze drinking me in. She either has unbelievable control or has mastered the art of hiding her emotions because her expression is masked unlike mine. All she'd have to do is give me the green light, and I'd break every one of my rules—I know it's written all over my face. Hell if I care.

"I know I'm supposed to wait until you come to the club to start your lessons, but I think now is an opportune time."

My right eyebrow quirks up. Now this is more like it. "Just say the word."

Nyla leans in, our lips inches apart. I could just cover the distance and seal the deal, but instead she says, "A.J., seduction is an art. Powerful. All-encompassing. And anticipation is just as strong as sex itself."

And then she does the last thing I think any woman has done to me. She slides off my lap and sits on the seat opposite me. I'm too shocked to speak. And too turned on to move.

"Get out."

"What?"

Nyla's lips curl into a devious smile. "You heard me. Get out."

And like a sad puppy, I do.

"And A.J...."

"Yeah," I manage stepping into the brisk New York City dawn air.