Author's Preface
Two days later, Chantell stood in her pencil skirt and fitted blouse, watching rehearsals for the play.
"No, no, no!" she called out as Michael, for what felt like the thousandth time in the last hour, botched the choreography. "You're supposed to step to the left!"
"No, it says right!" Michael shouted back from the stage.
Chantell tapped her pen against her arm.
With the spotlight in his eyes, he wouldn't be able to see her doing it anyway.
"You wrote the damn thing, Mike! It says right here: Sweeney, after cutting a poor customer's throat in the middle of a song, steps to the left."
"Does it? I'll have to look at that later."
"Mike, are you sure you want to play Todd?"
"I mean, yeah. It's the lead."
"But you don't have that edge."
"Who else is going to do it, Miss? It's not like we've got a line of people waiting to audition, have we?"
"No suppose your right..." she sighed "Where's Kieron?"
"Coach Kilroy pulled the entire team out of class to focus on practice, Miss."
A voice suddenly drifted from the dark gloom offstage. Chantell knew who it was immediately, Belle.
"You know that... man," she grumbled, nearly snapping her pen in half.
"Miss, shall we start from the top?" Michael asked.
"No. Let's pick up from 'You poor bastard.' Then the cut, then step to the left. Left, Michael!"
"Need help?" A low, raspy voice purred right in her ear, making her jump just as Michael's crescendo brought the song to an end.
"Ian?"
"Miss... L."
He breathed the final syllable against the sensitive skin of her ear, sending an instant spark of heat straight down her spine.
"Um..."
For a split second, her mind went completely blank. Pulling herself together, she shook her head, attempting to look annoyed rather than thoroughly flustered.
"Ian." She turned to face him. "What are you doing here?"
"Just wanted to come and say hi."
"Hi," she replied, her lips curving into a smile despite herself. "Now shoo"
"No kiss? I'm disappointed," Ian purred softly.
"Miss... Miss, was that good?" Michael's voice called out from the stage.
Chantell couldn't even answer right away. She was so lost in the sudden wave of heat coursing through her body that her brain completely short-circuited. Giving her head a quick shake to clear the fog, she pressed a hand against Ian's chest, gently pushing him back a step to regain her composure.
"Michael, that was much better," Chantell managed to call out, her voice remarkably steady considering the circumstances. "Now, Belle, your turn as Mrs. Lovett."
Ian took a seat directly behind Chantell while Belle rehearsed her scene as Mrs. Lovett. Belle was actually doing a fantastic job, and Chantell was so absorbed in the girl's performance that she didn't notice Ian's hands settling over the curves of her backside.
The moment she felt his touch, she swatted his hands away without ever taking her eyes off the stage.
"You're not helping," she muttered under her breath.
88
"I'm not trying to help," Ian whispered back, sounding far too pleased with himself.
Before she could react, his fingers slid up her waist, trailing a feather-light path beneath the hem of her blouse. Heat shot straight down her spine. Chantell bit her lip, desperately trying to keep her eyes glued to Belle's monologue on stage as Ian's thumbs traced slow, tantalizing circles against her lower back.
"Ian, stop it," she hissed through gritted teeth, her knuckles turning white around her pen.
"Make me," he murmured, his breath hot against her neck.
His hand ventured lower again, bold and unhurried, slipping up beneath her skirt. Chantell let out a sharp, audible gasp that she hastily covered with a loud, theatrical cough. She slapped his hand hard-lnthe loud thwack echoing into the quiet auditorium and making several students on stage look over.
"Everything okay, Miss L?" Belle called out, pausing mid-scene.
"Fine! Fine, Belle, keep going from the chorus!"
Chantell called back, her cheeks burning bright red.
She whipped around in her chair, glaring daggers at Ian. He sat back with a picture-perfect, innocent grin, hands resting harmlessly in his lap as if he hadn't just been driving her insane.
"Out," she commanded in a low, furious whisper, pointing a finger toward the back doors. "Get out of my auditorium right now before I throw a prop at your head."
"Okay, okay, okay," Ian chuckled, holding his hands up in mock surrender.
He stood up and began shuffling down the long row of folding chairs toward the aisle. Just as he reached the end, he turned back, flashing her that insufferable, crooked smile.
"Dinner. At Gino's, six o'clock. Don't be late."
Before she could say a single word or decline, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, leaving Chantell sitting in the director's chair, completely flushed and breathless.
---
Back at her apartment, Chantell stood in front of her open closet, her mind still humming with the lingering heat of Ian’s touch.
“Gino’s,” she muttered to herself, running a hand through her hair.
It was an upscale Italian spot downtown flickering candles, white tablecloths, and low lighting. Definitely not the place for an oversized hoodie or her daily school attire.
If Ian Jenkins thought he was the only one who could play this game, he was sorely mistaken.
She threw on a lively playlist, took a long, steaming shower, and began her transformation. She smoothed a subtle, shimmering lotion over her skin and dusted her collarbones with light highlighter. After blow-drying her long, vibrant red hair into soft, voluminous waves that cascaded past her shoulders, she applied a sharp swipe of winged eyeliner and finished with a rich, crimson lipstick.
Then came the outfit.
She bypassed her collection of modest floral dresses and pulled out a sleek, emerald-green silk slip dress. The deep jewel tone made her red hair pop, while the bias cut hugged every curve of her waist and hips. It featured a daring low-cut cowl neckline and a thigh-high slit on the left side that flashed a generous expanse of leg with every step.
Stepping into a pair of black strappy high heels, Chantell glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror.
No bra the silk draped far too smoothly to risk strap lines, and the back dipped dangerously low toward her waist. She slid into a lace thong, clasped a delicate gold chain around her neck, and threw a black leather jacket over her shoulders to keep off the evening chill while giving the look an edgy, rock-and-roll finish.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Ian: 6:00. Table for two. Don't make me eat all the breadsticks by myself.
Chantell grabbed her designer clutch, gave her reflection one last wicked grin in the mirror, and checked her watch.
5:45 PM.
"Time to give Mr. Jenkins a taste of his own medicine," she whispered.
Chantell arrived at Gino’s fifteen minutes late, entirely by design.
The restaurant was exactly what she’d expected from an upscale Italian joint. Large, warm, and bustling, with white tablecloths, flickering candles, and the rich aroma of garlic, fresh bread, and simmering tomato sauce filling the air. Despite its size, the tables had been arranged to create little pockets of intimacy. Couples leaned toward one another over candlelight, families chatted over shared platters of food, and laughter drifted between the tables beneath the soft strains of Italian music. The layout was flexible, too, with tables that could be pushed together to accommodate larger parties.
Near the front, a man in an expensive-looking jacket was conducting what appeared to be a business meeting, his companions listening intently as he gestured with a fork. Further across the room, a young couple was so engrossed in one another that they seemed oblivious to everything around them.
Then Chantell spotted Ian.
He was seated toward the back of the restaurant, beneath the warm glow of a wall sconce, looking absolutely stunning.
He wore a beautifully tailored suit that complemented his broad frame, the dark fabric sitting perfectly across his shoulders. His shirt was open at the collar one button undone revealing just enough skin to suggest that a tie had never stood a chance. His tattoos were completely hidden beneath the immaculate sleeves, leaving him looking every inch the polished businessman rather than the rebellious musician she knew.
His floppy dark hair refused to be entirely tamed, falling casually across his forehead, and his eyes locked onto her the second she crossed the floor.
For a brief moment, Chantell forgot all about her plan to keep him waiting.
Then she noticed his expression.
He was sulking.
Actually sulking.
His mouth was set in a stubborn line, and he sat back in his chair with the air of a man who had been personally betrayed by the concept of punctuality.
Chantell's lips curled into a slow, wicked smile.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
She smoothed a hand over the emerald silk of her dress, letting the thigh-high slit flash just enough leg as she sauntered toward the table, taking her sweet time.
If Ian Jenkins thought he was the only one who knew how to play games, he was about to discover otherwise.
---
“Sulking, Mr. Jenkins?” Chantell asked, pitching her voice into what she hoped was a seductive purr.
“You’re late.” His reply was utterly devoid of playfulness. He sounded like a wounded cat who’d been left out in the rain.
“You did say six.”
“Yeah. Not a quarter past.”
“Well, I had to look decent, didn’t I?” She gestured down at herself, an innocent smile playing on her lips. “Can’t turn up in a sensible top and skirt, can I?”
Ian looked up at her.
And promptly forgot whatever he’d been about to say.
The candlelight caught the emerald silk perfectly, casting a faint green reflection across the white tablecloth. The dress hugged her figure, the neckline dipping elegantly, while the slit revealed a tantalizing glimpse of leg as she shifted her weight.
His eyes traveled back to her face.
“You look…” He paused, apparently searching for a word that had deserted him at the worst possible moment.
“Wow.”
Chantell’s smile widened.
“Lost for words? Unlike you.”
“Well, Miss Lovelace.” Ian gestured toward the chair opposite him, a smile finally tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I feel underdressed. Should’ve worn the same thing.”
Chantell raised an eyebrow as she took her seat.
“Now that I’d like to see.”
Dinner passed far more pleasantly than either of them might have expected.
Somewhere between the breadsticks and the main course, Ian had gradually edged his chair closer to Chantell’s. Neither of them acknowledged it. They talked about everything and nothing, jumping from music to school, from embarrassing childhood memories to stories about Holly.
“So, wait.” Ian stared at her, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. “Holly did what?”
Chantell burst out laughing at the memory.
“She stuck two toothpicks up her nose.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. She was playing a walrus.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Yeah, well, that wasn't even the funny part.” Chantell was already struggling to get the words out, her shoulders shaking with laughter. “She stuck them in with glue!”
She dissolved into another fit of laughter, barely managing to draw breath.
Ian lowered his fork slowly, staring at her as the full horror of his sister's childhood decision sank in.
“Glue?” he repeated. “What sort of glue?”
Chantell could only nod, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
“I'm never letting her forget this.”
---
The cab ride back to the city was a quiet blur of anticipatory tension. The moment the lock clicked shut behind them in Ian’s apartment, the restrained atmosphere of the restaurant completely dissolved.
Ian pulled Chantell into his arms, his mouth finding hers in a deep, urgent kiss. Her hands immediately slid beneath his suit jacket, pushing the heavy fabric off his shoulders until it hit the floor with a soft thud.
He broke the kiss briefly, his dark eyes locking onto hers as his hands reached for the zipper of her emerald dress. With a slow, deliberate motion, he lowered the silk, letting it pool around her ankles.
A sharp breath escaped his lips as he stepped back to take her in.
Beneath the dress, Chantell was wearing a sheer, black lace garter set that contrasted sharply with her pale skin and vibrant red hair. The delicate lace floral details traced the curves of her waist and hips, held up by thin, dark straps.
“Unbelievable,” Ian murmured, his voice thick and raspy.
Without taking his eyes off her, he stripped off his button-down shirt and unbuckled his belt, tossing his trousers aside until he stood before her completely bare. His broad frame and the dark ink covering his arms and chest were fully exposed under the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He gathered her up into his arms, lifting her effortlessly, and carried her straight into the bedroom.
When he laid her back against the cool sheets, Chantell reached up, her fingers tangling in his dark hair to draw him down. Ian lowered his weight over her, his hands mapping every inch of her body, tracing the lace straps before unhooking the delicate closures.
His mouth moved down her neck, over her collarbone, and down to the swell of her breast, making her arch her back against the mattress with a soft groan. Her hands slid down his broad back, her nails digging slightly into his skin as the heat between them built to a fever pitch.
Kneeling down, he traced her body until his hand brushed her smooth skin between her legs, touching the wet heat there. Slipping his fingers inside her, he began to lick and nibble her exposed breasts, sending a pulse of heat through her lower body.
She pushed him away with a force that Ian thought was rejection, only for a heartbeat later to skillfully throw him over so that he was lying on his back. She smiled her cheeky smile before lowering her mouth onto his long, protruding shaft. As she bobbed her head up and down, he ran his hands through her silky red hair as he tried not to explode.
Shifting again, she collapsed on the bed next to him.
Ian positioned himself between her thighs, his eyes meeting hers in the dim light.
“Chantell…”
“Don’t talk,” she whispered, her voice breathy and urgent. “Just take me.”
He slid inside her in one fluid motion, a low grunt escaping his chest at the tight, burning warmth encompassing him. Chantell gasped, her hips instinctively rising to meet his pace. Every stroke was slow and deep, filling the quiet bedroom with the rhythmic sound of their breathing and the soft rustle of the sheets.
The intensity built rapidly. Ian’s thrusts grew faster and harder, his hands gripping her hips to guide her rhythm as Chantell’s moans echoed softly off the walls. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, pulling him as close as physically possible as the waves of pleasure began to coil tightly in her lower belly.
“Ian, right there. Don’t stop,” she pleaded, her fingers clutching his shoulders.
With a final, powerful surge, the tension snapped. Chantell cried out his name as an intense wave of euphoria rushed through her body, her muscles contracting tightly around him. The sensation triggered Ian’s own release seconds later; he buried his face in the crook of her neck, letting out a deep, gravelly groan as he emptied himself inside her.
He collapsed beside her on the bed, both of them breathing heavily as their heartbeats slowly settled in the quiet room. Ian reached out, pulling the blanket over them and drawing Chantell close against his chest, her head resting over the steady rhythm of his heart.
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