BLACK CRIMSON (Fairy Tale Quartet #4)

9. Camille-2

Unable to stop myself, I reached out and stroked the surface of a suede clutch.

“Dear Lord...” I moaned, my eyelids drifting shut. It felt so damn soft. And the fine scent of leather that wafted up my nostrils was like some kind of aphrodisiac. My fingers couldn’t stop stroking.

“o****m, orgasm...orgasm,” I gasped aloud, taking it to the most ridiculous extreme because—really—who could hear me? I could be overdramatic about my appreciation if I—

Behind me, a throat cleared. “Did someone say o****m?”

Oh s**t. I yelped and whirled around, caught in the act. My face was probably a bright scarlet, and my eyes had to be as big as baseballs.

And there stood the man from Gabby’s party.

Brick Carmichael.

Aka Black Crimson.

“I accept,” he told me.

Dammit. Caught moaning sexually charged words was not the way I had wanted to start this interview. I was supposed to be here for business, not pleasure. And yet, as my gaze drifted over him, devouring every inch of the visual snack he was providing, all I could think about was pleasure.

Lots of pleasure.

Gone were the hoodie and dark pants from the first night. And gone were the jeans and Henley from the party. Instead, he lounged against the doorframe in business mogul mode, holding a disposable cup with steam pouring from the raised hole at the top and floating up around his face. Decked out stylishly in a suit and tie, he set his cup on his desktop and then leaned next to the drink so he could grip the edges of his desk.

Sending me a sexy smirk, he lazily crossed his feet at the ankles and got comfortable.

But holy hell. He really was a s*x god.

My tongue immediately thickened in my mouth, and I went mute and dumb.

“But I have questions,” he murmured, his gaze moving just as hungrily over me as mine had slipped over him. He openly examined me from head to toe before shifting his attention back up and catching my gaze, where a panty-dropping grin spread across his face. “Will the orgasms be for you alone, or can I have a few, too? And when and where were you planning on their delivery.” He shrugged before adding, “I’m game for whatever, but I definitely don’t want to be late for that party, so I thought I should ask.”

Oh God.

Why did hearing him talk so openly about such illicit things always turn my knees to butter? Or put that little dip in my stomach? And the tightening in my chest? I was beginning to think it’d been way too long since I’d last had s*x. Merely looking at a man and hearing him talk naughty had never made me so sensitive to the subject he was discussing before.

Actually, it usually made me clam up and roll my eyes. But the most embarrassing things seemed to be loosening inside me right now, growing a little too warm, and welcoming, and open for my peace of mind.

“I... No!” I shook my head. This wasn’t going to happen. How was I supposed to become an amazing journalist if I couldn’t even interview an attractive man? “Uh, you—I mean, I was just admiring your purses.”

When I blindly motioned to them behind me, he flicked a glance toward the wall. “Pity,” he murmured, returning his gaze to me. “I’ve never been so jealous of a handbag before.”

I huffed out a tense smile and tried to draw all my wits in around me, but the silly suckers kept getting loose and escaping me, going haywire in the presence of Broderick Carmichael.

I wasn’t sure if I was more unsettled by the fact that he was Black Crimson or just plain jostled by how much my female parts were responding to him personally.

Because he was more alluring than all the purses he’d helped design put together.

Grinning smugly as if he could freaking smell how captivated I was by him, he tapped his fingers across the under part of his desk once and asked, “So what brings you by, Mayhem? Aside from all the naughty one-on-one time you want with my handbags? Please tell me it’s to announce that you’ve decided to unfriend both my sisters in order for me to finally take you to bed.”

I huffed out a choked laugh. “Uh, no. Not quite.”

His face wrinkled into a pout. “Well, that’s not what I wanted to hear.”

Grinning, I decided I had to appreciate how determined and persistent he was. Most guys didn’t even bother flirting with me to begin with, and the limited few who did, gave up after the first setback. It was nice to feel as if I was worth at least making an effort for.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, then?” he asked, his gaze sharp and a little predatory.

I drew in a deep breath, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach that flared to life when he stood and started toward me, his hands slipping casually into his pockets as he approached. My gaze fell to his lap area, and I belatedly realized I was looking for a d**k print in his pants.

Oh Geez! Eyes up, Blanchette. Keep your damn head in the game.

But when I lifted my gaze, his sinfully seductive gaze melted my innards.

Gulping, I watched him flash his pearly whites knowingly, the two fangs slightly longer than the incisors. For some reason, it made me remember the story I’d been reading, with the werewolf—Declan—when he’d been in his animal form, and blood had dripped from his canines as he’d prowled toward his lady.

Which made me remember that I’d forgotten all about finishing Dec and Celeste’s story. I’d gotten obsessed with thinking about and researching other things since then.

Other things that were currently watching me with so much interest that it overwhelmed me.

The pit of my stomach heated and suddenly felt heavy and achy as I pictured this man coming at me with his teeth bared, ready to latch them around my throat.

Oh damn. Now my n*****s were hard. Not cool. Slightly awkward. Pretty much embarrassing...if he noticed.

Hoping to God my bra was keeping things in check and concealed, I stared into the golden-brown eyes of the man before me and tried to control my reactions.

“S-sorry,” I breathed, “I just—” I lifted a finger and sent him a tremulous smile. “Give me a second here.”

“Take all the seconds you need,” he supplied, his gaze drifting to my chest, where it felt like I suddenly wasn’t even wearing a bra. Or a shirt. “As long as you keep looking at me like that.”

I promptly crossed my arms over my chest.

He looked up, eyebrows lifting in question, only to sigh and slow to a stop. “You stopped looking at me like that,” he scolded lightly.

“Because I’m here for business,” I bit out, trying not to blush.

Then, fumbling, I dug my hand into my wicker purse and pulled out my file.

“Business?” His brow furrowed, and his head tilted suspiciously.

“Yes.” I extended the file his way. “Here’s everything I have, pointing at you being—”

When he lifted a finger with a stern, warning look, I shut my mouth and swallowed, then glanced toward the opened door to his office and turned back discreetly, finishing with, “...exactly who I’m sure you are.”

The heated warmth in his gaze instantly cooled as he huffed out a harassed breath and stuck his hand back into his pocket, refusing to take my file or even look at it. Narrowing his eyes, he muttered, “I thought we were past this already, Mayhem. I’m not who you think I am.”

“You are,” I countered steadily, arching one brow as I stared him straight in the eye. I lifted the file. “And I have proof.”

He finally spared the folder a single, degrading glance before sniffing and returning his attention to me. “Like what kind of proof? Everything you mentioned the other night is purely coincidence and not any kind of proof at all. A lot of people have the initials B.C.”

I swallowed, hoping he didn’t catch any kind of c***k in my composure because everything else in the file was circumstantial too and could also be disputed as mere coincidence. But after dozens and dozens of circumstantial things, I could get just about anyone to believe he was Black Crimson right along with me.

“You know, you’re right,” I murmured softly as I nodded my head to agree with him. “It really is just a coincidence. I mean, my initials are C.B., which are the inverted initials for Black Crimson. Maybe I’m the mysterious street artist.”

With an engaging grin, he asked, “Are you? Maybe I should be checking your fingernails for paint.”

When he reached for my free hand that wasn’t holding the file, I let him take my wrist and study the palm. “Suit yourself.”

“Oh, I will,” he murmured, slowly running his thumb across the tender inside of my hand and causing me to suck in a breath when I seemed to feel it everywhere.

He glanced up, my fingers still captured in his. “What does your B stand for?” he asked, making me blink in confusion.

“Huh?”

I couldn’t seem to think past the way his fingers were beginning to massage the muscles in my hand. My joints went loose, and my veins heated another ten degrees.

“Your initials,” he clarified, slowly pushing against the bones between my index and middle finger until he was slipping his thumb between the two digits with the reverence of a man entering a woman for the first time. “Kaitlynn and Gabby informed of your first name. But what does the B stand for?”

I pressed my lips together and swallowed. Then tried to speak. “Uh…” The first try didn’t take, so I swallowed again and jerked my hand out of his. Dear God, but what was he doing to me?

“Blanchette,” I finally blurted because I could remember my own name, dammit! And I had proven it. See. Blanchette. He hadn’t turned my brain to mush.

Yet.

“Camille Blanchette,” he murmured as if tasting it out on his tongue. Then he nodded his approval. “I like it. Doesn’t sound too far away from Black Crimson at all.”

“Ah, but I wouldn’t have only chosen brick buildings to paint on. There are so many other, better directions I would’ve gone. The backs of billboards, smooth-sided buildings that didn’t take so much time and effort to paint between the cracks in every brick. But no, each one of your murals was thrown up on a brick surface. I mean, don’t you find that fascinating… Brick?”

Folding his arms over his chest, he chuckled. “I see what you’re doing there, Red, and that’s kind of a stretch, don’t you think? I mean, what kind of a narcissistic asshole would be so full of himself as to only paint on his namesake? Plus, technically, my name’s Broderick.”

He motioned toward his name painted to the door.

I glanced at his name and turned back to him. “But you go by Brick,” I insisted.

“Only by the important people,” he answered and leaned toward me, grinning teasingly. “Give me one night, and I’ll let you know if you rank in that category.”

The offer was actually kind of tempting. I bet a night with Brick Carmichael would be one for the record books. But then Kaitlynn’s words wavered through my brain.

He’d crush you when he moved on because he would move on.

I didn’t need some guy who’d be gone again before I could even ask if it’d been good for him. Besides, he’d probably be so amazing in bed he’d ruin me for every other man out there. And while a thrilling affair would be quite an experience, I’m sure, it’d come back to bite me big-time later on. So it wasn't worth any toe-curling wonders or even a story I’m sure I could horrify my grandkids with someday, just like Gran tried to traumatize me with stories about her once being a Vegas dancer. But seriously…

My heart couldn’t take any more cracks. And there would be plenty after he left. I’d want more, and then I’d grow depressed because he wasn’t the type to give more, and I would have to face the fact that I was no one special to anyone and not worth staying for. And I’d already learned that lesson, with every other guy I’d ever dated.

I needed a new lesson, now, like how to appreciate someone who stayed and loved me and actually wanted to be with me.

“Mayhem?” Brick said softly, making me blink and focus on his face to see that he was frowning in concern. “You okay there? You went somewhere sad on me.” He reached out and touched the side of my eye, explaining, “Sad wrinkles.”

But then his fingers moved on to my hair as if offering comfort. The warmth of his wide palm soaked through the tresses until my nose burned, which it only did right before I cried.

I blinked, my eyes remaining dry, thank goodness, and I stepped away from him, which caused him to drop his hand.

Clearing my throat, I tossed the file past him so that it landed on the top of his desk. Then I looked up into his eyes and nodded. “Feel free to keep this copy and look it over as much as you like. My contact information’s inside. You have forty-eight hours to get back to me and work out something that benefits both of us before I take my research to someone else and basically expose you without your permission or input. But I’d rather have your input and permission. So I really hope you contact me.”

And just like that, the features on his face froze solid. “You’re making a mistake, Camille.”

“I hope not,” I said softly, my gaze apologizing to him for putting him in this predicament, even though I refused to back down on my stance. My entire future was riding on it.

When he said nothing else, just watched me with wary distrust, I gave him a respectful nod. “Be seeing you, Broderick.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Oh, you can count on it.”

I left his office with my chin up and back straight, feeling...

I’m not sure how I felt. I just knew I’d done the hardest part. And yet, there wasn’t a lot of relief. There wasn’t much excitement or triumph either.

I thought it’d all feel better than this, actually.

But maybe it would. After I got the article written and published. There was still an entire mountain of obstacles to climb before I could truly celebrate.