Open Cover Before Striking Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Loose Id Titles by Willa Okati

  Willa Okati

  OPEN COVER BEFORE STRIKING

  Willa Okati

  www.loose-id.com

  Davis Carmichael doesn't do love. Ever. He'd rather strip naked and crawl through a field of broken glass than give anyone that much control over his head or his heart. The only thing he cares about is his career in journalism. That's it. Period, dot, full stop.

  That is, until he meets Cristián Baranov, a die-hard Romeo with an uncanny knack for making connections and taming cranky wordsmiths. A man who breaks down Davis's resistance with a sweep of his hand.

  For one night. Granted, it's a night of marathon sex not to be forgotten...

  Neither expected they'd meet again, but fate has other plans. Now Davis's job is on the line, with the sacrifice of his pride and an article on modern matchmaking the only thing that can save him. And the matchmaker he's meant to interview in-depth? Cristián. Who, though able to strike matches for everyone else, had given up on finding the one who was made for him. Until he slept with Davis.

  When Cristián and Davis go head to head over romance and reason in print and in the sheets, sparks aren't just going to fly. They'll ignite.

  Open Cover Before Striking

  Copyright © February 2013 by Willa Okati

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  eISBN 9781623001919

  Editor: Crystal Esau

  Cover Artist: April Martinez

  Published in the United States of America Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 809

  San Francisco CA 94104-0809

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC's e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * *

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Dedication

  To Crystal, who has the patience of a saint, with thanks.

  Chapter One

  Davis had a deadline, a crappy Wi-Fi connection, and an evening flight back to Baltimore delayed until dawn. The only place he could find to work? An open-air terrace with a pricey bar full of bad beer, dubious wine, and top-shelf whiskey. Not a harmonious mix, and not a time during which he'd have chosen to be interrupted.

  Which was, of course, an open invitation to the universe for someone to do that ten minutes after he'd taken a seat and five after he'd begun to hit his stride in an article that might, just might, rate a byline.

  He didn't look up when the man, a stranger to him, took hold of the seat back, but Davis cut him off before he could speak. "Ask me if this obviously unoccupied seat is taken, and I will end you. And no, that's not an invitation."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," the unfamiliar interloper said without a single drop of regret. He swung the chair out and dropped down with the approximate grace of a carefree colt. "That's the most honesty I've heard from anyone in years."

  "If I need to use words of one syllable, I will. Go. Away," Davis bit out. "I'm losing my train of thought."

  "I'm not so sorry to hear that." His amusement was a nearly tangible thing, as soft and warm as amber velvet.

  "Not half as sorry as I am. I'm busy. But if you insist on having words, we can---" Davis glanced up, intending to slice the man down to size.

  He blinked.

  He returned his focus to the words on his screen.

  He did not glance back a second time. No good could come of it, and definitely not the completion of his article upon which his job depended, thank you very much. But holy fuck, did he want to. Long, elegant stretch of legs. Lean torso fleshed with comfortably solid muscle. Narrow hips. A hint of honeyed skin visible in flashes between the sleek leather of his belt and the hem of a deep blue raglan. Twinkling eyes, indiscriminate in color but deliberate in their mirthful depiction of the man's soul.

  Good God.

  He'd been made, and he knew it. Even in low lighting, the damnable blush that'd been Davis's birth curse gave him away. The man chuckled. "Here." He offered Davis an unopened dark-brown bottle of ale, nudging it across the table. "If you don't like me, that's okay, but I already bought this. I'd hate to see it go to waste."

  "Got a drink." Davis lifted the mostly untouched glass of wine he'd bought to legitimize his taking up space on the terrace. "Good-bye." The man's chuckle grew into honest laughter. Not at Davis. Not entirely at him. More at life, the universe, and the perversity of human nature.

  Davis itched to look back up at him.

  Even when the man remarked, "You've got a temper, don't you?" "And you've got..." He stopped typing and pressed his fingers to his forehead. If one were to be perfectly honest, even without a second glance Davis could tell there wasn't much this guy didn't have, all of it tailored to his specific preferences. Anyone sane would jump on him and leave nothing behind but his---Russian? Slavic? the best of both?---bone structure gnawed clean.

  Therefore, either the aliens had landed at last and decided to come after him first, or this was the gods' way of offering him a big heaping plate of "neener, neener" while giggling behind their hands. Deadline. Had to be met. No choice. Davis gritted his teeth.

  "I've got...?" the man prompted.

  "You know exactly what you've got. If I have to spell it out for you, I'm wasting both our time." Hmm. Something about the grammar there didn't sit right for Davis. Seemed as if it should be 'our times,' but that wasn't correct either, was it? He clicked his tongue and typed the sentence both ways.

  Neither looked right. Your time and mine. That'd do.

  "Manslaughter or breaking and entering?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "The way you're glaring at that poor computer, I couldn't help wondering what it'd done to you. Has to be something worth a nickel or a dime in the pen."

  "A nickel or a--- Whoever you are, you watch too much bad TV."

  "I read too many bad pulp detective novels from the thirties and forties." He waggled his hand, the movement registering in Davis's peripheral vision. "Unless you like that kind of stuff, which I do, which makes them good."

  In addition to deadline and delayed departure, Davis now had a headache, and he was dangerously close to lapsing into vernacular. He hated men who rattled his cage in that particular fashion. Davis liked competition as little as he liked interruptions. "What do you want?"

  Tall, dark, and annoyingly attractive displayed a long reach across the table, offering Davis a hand that looked as if he'd done some hard work in his time but could still win a game of Operation. Ridiculously sized, it'd swallow Davis's, and Davis was not a small man.

  Davis eyed it. Long, firm palm, strong fingers with nails clipped short, his knuckles perhaps a tad overlarge. Veins just visible enough below the surface to remain fucking hot, er, attractive, the whole of it leading to a strong wrist sporting a bracelet woven of thin, braided strips of leather, and a forearm as sturdy and limber as a young birch.

  So he had a thing for hands. Sue him.

  "And you are?" the guy repeated. Wait, what? Ah. He'd introduced himself while Davis lost a few seconds immersed inside his head.

  He could tell the guy knew he'd zoned out, most likely guessed why, and intended to press the advantage as if he knew Davis was a sure thing...and he probably wasn't wrong.

  Still. Davis didn't roll over for just anyone. "Spell that for me."

  The man's grin said he knew that particular trick.

  "C-R-I-S-T-I-A-N. Cristián." He drew a tick in the air to indicate an accent mark. "I can ask you what your name is again if you---"

  "Not necessary." Cristián? No way that could be his real name. Guys like him didn't walk around with accent marks over innocent vowels. He looked more like a Jason or a Ray. Just enough dominance to command attention, but with that little bit of sweetness that'd make walking away easy. Davis didn't often pin a man wrong.

  P
ossibly worth his time after all. His flight didn't leave until morning, and if Cristián had a room reserved...two birds, one stone, and he could finish his article after he'd shed a few layers of tension.

  Hmm.

  Let's see how he plays when I volley back. Davis pressed the fingertips of his hands together beneath his chin. "I never said I'd tell you my name." Cristián turned his palm up in mild surrender. "No problem. But if you're into pseudonyms, you might want to tuck away the 'property of' tag on your laptop bag. Davis."

  So much for that. "Oh, for fuck's sake." Davis rubbed his forehead. "Uh-huh." Davis did not smile, though it took more effort as this crazy, surreal conversation went on. This stranger coaxed it out of him as naturally as breathing. Clean air too, not thick city exhaust. "Does the weird charmer routine usually work for you?"

  "Yes," Cristián said. Davis's cock twitched. He resisted the urge to press a hand against himself under the table. Way too much of a giveaway. But for the love of fuck, talking to this guy was like painting targets over his hot spots, standing in front of an automatic ball pitcher, and pressing the On switch. "And you think it's working now?"

  "Mmm." Cristián turned Davis's arm over and stroked the smooth underside. "You tell me. You haven't touched your beer."

  Davis slid the bottle back in Cristián's direction. "No. There's a good reason for that."

  "The seal's intact."

  "Because no one in their right mind would drink it."

  "I like this brand," Cristián protested mildly.

  "I'm sure you do." Davis handed the bottle, slippery with condensation, back to Cristián. "Thanks, but no, thanks." One of Cristián's eyebrows climbed slowly. "Is that a no to just the beer or to the offer in general?" He touched the back of Davis's hand with one finger, tracing the pattern of his veins. "And if you ask what kind of offer I mean, you'll make me change my mind about you."

  Well now. Point and serve. Nicely done . Davis grudgingly raised his estimation a notch.

  My turn now.

  "Those are either deep, deep thoughts or shallow, shallow ones," Cristián said, leaning back. He tapped his foot against Davis's. "Share."

  "Hmm?" Davis deliberately returned his focus to the screen. "Ah. Your offer."

  "And your counteroffer?"

  Normally Davis despised teasing. Why did he fight to keep himself from smiling now? He averaged one smile per month. Or so the spreadsheet with graphs a former fuck buddy had made claimed. He cleared his throat. "That. Buy me a decent drink first, and then you'll get laid. Don't give me that 'thought so' face either. The latter negates the former, by which I mean smugness sends you back to the beginning. You may not pass Go, may not collect two hundred dollars, and you sure as hell won't get to tap my ass."

  "A hot temper and a dictionary in your head," Cristián murmured. Most guys looked happier at the prospect of getting laid. Despite himself Davis was drawn back, wondering exactly what might be going on in Cristián's head. "Since you're still here, I'm going to assume you don't have a problem with either."

  "Not at all." Whoa. Cristián was touching him, tracing the line of his jaw from back to front. Fingertips rasped against nine o'clock shadow.

  Davis licked his lips. He rallied. "Drink first. Then fuck."

  "Add 'high maintenance' to the list," Cristián said. He went on before Davis could do more than bristle. "Those are steps two and three. There's something else in first place."

  "What?" Cristián stood and leaned over the table, as graceful as he had previously been graceless. He brushed his lips across Davis's. A small taste. His tongue was gentle but didn't take no for an answer---smooth, sleek, warm. Cinnamon snapped across Davis's taste buds. Aha. So Cristián didn't really drink that swill either, and he had a clear head. Good to know.

  "Sneak preview," Cristián said, well pleased with himself. If pressed to the point---which he suspected he would soon be---Davis might reluctantly admit Cristián had earned it. Holy Christ, the man could kiss. "The faster we drink, the sooner the main reel starts. How do you feel about whiskey?"

  Davis refused to be dazed. Or to display it. "If it doesn't have a screw-on cap and it's at least half as old as I am, it gets you laid twice."

  Cristián's grin, at full force, might have lit up the night. "Consider it done."

  WHEN OCCASION AROSE to draw him to the city, Cristián chose this hotel for its ambience. And for the promise of company, not advertised as such but generally easy enough to find on the terrace if he chose to seek it out. He didn't like the city lights as much as the cozy, quiet woodland surrounding the Crossroads Inn near home, but he couldn't have the comforts of familiar ground and the advantages of the city at the same time.

  What would it be like if the reverse were true?

  Better, he'd bet. Cities weren't for Cristián. He liked the quiet places, the out-of-the-way corners with mellow, glossy wood and warm, low lighting. The susurrus of voices rising and falling in conversation.

  But he had this, and he made do.

  Better than that, tonight. There was something about Davis, with all his prickles. Something that teased at him, making him want to know more. A man who only drank red wine and toyed with single malt that would have had a few connoisseurs Cristián knew weeping into their glasses did have an air of mystery to him, didn't he?

  Cristián did have to admit he loved riddles. Davis, now. What did he know for sure? Davis pretended to be easy, when anyone could tell if Davis were anything, he'd be nothing but a challenge. Wasn't hard to guess what Davis expected and how he figured this would play out. He probably had it choreographed down to the last tilt of his groin.

  Nice groin. Nice-looking man. Generally speaking, Cristián preferred men more like himself. Usually. Not sharp-featured intellectuals with aggressively rectangular glasses and a strut like they were on a mission from God and pissed off about it.

  Pretty obvious Davis thought he had Cristián figured out. Cristián quirked his lips in a private grin. He couldn't be sure, but he had a feeling it'd be more than a little entertaining to make sure things didn't go according to Davis's plan. He'd bet that didn't happen often.

  Now, how to keep Davis off balance? Easy as one-two-three. First, by not giving him time to think. Cristián led the way at a fast clip that'd leave Davis in the dust if he didn't rush to catch up and keep pace.

  A brief spit of swearing blued the air behind him, footsteps racketed, and Davis appeared at his elbow. He had to put some effort into matching Cristián's pace, but he managed. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  Davis eyed him dourly. "Either there's a fire or you have a room." "Why not both?" Cristián had kept a count of the numbers on the doors as he swept past them and came to an abrupt stop. Davis's momentum carried him two steps forward. Enough time for Cristián to slip the key card from his pocket and swipe the lock.

  The heavy clunk of electronically controlled dead bolts turning made his teeth itch. He wasn't quite so countrified that he didn't see a need to lock up, but the front door to his house had a good, heavy iron key and tumblers designed to fit it, not the other way around. "I have this room," he said, catching Davis by the collar and tugging. "Come in."

  Keeping Davis off balance could turn into an addiction. He stumbled two steps, righted himself with a glare not half as effective as Cristián would bet he'd meant it to be, and lifted his chin. He walked in under his own power. Cristián watched him, idly wondering if Davis knew how good posture did fine, fine things for the shape of him, the narrowness of his waist and the tidy curve of a lush, firm ass. Too bad he was shorter by three or four inches. It'd been years since Cristián had anyone standing. On the other hand, he couldn't complain about the idea of lifting Davis---he looked light, verging close to too thin but not there yet---and crowding him against the wall.

  Come to think of it, why not? Going with his instincts served Cristián well enough for a living and then some.