Last Hookup Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Luke Steel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Single Dad Boss

  Last Hookup

  Luke Steel

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Luke Steel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Single Dad Boss

  Also by Luke Steel

  Copyright © 2017 by Luke Steel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Also by Luke Steel

  Hard Boss

  Hungry Boss

  Dirty in Charge

  Wicked Billionaire

  Filthy in a Suit

  Single Dad Boss

  1

  “There you are, Mr. Woodson, your key. Please enjoy your stay.”

  “Is the bar still open?” It’s late. I only just got in and I am in desperate need of a drink.

  “Yes, sir. This is New Orleans.” The hotel desk clerk chortles at his own joke. “But you also have the mini-bar in your suite, sir. Whichever you prefer.”

  I thank him and follow the valet cart up to my room. The suite is a three-room affair, with a bedroom that leads out onto a wide balcony overlooking the Vieux Carre.

  I’ve been shuttled to different parts of the city all day. I’m not overjoyed at the prospect of hanging out with strangers, but after being trapped in various vehicles, the idea of shutting myself up in a room—even a luxurious hotel suite—is just not something I can face right now. I need to get out. A drink is just the thing to solve my problem.

  I’m in New Orleans to scout locations for a land development deal, and to perhaps establish a prospective new headquarters for my company. It’s a hush-hush trip, preliminary only: if land owners knew what we were planning, we’d find the cost of the sites would double, maybe even triple. My being here is not necessary, per se, but I’m also not in the habit of moving hundreds of millions of dollars to different locations sight unseen. The only concession to comfort I made myself for this trip was a visit to the French Quarter and a hotel stay here. I’ve never seen New Orleans before.

  After a shower and some fresh clothes, I head down to the hotel bar. I’m pleased to see that though we’re in the heart of the quarter, the bar itself is tucked away off the lobby. When I walk in, the place is pleasantly full, with some music and atmosphere going for it. Some eye-candy, too. Beautiful women here and there, and what looks like a table full in the very back.

  I take a seat at the bar and spin through a few emails on my phone while I wait for my drink. The cat might be out of the bag, according to my assistant; word may have leaked to some municipal planning organizations that Woodson Corp is considering a move to the city. It could mean millions for the region and a few hundred jobs—something any city would want to snap up.

  Her message reads a warning, however:

  We may get pushback from some of the groups as to the type of structure we put in place. Locals are keen on redevelopment after Katrina, not in new construction or establishing new pad sites. We might be on the hook for more if that’s the case. Consider sitting down with one or two before you leave so we can discuss.

  After that message, I put the phone in my back pocket and try to forget it’s there. The last thing I want to do on this trip is listen to locals yammer to me about rebuilding and civic duty.

  She’s standing at the bar only two places down from me when I first see her. Waiting for her drink, she’s smiling at the bartender who is very obviously flirting with her. It’s slowing him down considerably, carefully pouring out shots of liquor and trying to chat her up at the same time.

  Her smile is beautiful and wide, although I think she’s only polite rather than receptive to the barman’s advances. Still, she’s the hottest woman in the place, and that’s even factoring in the raucous bachelorette party whooping it up in the circular booth at the back. Long, dark brown hair and dark eyes. Red lips, tan skin, and very, very tall. It’s only when I let my eyes take a ride down the long, luscious line of her body encased in an oh-so-tight, oh-so-nice little black dress that I see why: she’s in a sky-high pair of red platform fuck-me-pumps, straight out of a porno. Her legs look phenomenal in them, but they’re quite a sight.

  I look back up at her and start when I see her staring back at me. She’s noticed me looking.

  “You’re staring at my shoes,” she says.

  I smile and put my hands up, trying to show that I’m harmless and not a creep. “Guilty.” She doesn’t look offended. “They’re just so impressive.”

  She looks down at them and turns an ankle to and fro, considering. I use the time as an excuse to check out her legs again. Damn.

  “It’s for our bachelorette party,” she says, and inclines her head to the booth at the back. “We’re all wearing them tonight.” Sure enough, one of the women scooches out from the booth and starts to pick her way to the bathroom, balancing on an identical pair of heels, right down to the same scarlet red.

  “That’s horrible,” I laugh.

  The woman at the bar hears me and turns back. “What?”

  “Poor thing looks like she’s limping. On stilts. They can’t be comfortable.”

  My dark-haired beauty stands with her feet apart and does a sexy little twirl and side-to-side with her hips, steady the whole time. “I dunno. I think it’s the platform. You get a little more support.”

  I barely hear her. All I want is to see her do that little shimmy again. I reach for my drink because my mouth is suddenly dry.

  She shrugs and turns back to the bar. “Besides, a lady never admits her feet hurt.”

  I point my drink at her. “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.”

  Her mouth drops open. “That’s right!”

  The bar tender leans in and sets a drink on the bar in front of her. “I don’t know about that. I’ve always liked brunettes, myself.”

  She giggles and shakes her head. Her laugh is high, but sweet. I like it right away. “I quoted a line from that movie. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.” She turns to me. “You’ve seen it, I guess. You like old movies?”

  I shrug. “I like Marilyn Monroe.” I take a sip and consider her.

  The bartender’s looking at me like I’ve just moved in on his game. I suppose I have. I extend a hand to the woman. “I’m Clark.”

  “Sara.” She takes my hand, and I notice her grip is firm while her skin is silky, buttery soft. “No ‘h’.”

  “What are you drinking, Sara?”

  She rolls her eyes and smiles. “I’m not. I’m DD tonight.”

  “Lose the coin toss?”

  “It’s kind of a thing.”

  I don’t know what that means, but I put two and two together. “Well, I guess you’re not the one getting married if you’re not the one drinking. Not unless your friends are very, very cruel and made you DD at your own bachelorette party.”

  “Yeah, no, not me.”

  “I am!” A woman in a white plastic tiara and tissue veil who snuck up behind both of us throws her arms around Sara. “Where are our drinks, slow poke?” She’s tipsy and doing the drunk lean. She, too, is in the red heels, and just as unsteady on her feet as her unfortunate friend.

  “They’re coming,” Sara smiles at the bartend
er and points at the bride-to-be. Mouths the word ‘water.’

  “Who’s your friend?” the woman asks, and bats her lashes at me.

  “Lacey, this is Clark.”

  I shake her hand. “We were just talking about your shoes.”

  “Aren’t they great?” Lacey whoops and almost falls over. “Sexy-time shoes.”

  I catch Sara’s eye over Lacey’s shoulder and she blushes.

  Lacey’s clearly inebriated and a bit of a flirt. “So, Clark, are you in town for business or sexy time?”

  “Lacey!”

  “What? He’s hot!” Lacey stage whispers and Sara gets as red as her shoes. Lacey doesn’t care. She makes a little moue at Sara and turns back to me. “If you buy us a round of drinks we’ll let you come sit with us. You’ll be the only guy at a table full of hot, drunk women.” Lacey winks. “Oh yeah, and Sara.”

  “Come on, Lace, let’s leave this nice man alone.” Sara tugs at Lacey, waving apologetically to me. “Sorry. This is our last stop tonight.”

  Rather than reassure her, I turn back to the bartender who’s been watching the whole thing. “Hey,” I say. “Since this is their last stop, let me go ahead and get their last round. Put it on my room.”

  Lacey cheers and skitters back to the booth. “Heave ho, ladies. Incoming!”

  Sara winces. “I’m sorry, you really don’t have to do this.”

  “Turn down a whole table full of drunk women? This is a New Orleans fantasy come to life. Bad luck to refuse.”

  Sara rolls her eyes. “I bet.”

  “Besides,” I say, and extend my arm to her to walk ahead of me to the table. “It’s no fun to be the only sober one at the party. I’m helping you.”

  “How generous,” she teases, and brushes past. I can’t help but notice that, unlike her compatriots, Sara walks juuuust fine in those crazy stilettoes. Plus, the dress she’s wearing leaves not much to the imagination. And I have a very good imagination.

  There are five more women at the table in various stages of inebriated. The usual round of hey, how are ya’s, what do you do’s. “I’m in real estate,” I say, which is not a lie. I don’t talk about my company in social situations like these. Not that I’ve been in a situation quite like this.

  The ladies have had a full evening. The obligatory jaunt down through the bars and parties spilling out on Bourbon Street, and some of the finest strip clubs in the city. I’m surprised to learn that though most of the women are from out of town, the bride-to-be and Sara are locals. And half-sisters.

  “Same father, different moms,” Lacey drawls out over her big froofy cocktail. “Our father is a total playah!”

  I’m sitting next to Sarah at the end of the table, holding court with the women. I turn to Sara. “True?”

  “Daddy? Oh yeah. Dat Creole charm, as dey say.” The accent rolls off her tongue. This close to her, I can smell perfume and damp skin. Delicious. The ladies at the table have a lot on display, but Sara’s had my interest from the jump. Must be that Creole charm runs in the family.

  One of the women kicks off the shoes she’s wearing and then mentions the strippers they visited that night. “Can you imagine dancing for eight hours in these things? Ugh.”

  “Well, if you’re up in the air on a pole, you’re not on your feet.”

  I’m imagining the dark beauty to my left getting a lap dance and the half-hard-on I’ve been sporting from sitting this close to her takes a hopeful leap in my pants.

  Lacey’s taking a maudlin drunk turn. “I wanted to wear these shoes cuz they were so sexy, but my man isn’t here. Such a waste.”

  “Well, there’s a man here,” one of the women, Stephanie from Minneapolis, points out and gives me a little end-of-the-night side-eye. “Do you like them?”

  “Hey,” I say, “it’s not the shoes, it’s what they do to the rest of you that we like.”

  “I know what he’d like,” Lacey drawls, and looks pointedly at Sara.

  They exchange a look only sisters can give each other and not draw blood.

  “How about a little sexy time. Make it worth our while, Clark. We should see who’s the best kisser.” She turns to me. “You can be the judge. Everyone at the table gets a turn.”

  “Except you, right Lacey?” Sara interjects.

  “Of course, except me! Rory would have a fit.” Lacey’s laughter is a little forced on that last one, but all the ladies at the table shriek with laughter, and then settle down to giggles as the girls realize she’s serious. The energy changes into something else—a little charged, a little naughty. The bride-to-be throws a triumphant glance at my dark beauty watching carefully in the corner.

  But if she minds, not a single tic betrays the smile on her face.

  “Sure,” she says, as though granting permission.

  Women and liquor, I think to myself.

  I hold a hand up to settle them down. “Gentleman’s choice, ladies. Ah ah, no grabbing. I pick who goes first.”

  The hoots and hollers are getting the bar’s attention. All eyes are on us.

  I turn to Sara.

  “Well, girl? You’re up.”

  Sara shakes her head. “I don’t think I’m drunk enough for this game.”

  “By my count, you’re not drunk at all.” She’s had nothing but soda water and lime for the last hour. I smile and stand, hold a hand out to her. “Come on, bring those lips over here.”

  Cheers from the table and the room. Sara looks around completely embarrassed. “No,” she whispers. But she’s only half-resisting. When she looks up at me again, I lean close to her ear. “Let’s see what you got.”

  The challenge is what did it, I think. She smoothes her dress as she stands and then takes my hand as the table and the bar gets louder around us. I let her step into my arms before I put them around her, so she won’t get scared off. I’m surprised when she loops her arms up and around my neck on her own, the heels making her tall and brave.

  She looks me in the eye, and over the din I hear her say, “You ready?”

  I’m steely eyed and sure when I shoot back, “I’m ready.”

  Holy shit, I am not ready. The feel of her for the very first time is a perfect fit. At first she’s light in my arms, pressing close chest to chest. But as the kiss begins, I feel more of her against me, pressed tight. She’s soft and lush, her perfect breasts crushed to my chest. Her lips are warm and sweet, gentle and exploring before her tongue peeks out and glides along my lower lip then dips delicately inside. As a second passes, then two, I’m gentle yet firm with her. And then it’s like someone turned on that New Orleans heat, because the kiss begins to become something else. More pressure, a little more friction. She slants her head to take more of my kiss and I’m happy to take a little more control, give it back to her. Tangle and play. I feel her palms slide up over my chest, then slowly steal around my neck as she presses closer.

  I take a step and we both jump as we bump one of the high-top table. But the kiss goes on, getting hotter, greedier. I don’t know how I find the strength not to take her ass into my hands and pull her tight to me. I grip her dress at the small of her back instead and press her to my growing erection. I feel a sexy tug as she slips a hand into my hair and then she sighs as I suck her tongue back into my mouth. She gives my bottom lip the gentlest bite, and that little bit of aggressive play is all I need to promise myself I’m going to have her in my bed tonight, no matter what.

  The kiss breaks when the hoots and hollers extend from the ladies to the people around the bar. Sara steps back then—that is, she steps back as far as I let her. I want to keep my hands on her a little longer, so I hold on and stare directly into her eyes as I announce one word to the group.

  “Winner.”

  Sara’s eyes go wide and there are incredulous cries from the women around us.

  “You have to at least try the rest of us,” one of them says, almost petulant. Another one is straight up pouting. “Miss Irresistible here always gets the guys.”


  I don’t look away from Sara, who’s gone scarlet. “Sorry, nope. I don’t need to try anyone else. Winner.”

  Sara looks away now, turning—I think—to hide her smile as she steps away and returns to her chair.

  2

  I’m back in my room, sipping whiskey from the mini-bar after all. Alone. Though hopefully not for long.

  Soon after the no-contest contest, the ladies began to wind down. Some over-eager swains in the crowd offered themselves as consolation prizes, but no takers. When the bride-to-be began to doze off over the last of the ice in her margarita, Sara declared the rumpus over.

  As a group, the women poured themselves into the hotel elevator, and I had just enough time to sidle up to Sara.

  Leaning in as though to kiss her a gentlemanly goodnight peck on the cheek, I whispered instead, “Come to my room.”

  She didn’t look at me, just tilted her head as she watched her drunk friends’ shenanigans, trying to figure out the buttons on the elevator.

  For a moment I didn’t think she was going to answer. And then she spoke without moving her lips. “Room number?”

  I slipped my hand to the small of her back as she stepped into the elevator, told her the number. She inclined her head in a mock salute as she joined her friends. Not confirming. Not refusing.

  “Everybody say night night to Clark,” she told them, smiling sweetly at me.

  A chorus of drunk “Night night, Clark”s, and then the doors closed.

  It’s been forty-five minutes. I should be tired. I’m not. If I have another whiskey, I might start to feel it, but I’m waiting to see if she shows.

  Behind me I left the terrace doors open. I can hear the quarter still alive with people not far below. You couldn’t pay me to get a room overlooking Bourbon Street—the noise would wake the dead—but I’m still close to the action on a quiet street in the Quarter. It’s a thick, hot night in New Orleans. My terrace overlooks the azaleas and vine-draped iron balconies, and there are just enough people moving through the streets even this late at night to keep the tension there. Sexy. A little dangerous. Perfect night to meet someone elusive and beautiful in the dark.