Page 86 of Make Me Yours
Reallysee him.
And I do.
For the first time, I’m aware of everything that’s been simmering beneath the surface of our friendship.
He looks calm. Composed. His hands are shoved in his pockets as he watches the elevator numbers crawl toward the penthouse, like he didn’t just turn my world upside down in the front seat of his car.
I want to scream.
Why isn’t he slamming me against the elevator wall?
Or kissing me?
Or finishing what he started?
I’m seconds away from begging when the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Relief floods through me as I bolt into the penthouse.
But Steele takes his sweet damn time.
The man is unhurried.
Unbothered.
Completely in control.
I turn just in time to see him waltz into the living room, calm as ever, unlike me, whose body is still trembling and soaked from the ride over.
He pours himself a bourbon before pulling a cigar from the humidor and clipping the end.
“What are you doing?” I blurt, nearly dancing in place.
He glances over his shoulder, then strikes a match and lights the cigar with the same precise control he seems to use with everything else in his life. He takes a pull, and the ember glows to life before he exhales a stream of smoke that unfurls in the air between us.
“Enjoying a bourbon,” he says, “and a cigar.”
He lifts the glinting crystal glass in his hand again before taking a sip and letting the silence settle for a beat. “Do you want one?”
“No.” I lick my lips and shift again. “I thought…”
My words trail off. I have no idea how to finish them. I’mstill standing here, flushed and aching, while he’s cool and unhurried, puffing on a cigar like we’ve got all night.
“What, Lilah?” he asks, his tone razor-sharp but patient as he settles on the sleek sectional. “What did you think?”
I press my thighs together as the ache continues to pulse low in my belly. “That we would…” I trail off again, heat flooding my face.
He tips his head, eyes hooded behind a curtain of smoke. “I think we should talk about the rules first.”
Rules?
The word slams into me with more force than I expect.
“Rules?” I echo, blinking.
“Yes.”
“What rules?”
He sets his bourbon on the side table, the crystal clinking against the glass. Then he leans forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs, cigar balanced between two fingers. Smoke spirals lazily upward, drifting between us.
