THE KISS (Manhattan Nights #4)

Prologue

Prologue

DEACON

SIX MONTHS AGOWhichever dickhead said that men and women can’t be friends has obviously never spent a second around Kayla Rachel Jackson.

If they did…they’d know that some women weren’t meant for boxes. Not in the traditional sense, of course.

Boxes like friend. Girlfriend. Lover. One-nighter.

I’ve known a lot of women. Most, in the biblical sense.

Women you saw for weekends. Women you took to taco dates. Women you slipped your hotel keys to in the middle of the night.

But not a single one like her.

Strong, beautiful, sensuous…even when she was looking at me like she was right then.

Fire in her eyes, these black, strappy heels on her feet…and blood on her knuckles. A souvenir from the random guy who decided it was a good idea to grab her ass.

She shifted that perfectly formed ass on the edge of the marble sink in my hotel bathroom, mascara slightly smeared, her pretty face wincing as I wrapped her scraped fingers in white gauze and tape from the First Aid Kit I got from the concierge, my hands circling hers with the softest of care.

She was only supposed to be in my room for two minutes. Five, tops.

But nights like this have a way of getting away from you. And what started as an innocent show of help to a friend quickly slid into something it shouldn’t have.

Something I can’t stop thinking about.

But in the privacy of my penthouse hotel suite bathroom, on the night of New York’s hottest surprise engagement party ever, every box I’d allotted to my best friend Kayla blurred the second she spun those aqua blue eyes in my direction, her fingers smeared in some asshole’s Type-A.

I think that was the moment I realized I loved her. Or rather, loved her again.

It'd been almost nine years since we'd spent more than sixty minutes in each other's presence, and I couldn’t stop the grin on my face from spreading.

If it wasn't for her brother's recent wedding and her close friend's engagement party tonight, I'd have no excuse to see her.

All the same, I knelt just at her feet, my black slacks scraping the floor, white sleeves shoved just up to my elbows in an attempt to prevent from being marked by her “war-paint.” I kept my pace slow as I worked, eyes glued to the silkiness that was her skin.

Until she snapped at me.

“Stop it,” she warned, her voice a quiet hiss in the silent bathroom holding just us two.

I didn’t hesitate with my pace. “Stop what exactly?”

“Stop your smiling.” She shot one perfect dark eyebrow skyward. “This is not supposed to be funny.”

I soaked in her dark hair falling over her shoulders, the sexy shimmery gray dress on her tiny frame. I let my eyes settle.

“What’s not funny is having to bandage you up after having a blast at the best damned engagement party I’ve ever been to.” I glanced up, feeling the slight sheen of sweat under my collar as I swallowed. “What is…was watching you deck that dickhead who grabbed you. I only wish I got to him before you had the chance.”

She shook her head with a giggle, dark curls spilling over her dress’s thin straps, her words almost a whisper. “And what if you had gotten in my way while my fists were flying?”

“Well, then there might have been two dickheads on the floor instead of one.” I finished wrapping her knuckles before I stood to my feet. I stretched to my full height. “Then again I have learned by now how to take one of your punches.” I leaned in, facing her. “The hard way, if I remember.”

Kayla inclined right back at me. “Hey, I was ten at the time.” I watched closely as she hopped off the edge of the elegant sink, her rounded hips slightly swaying. “And you were being an asshole that entire day.”

“If I recall correctly, it wasn’t my asshole that was the problem. It was my nose…which bled for hours after you cracked it.” I wrapped up the rest of the white bandages, setting them aside. With a glance over my shoulder towards the bathroom, I headed for the mini-bar.

Placing one hand on a new drinking glass, I poured the rest of the Scotch into it, feeling its effects, my long night of mainlining shots finally catching up to my too-tough tolerance. I cleared my throat as the rest of the bottle emptied inside the shiny glass.

I turned, only to find Kayla right behind me, those blue eyes blinking up at me. I held the glass out to her.

“Here,” I said, extending my fingers towards hers. “Finish this. It will numb the pain.”

My best friend sneered. “That’s what you said after my sixteenth birthday party after I cut my foot on that glass. Newsflash?” She snatched the Scotch from my hand, a smirk playing on her pink lips. “The only thing that was numb that night was my ass from sitting in front of the toilet, puking my brains out from inhaling too much tequila.”

Her crystal clear gaze flashed in front of me, filled with humor, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Sauntering towards the only couch in my hotel suite, I settled down on its surface, glancing up at her, the lustful haze of drunkenness tightening around my lungs. I took a deep breath as she approached.

I tilted my head with a quick nod. “It worked, didn’t it? Bet you forgot all about that glass in your foot, am I right?”

She sat beside me. “You’re a dickhead.”

I let my arm slide around her. “That’s Mr. Dickhead to you.”

She let her head fall on my shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“Just the way you like it.” I tightened my hold on her.

She sighed. “If you weren’t my best friend, I’d…”

“You’d what?” I interrupted, feeling the warmth of Kayla beside me. My hand settled just below her shoulder, my fingers wrapping tight. A pulse worked its way to the center of my pants, and I realized in that moment that staring at those damned bandages, burning a hole into the cotton fabric, had done nothing to distract me from the real matter at hand.

The real matter that had nothing to do with making sure Kayla’s knuckles were taken care of… and everything to do with every other part of her perfect body that I so desperately wanted to show my attention.

It hadn’t worked.

The alcohol or the bandage distraction.

I still wanted her.

With my best friend in the entire world sitting beside me on that hotel sofa, I told myself a million different facts to focus on anything but her honeyed scent, a thousand multi-faceted excuses to deter my brain from the feel of her body—soft and supple, settled in right next to mine, breathing softly, slowly—sensuously.

I started with the most obvious.

You’ve known each other since you were nine.

You’ve told each other everything.

She knows how much of an asshole you are…and she’s the only one who tolerates it.

But none of it made a difference. The Scotch swirling in my system and the pulse inside my slacks were saying something else, and right then their voices—God help me—were louder than all of the others.

And when my best friend felt that f****d-up tension inside me, the unrestrained tautness that pulled like a bow at my body—holding it hot and fraught, she lifted her gaze to mine, meeting my glance with hers.

I know that she found pure, unfiltered lust lurking there…because that’s exactly what I discovered in hers.

A slow wave of surprise sank out of her steady stare, receding fast. And when my gaze combined with her, unblinkingly, I could not stop my face from inching towards her. Couldn’t stop my lips from slowly sinking downwards until they brushed hers, touched…and kissed.

It was electric from the moment we touched…and a mistake.

Awareness shot through my body like a bolt, and in several seconds of connecting my mouth with hers, I’d mentally scooped Kayla in my arms, strolling over to the bed. Laid her down on cool cotton sheets and spent the better part of the night showering attention on every inch of her perfect body.

It felt f****d up…and so right.

With that kiss, I’d come to terms with the many Hells I was headed to, and tightening my hold on Kayla, I’d been seconds from flipping the fantasy into reality until a knock on the hotel door broke my reverie, snatching me back into reality.

I broke the kiss, staring at the door, already knowing who was on the other side.

Fuck. I’d forgotten.

Forgotten about Nance.

And it was almost as if Kayla could sense it, too. Shifting backwards from my arms, her stare drilled through the awareness in my eyes I couldn’t hide.

And in one night—one two-minute interval that turned to ten, fifteen, twenty—I burned all of the boxes I ever put Kayla Rachel Jackson in, my Hell-destined soul dancing around the fire as they faded away.

The biggest box I burned? The one I put her in at nine years old. The one that says she’s the last person on earth I can lie to.

Because I was lying to her right now.

So much for me knowing anything about boxes…and what goes in them or not.

As for that prick who thinks he knows the dynamics of men and women’s relationships?

Screw him. Screw him for being so damned right about me.