Page 9 of Tips and Trysts

A small, surprised laugh slips out. I can’t believe I got a reaction out of him.

Everett, on the other hand, is far from amused.

Our eyes meet in a delicate standoff. He’s looking down at me and I’m looking up at him, and all I can see is his face haloed in the elevator’s overhead lights.

The first thought to cross my mind is that Everett smells expensiveeven with stale traces of cigarette smoke lingering on his clothes. It’s as if an innate wealthiness radiates from him—like power and elegance wrapped up with his masculine, piney scent.

With his hands on the elevator wall over my shoulders, the hem of his shirt has risen enough for me to see the base of his abs. There’s a slight happy trail leading to the deep V of his hips. I’ve never seen this much of him before, but now I realize: Everett’s body isobscene.

The air is starting to feel hot, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are. He tilts his head, and my heart kicks up speed. For a second there, I thought he was going to kiss me.

The idea is absurd.

But then he straightens his head again and licks his lips—barely, but I see it—and another surge of anticipation rises in me.

Oh, absolutely not.Fuck this.

“Move,” I instruct.

“Bite me.”

“Move,” I repeat. “If you don’t get out of my face right now, I swear to god—”

He presses his fingertip against my lower lip, and I’m horrified when my gut instinct—the one I manage to wrangle like a cattle rancher—is to lick the pad of his finger.

Everett leans in, expression unyielding. “I,” he begins, speaking slowly, “am so tired of this shit.”

Immediately, the desire to lick any part of this guy evaporates.

“Get. Fucked,” I reply, tossing my head and detaching his finger from my lips.

Everett doesn’t move though. He stays exactly where he is, looming over me.

And god, he’s unfairly attractive.

A couple months ago, I realized the magic starts in his eyes. They’re evergreen—genuine evergreen. He doesn’t deserve them. Those eyes should belong to someone who goes to hospitals and stares deeply into surgery patients’ eyes to give them something to live for.

Those evergreen eyes are inset, sheltered beneath the balcony of his brow, giving him an air of mystery. Most of the angles on his face err on the side of prominent: sharp and not soft, pretty like the crackling lightning over a volcano. His cheekbones are perilous, capable of a landslide, like a sudden cliff with a plunging drop to his clean-shaven jaw, the epitome of polish.

But right now, he’s anything but polished.

“Move,” I order a third time.

“Why should I?” he counters. “You demanded I prove I’m capable of making my own decisions.”

“You’re in my fucking space.”

“Well, you’re in my fucking brain,” he counters, spilling out the words more than speaking them. We both freeze.

I part my lips, tempted to clarify, but the moment couldn’t be more fragile. And anyway, I’m not totally sober and neither is he. I’m sure that’s it. He can’t mean what he said.

But Everett releases a low exhale. “You’re my goddamn nightmare,” he mutters before he bends down, lips approaching mine like he wants to—

“What the hell,” I demand, shoving him backwards.

This time, he budges—he budges a hell of a lot. Holding both hands up in surrender, he retreats to the other side of the elevator, watching me.

“Were you about to kiss me?” I question, hand clasped flat against my chest. “Are you out of your mind?”

---