Page 72 of The Price of Forever

“Jordan.” He leveled me with a look. “Promise me.”

I pouted, and he grunted.

“Not that look,” he warned.

“Do I get more kisses tomorrow?” I asked hopefully.

He sighed, his jaw flexing. “That’s something we have to talk about tomorrow.”

It didn’t seem entirely positive, but I didn’t care. I knew the most important parts, which were that he fucking wanted me too, and he hadn’t been whoring me out to his friend.

The rest of the details could come later.

“Fine,” I whispered. “But you should stop by the bathroom first if you don’t want to show your ass like you said. I left my mark, which is how I roll.” I winked, enjoying the smear of lipstick across his lips one last time before I strutted down the hallway.

The last thing I heard him say before I turned the corner was, “Brat.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SEVEN

The buzzing of my phone on my nightstand was the first thing to bring me out of a catatonic state.

The splitting headache was the next.

I groaned, launching an arm toward my phone. I groped blindly until I connected with it and silenced it. I glimpsed the time as I did: 9:38 a.m.

This was the latest I’d slept in years. Possibly a decade. All thanks to my good buddy Trojan and his arsenal of alcohol.

I rolled onto my side and sighed. I’d been awake for four seconds and already felt like warmed-over garbage. Goddamn you, Trojan.

When I rejected his offer to meet up with the sexy brunette he’d catfished for me, he’d turned to shots as a way to punish me. We haven’t drunk like this in years, he insisted while dumping rum down my throat. There was a reason I hadn’t drunk like that in years. Because the next day fucking sucked.

Trojan’s stance was clear: starting shit with your client’s little sister—and the person I was protecting—was a bad move. But he’d seen firsthand how enmeshed I was. I couldn’t even lie and say I was upset that she showed up. Seeing her body packed into that skimpy black dress paired with her trademark leather jacket—eyes only for me—had more of an effect than I wanted to admit as a seasoned professional. If she’d been anyone else, I’d have been after her from the second she walked in the door.

But of course it had to be complicated. Trojan insisted I still needed to get laid—which was true. I needed to get laid four weeks ago. But I didn’t need some unknown pussy and bland personality.

I fucking needed Jordan. In my arms. Wrapped around my cock. Lips locked to mine.

And I had no idea how to move forward from here. I’d slipped up twice with her. I couldn’t let it happen a third time.

I hauled myself out of bed, needing something—anything—to dull the consequences of my night out with Trojan. I stumbled out of my bedroom, squinting against the sunlight flooding the apartment. The scent of eggs and bacon was the first thing I noticed, making my stomach turn. Not a good sign. Jordan turned to look at me from the stove, her eyes going wide.

“Warn a girl next time, why don’t you?”

I squinted at her, stumbling toward the cabinet. “What?”

“You’re…basically nude.” She waved a spatula in my direction. “Jesus, Seven. You’re just asking for it, looking like that…”

I ignored her as I rummaged through the medicine cabinet. I was wearing boxer briefs and nothing else. Big deal. Still, her gaze washed over me like molasses.

“Do you want some food?”

I grunted.

“How about a hydration drink?”

I nodded, struggling to open the ibuprofen. I couldn’t make the cap come off in my disoriented state. Jordan was at my side a moment later, prying the bottle from my hands.

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