Page 7 of Red Velvet

"I always thought I did. I mean, what's wrong with a nice guy? Why would I not want to be with someone who's treating me well? Who's taking care of me? Someone who wants to make me happy? Who moves heaven and hell for me?"

I end her spate of words by closing in on her, slowly lifting my hand to grace the side of her cheek with the tips of my fingers, moving along her feminine jawline until I reach her chin. Using my index finger, I gently lift her gaze to mine while leaning close enough to feel her hot breath on my skin.

"Because nice guys don't get you wet."

Chapter 4

Lila

Holy shit.

His lips crash onto mine with voracious need, leaving me no time or room to review what’s happening to me. I'm light-headed, flustered, confused—and so aroused that it tangles my mind.

My heart stopped for a moment when he put his hand on my throat, when he choked me, when he played with the idea of a threat without actually threatening me. It was the weirdest thing. I was shocked at first, maybe even appalled.

How fucking dare he? Who does he think he is? Why did he think it was okay to do this?

But he didn'tthink.

Heknew.

His action was a response to something I did. Problem is, I have no idea what I did to elicit it. What scares me is not the fact that he closed his hand around my throat, but the fact that I not only liked it but provoked it. I called for him to do it—and I didn't even know I did.

How can I send a signal without knowing? Am I that little in control of myself?

My thoughts keep racing in circles while our tongues entwine, mine merely reacting to his greedy demand. I taste the tobacco on him, something I wouldn't normally like, but it melts perfectly with him. It gives taste to the heat that lingers between us, a magnetic pull laced with electric sparks and fiery passion.

I'm floating, my eyes closed and my lips sealed on his, while my hands seek something to hold onto. I don't dare touch him, because he's a stranger and I wouldn't know how to do it right. How silly is that? We're engaged in a passionate and intimate kiss, the kind I could only dream of until now, and I’m worried about my chaste hands on him?

He, on the other hand, does not seem tortured by such restraints.

The kiss started with a placid tilt of my head, only the tip of his index finger touching me. But it turns into so much more when his hands find my waist, entrapping me from both sides, holding me in place though I have no intention to run. A gasp mingles with our kiss when his fingers dig into my flesh, squeezing a lot harder than he ever did on my throat. The thin fabric of my dress provides little to no barrier between his rough hands and my bare skin, but even that seems to be too much for him.

I flinch when his hands travel down, his fingers trailing along the seams of my dress, approaching the hem just above my knee. Elene never specified what length she wanted me to wear for her wedding, so I opted for a dress that ends just above my knee, a length that's been described by our mother as "just modest enough but still youthful."

Another word comes to mind as this gorgeous man's hands travel down my legs, finding the end of the dress all too quickly.

Naughty.

This is naughty. Wrong, even.

Naughty, wrong—and so damn delicious.

A sound erupts from behind me just as the tips of his fingers find the bare skin underneath my dress. I jump out of his embrace on instinct and, to my relief, his hands flee from my body as he bounces back himself. We part with sudden force, as if a bomb just exploded in our midst.

I recognize the sound before turning my head to check what caused it. It was the same sound that announced the handsome stranger just a few minutes earlier. The door to the balcony opened, letting out a beam of light, accompanied by another person. It's a man, tall and dark, but a lot older than the one who just felt me up. Even in the dim shadows I can tell he's casting us a polite smile, reading the situation just as it is.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"It's okay," the stranger, whose lips I can still taste on mine, says. He lifts his hand in a reassuring manner. "Joining us for a smoke?"

He sounds so nonchalant and unfazed, calm and confident, offering a cigarette to the intruder while my head is spinning with such violence that it makes me sick.

My eyes dart back and forth between the two men, my right hand tightening its grip on the bottle of champagne while I try to cope with the frightening speed of my heart rate.

Shit. I'm not feeling well. Not at all.

"Excuse m—" I manage to blurt out before hustling toward the door. My hand lands on the handle with unbridled haste, and I yank it open as if my intention was to scare anyone behind it. But all I want is to run away, to flee from the scene and pretend this never happened.

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