Page 73 of Passenger Princess

“You and Wes,"I say in hissed tones, punching the button for the elevator.

“He was beingnice!God forbid, right? We were just talking about the pageant and?—”

“That man gave zero fucks about pageants. His eyes were glued to your tits. He wants tofuck you, Ava.”

She throws my hands in the air in irritation. “At least someonewants to!” With her words, my body goes stiff, but Ava ignores it, continuing on. “At leastsomeonewants me, shows interest in me. At leastsomeoneis fucking going for it.”

“Ava,” I say, and to my own ears, my voice is low and dangerous as I grab her hand. A chill runs through her, but she shakes her hand out of mine, taking a step closer and poking me in the chest with one white-tipped nail.

“You don’t get to kiss me, fuck with me, tell me how bad you want me one morning, then spend the next few days doing everything in your power to not even brush your arms with me. You don’t get to get jealous when you’ve had all the chances in the world to make me yours and never taken them. You don’t get to keep me on a string, at your beck and call for when you decide you want to take me out of my box and play with me.” She stabs her finger into my chest like she wants it to hurt. "I told you in there you needed to make a decision about what you want from this, from me, and you walked away.”

“I needed air," I say.

“And I needed an answer, but just like everything else, you’re too much of a fucking coward to do anything about anything.”

A bell dings, the elevator arrives, and the doors slide open. She stomps into the elevator, pressing the button to close the doors before I can step in, but I slap my hand to the doors and step in.

She rolls her eyes and turns to face me, arms crossed on her chest. "I'm tired of this, Jaime. Either you want me and you're willing to say fuck it to all of the rules in your head, or we agree to be amicable, platonic friends for the rest of this tour. I'm tired of the games."

She's right.

And because of that, I step into her space until she's backed up against the wall, my hand on her hip, the other on her jaw, tipping her head to look up at me.

“Fuck it,” I say.

THIRTY-FIVE

AVA

His lips hit mine, and it takes the breath from my lungs. One hand moves to the back of my head, holding me there, tipping my head back, and holding me where he wants it as he devours my mouth.

Instantly, my entire body goes up in flames, any irritation I felt moments before melting away as his tongue slides into my mouth, twining with mine. He presses me so my bare back is against the cool metal of the slow-moving elevator, his hips pressing into my belly so I can feel him growing hard.

I let out a breathy moan at the confirmation that I affect him as much as he affects me as his lips trail down my neck and he dips his knees, a hand going to my ass to lift me. My legs wrap around his hips, the slit in my dress making it possible.

"You drive me fucking crazy, every moment of every day," he says into my neck, kissing and licking my ear and biting the lobe. The hand not holding me shifts to palm my breast, and without thinking, I arch my back into his hand.

"I want you so bad," I moan. "Please."

"You'll have me, Princess," he groans, my nailsscraping at the back of his head, moving him to my mouth again so I can kiss him, claim him, and convince myself this isn't some wild dream.

The elevator stops, dinging on our floor, and instead of setting me down, he carries me out of the elevator and down the hall, my lips pressing beneath his jaw as he takes us to the door of our room. He unlocks it, walks in, and then pins me to the wall to grind on him while he locks it.

Finally, his lips are back on mine, claiming and devouring and tasting me like his life depends on it.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I say, breathing heavily as his hand dips beneath the low neck of my dress and cups my breast.

“Give me one good reason not to,” he says against my neck, scruff scraping the skin there.

“Your job,” I pant into his neck, trying to rememberwhywe shouldn't do this, and he shakes his head.

“Who fucking cares?” he groans, his fingers rolling my nipple and pulling another moan from me. “Fucking perfect.”

“You should,” I say, unable to even form complete sentences, my hand on his neck pulling him close.

“Your contract,” he counters, and I see what he’s saying.

I don't even care anymore. If it means I can have this man, does anything else matter?

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