He just had to think. Breathe. Get oxygen to his brain and stop panicking. She was out there somewhere. She wasn’t a myth. He hadn’t made her up. The brothers had to have hired her. She didn’t come out of nowhere. She was in his room for a reason—to entertain him. She’d been a gift to him. His fellow Torpedo Ink brothers had to have her name and number. He breathed a sigh of relief. Of course they would know how to contact her. How else had they gotten her for him?
Player took another slow look around the room, this time with satisfaction, letting every detail sink in. He wanted to remember every aspect of the night. Everything, down to the smallest detail, about his private dancer. She’d left behind the remnants of the candles, although he recalled the two of them blowing out the flames over what remained of the dwindling wax. They’d laughed together when they’d nearly hit foreheads. She had such a beautiful, captivating laugh.
They’d sat on the floor together drinking from a bottle of water as if they were sharing the best of wines. They’d had their backs to the bed and their knees drawn up, thighs and hips touching, while in the background, music played softly. His headache was gone. He remembered that distinctly. It was gone at that moment, and it was gone now. She smelled like heaven. Her skin was so soft that he couldn’t stop running his palm up and down her arm. After five minutes of talking about nothing and everything, his cock was raging at him all on its own. He had pulled her under him right there on the floor and taken her hard and fast, looking right into her eyes, falling into all that deep, beautiful dark chocolate.
He groaned again as more memories crowded in. Eventually, inevitably, between the seventy-two hours without sleep, his fragmented brain—which, granted, she had somehow glued back together—and all the wild, hot sex, he had become so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. He’d crawled onto the bed and stretched out. She’d tried to cuddle up next to him. He’d given her what he thought was a playful little swat and a bit of a shove. Maybe the shove had been a little harder than he’d thought.
The smile had faded from her lips. He remembered that now, very distinctly. That mouth of hers. So beautiful. He’d used it more than once, stretching her lips around his thick girth. He would never forget that sensation, or the sight.
Sorry, don’t ever let babes sleep in my bed. You gotta go, honey. He rolled over, yanked his jeans to him. Whatever the brothers paid you wasn’t nearly enough. He’d given her everything he had in his wallet. Shoved it into her hand.
Zyah stood there beside the bed, completely naked, his marks all over her soft skin, her every curve, making his body react all over again. Making him hard as a rock just looking at her, knowing he’d put those marks on her. She stared down at the money for a brief moment and then looked at him. Instead of a smile in her eyes, a dark flame burned.
What is this? Her voice was low. Soft. The earth seemed to move, to murmur, just for the briefest of moments.
Had he been aware, as he was now, he would have shut his mouth or tried to backtrack. But he was too far gone, high on sex and delirious from lack of sleep.
Seriously, just consider it your tip. Leave your number. Definitely be calling to use your services again.
My services? That same low tone.
No judgment, babe. Really, you gotta go. I’m done with you for now. I need to sleep.
He’d watched her pull on her jeans and T-shirt, stuff her underwear into the pocket of her sweater and toss the money onto the nightstand.
His gaze dropped to the end table again and the money there. She hadn’t taken it. He closed his eyes again and heard her voice as clear as day.
Fuck you, Player. I should have known, just by your name. You’re damn good at what you do.
What had she meant? What did any of it mean? She’d left the money he’d given her. He’d thought he was complimenting her. He searched the top of the nightstand. She hadn’t left her number. No way to get ahold of her. The brothers had to have it. They’d hired her.
He jumped up and pulled on his jeans, his gaze once more sweeping around the room, taking in everything. Her laughter was still lingering, taunting him. Her exotic fragrance now mixed with the scent of sex and sin. He wanted it to stay that way. He cleaned up, reluctantly tossing the burned candles with the spent condoms into the trash.
Had she left anything else behind? She’d brought her equipment with her to dance, her belt of coins and bells. That was gone, along with her ankle bracelet. He’d tried to steal that ankle bracelet, but she wouldn’t let him have it. That had been a gift from her grandmother, she’d said. Every time she spoke of her grandmother, her voice had gone soft and loving. That much had been real about her. He’d loved that tone and the little tidbits she’d dropped about her grandmother.
Player made for the bathroom, took a long shower and felt much better when he emerged. It was late afternoon. That didn’t surprise him. What did was that he didn’t have the slightest remnant of his migraine. Always in the past, when he had a reaction from building and holding illusions too long, he was sick with blinding headaches for days afterward. He didn’t feel energized and happy like he did now. He didn’t feel like he was a real human being and not a walking zombie pretending to have feelings.
Just to prove again to himself he wasn’t out of his mind, he went back to his room and cautiously opened the door, just enough for him to slip through. He knew he was acting a little insane, even though he was trying to prove he wasn’t. He didn’t want to let any of her scent escape, whether she was real or a fantasy. No, she was there, all over his room. He inhaled her and carefully closed the door again, locking her fragrance inside.
Three of his brothers were in the common room. All traces of a wild party had been removed. He was grateful he had slept through the cleanup. Too many people could have thrown his brain right back into a meltdown. Code, Maestro and Preacher sat at the bar, and all three swiveled around to face him.
“What are you doing up?” Maestro demanded. “You had a bad migraine last night. Steele is coming in to check on you in another hour or so.”
Steele was their resident doctor. Player didn’t want him disturbed, not when he was feeling fine. Steele had a wife and child to look after, and Breezy, his wife, was about to get a surprise when Master drove up, bringing the woman with him from New Mexico. She’d been a friend of Breezy’s. Hopefully, she still was.
“You can tell Steele I’m feeling fine. I don’t even have a headache, but I could use coffee.”
Preacher went behind the bar and poured coffee into a mug, shoving it across the thick oak surface of the bar to Player. “You didn’t look so good last night. Master called in an SOS.”
“Yeah, the migraine was pretty bad, but the dancer you lined up for me managed to turn everything around.” Player tried to sound casual. “Thanks for that, by the way. She was a pretty phenomenal gift.”
The three men exchanged long puzzled looks while Player took a sip of coffee. Maestro shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, bro.”
Player set the mug down on the bar. “The dancer. In my room. The belly dancer. You had to have paid her to be there, right?” He was beginning to feel a little desperate. They were staring at him with blank faces, like he was a little crazy. He was beginning to think maybe he was. She had to be real. There were the candles. The condoms. Her scent lingering. No, damn it, she was real. “You knew I couldn’t be at the party, so you got me the dancer.” He sounded alarmed even to his own ears. Maybe he had finally gone insane.