Page 156 of The Last Good Man

It’s stupid, but his remark makes me smile.

I shake my head again and look back at the sculpture.

“You need to go back where you came from,” I say, and his hand moves from my back to my front while the hard planes of his chest press against my shoulder blades.

His lips hover over my temple.

“Don’t shake your hair at me like that, princess, as all I want is to have your mane around my wrist and pull your head toward my groin.”

My mouth drops.

“You didn’t just say that to me…” I whisper.

“I fucking did, and here’s the proof.”

He slightly presses his bulge against me, and I turn into melted honey, thick with needs I have ignored for too damn long.

“Lose that loser for a moment, and you’ll get a taste of me,” he says.

“No.”

“Yes. Meet me outside in five minutes. You’llcome backto this event, so have a lie ready forhim. I promise he won’t touch you tonight. You either send him packing, or I’ll break his neck. It’s up to you.”

With that, he steps back, tilts his face down to hide his smile, and runs his fingers through his hair before giving me a generic flick off his chin as a soft goodbye.

A moment later, I stare at hiswideshoulders, still marveling at how good he looks in a suit.

I’ve seen men in suits. I work with them. Have business lunches with them. Or dinners in the hopes that we may be clicking later.

I’ve never seen someone more sexy in a suit, and it’s precisely because the man in front of me with a swagger and a hard-to-ignore smile is nothing but an outsider.

He vanishes around the corner, and I scan the place to locate Emile.

A side door opens, and Iget a glimpse ofthe people in the other room. He’s still there with his friend and a few other guests.

This is my chance to sneak out.

First, I inch closer to the food table, acting like I’m interested in the fish croquettes and pepper aioli. And then I take a few blueberries from a bowl, pop them into my mouth, sip some champagne, and trail Jax outside with a drink in hand.

In case Emile asks, I went outside to get some fresh air.

No one asks me why I sashay across the room, round the corner, and make a beeline for the side door.

This isn’t one of those alleys, I hope.

And yet, it is.

The only difference is that no one smokes outside.

For sure, not the fancy people who came here for art.

I push the metal door open, assuming it doesn’t trigger an alarm, and Isigh with reliefwhen I hear it close quietly behind me.

A few stairs and a balustrade lead to a concrete alley.

The two buildings would touch if not for the narrow space between them.

It’s enough for a car to squeeze in and maybe for the garbage truck in the morning.

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