Page 1 of Flirt
PROLOGUE
Cool, conditioned air blastedfrom the vents in the ceilings in a vain attempt to combat the heat generated by the hundreds of gyrating bodies crowded onto the dance floor at Swerve. As usual for a Friday night, patrons packed into the club, all twisting, writhing, and grinding to the music that poured from the speakers hidden overhead and mounted on the walls.
Strobe lights slashed through the darkness, illuminating the dance floor in a broken kaleidoscope of blues and purples. At the three strategically located bars, drinks in all shapes, sizes, and potencies exchanged hands—everything from draft beers and double shots to fruity cocktails with suggestive names.
Head back, eyes closed, Asher Dare smirked at the hands roaming his bare chest as his body throbbed in time with the music. He knew that touch well. At least, he knew that kind of touch. Mr. Handsy wanted to take him home—or to a stall in the bathroom, out back in a dim alley, or just about anywhere else he could get more than his hands on him.
“You are so gorgeous.” The guy spoke just loud enough to be heard over the electronic beat.
Asher opened his eyes, his grin turning cocky. “I know.”
The hands caressing him stilled, and the eyes raking over his chest snapped up to meet his.Ah, poor kid. The guy was about his height, maybe an inch shorter, and he had a nice, lean build, but those baby blues and chestnut curls did nothing for Asher.
“Conceited much?”
Asher’s smile grew even wider. “Yep.”
The hands on his chest moved lower, tentatively sliding toward the waistband of his jeans. “I guess you have the right to be.”
“I do, but I’m not here to babysit.”
The guy’s hands stilled again, this time on Asher’s hips, and his mouth fell open as he sputtered. “I’m twenty-three.”
Asher didn’t give a fuck if he was forty-three. That wide, innocent stare told him all he needed to know. Some people liked that—the clean slate, the unsullied—but not him. He wanted it down and dirty, hard and raw. Yeah, he liked to lead, to take control, but he didn’t have the patience to teach some fresh-out-of-the-closet kid the finer points of having a cock down his throat. And this particular kid was so green, Asher could practically see the milk from his mother’s tit still on his lips.
“You’re sweet,” he said, leaning in to kiss the corner of his pouty mouth. “I don’t do sweet.”
With that, he spun around, sliding up behind a tight ass in painted-on leather. Without missing a beat, the owner of that ass lifted his arms and stretched back to encircle Asher’s neck as he pushed against his swelling clock.
“Mmm,” the little blond hummed. “Touch me.”
Oh, yeah, Asher thought, his mouth crooking on one side.This is more like it.
CHAPTER ONE
Stepping out of hisplatinum Infiniti Q50, Cameron Stone stifled a yawn. Seven o’clock on a Saturday morning was too goddamn early, even for him. When the passenger door closed, the sound echoing through the quiet, he turned to glare at his sister over the top of the car.
“I hate you.”
Natalie laughed, blowing him a kiss with one hand while she swept her honey-colored curls over her shoulder with the other. “I love you, too.”
“Why are we here again?”
Her sky-blue stare shifted away from him to the sprawling mansion on the other side of the circular driveway. And by “driveway,” he meant a slab of concrete as wide as an interstate. Hell, whoever owned the place might as well paint some white lines and just call it a parking lot.
“Estate sale.” Her eyes sparkled, and she looked as though she’d vibrate right out of her slinky black dress. “Hurry,” she added, flicking her manicured nails toward the six other cars in the driveway. “We don’t want to miss the good stuff.”
“Can you even afford anything in here?”
One of Natalie’s eyebrows winged toward her hairline, and she gave him a saucy smirk.
Cocky.
And she had every right to be.
Express Yourself had started small, but Natalie had worked her ass off to turn the home décor shop into something one-of-a-kind. The first year had been rough, and the second worse. Somewhere in the middle of the third year, however, things had finally started to turn around for the little store.
Now, people came from all over Dallas and its suburbs, and Natalie had even started receiving special requests for the strangest things. Vases that looked like turtles. Crystal ladybug figurines. Hand-carved tables with hidden compartments. Cameron’s favorite had been the guy who’d come into Express Yourself looking for erotic art—oil paintings, sculptures, photographs—he hadn’t been picky.
