Page 16 of Rematch
She must have read that intention, his poker face failing. “I let the pity party go into overtime. I shouldn’t have done that. Tonight, with you…”
She paused, and when it felt like she wouldn’t continue, he prodded, curious about what she’d planned to say.
“Tonight?”
She didn’t reply immediately, but he got the feeling it wasn’t because she didn’t want to. More like, she wasn’t sure how to. Finally, she said, “Everything feels right.”
It felt more than right. It felt perfect.
The song ended and they stepped apart, even though letting her go was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Come with me.” He took her hand and pulled her back toward the kitchen. He stopped as they stepped beneath the mistletoe, drawing her into his arms again.
“Finally.” Her sexy whisper and dimpled grin were too adorable to resist. She lifted her face to his, a clear invitation, one he was not going to refuse. He took her in his arms, and when his lips touched hers, it was no quick peck. Her lips parted, their tongues finding each other. He tasted the wine she’d been drinking on her breath. Lifting his hand to the back of her head, he deepened the kiss, the two of them taking their time to explore, to discover.
She was one hell of a kisser, adventurous, daring, holding back nothing. He loved the feeling of her hands at his hips, his dick growing thicker when she slipped them beneath his sweater, stroking bare skin.
He ran his fingers through her hair, then closed his fist in it, tightening the grip slowly until she gave him what he wanted, a low, throaty moan that told him this woman would be a spitfire in bed.
He hadn’t had a one-night stand in three years, determined the last one would be the last. He’d had too many shots, celebrating a big win that night, and he’d let the alcohol do his thinking. Preston had woken up the next morning in his own bed, hungover as hell, sleeping next to a naked woman whose name he didn’t remember.
Not exactly his finest moment. Especially when it had taken him the better part of that day to get the woman out of his apartment. In his alcohol-laden stupor, he’d managed to pick up a stage-three clinger, one he’d stupidly given his cell number to while drunk off his ass. He’d had to block her number after two dozen voicemails and twice that many texts. Mercifully, she’d drawn the line at stopping by his apartment, but he’d made a vow, one that he stuck to, that one-night stands were off the table, and he wouldn’t bring a woman to his bed if they weren’t in a relationship.
That oath was on shaky ground tonight, because there was nothing he wanted to do more than take Chelsea to bed and expand on this fucking incredible kiss.
Chelsea was the first to break free, though her actions had less to do with desire and more to do with the fact they needed to come up for air.
“Preston.” Her cheeks were flushed in a way that told him she was feeling the same heated desire he was.
The crowd had started to thin out, though there were still plenty of partygoers who looked ready to keep things going until dawn. His plan had been to stay a couple hours, then drive back to Baltimore, so he hadn’t bothered booking a room here, or at any other hotel. No stranger to keeping late hours, he’d been fine with driving at night, intending to be home and in his own bed by one or two a.m. at the latest. That idea had flown out of the window the second Chelsea had come onto the scene.
“Wanna leave?” she asked.
“Together?” His response made it clear too much of the blood in his body had flowed away from his brain, occupying a place farther south. His dick was so hard right now, he was in pain, the zipper of his jeans likely to leave a permanent imprint.
She nodded, though hesitantly, and he saw the slightest bit of doubt begin to creep in. He hated it. Hated that her stupid ex had made her question her worth.
“Chelsea, I want you so much, it hurts. But I have to ask…there’s been no one since Rick, has there?”
She sighed. “No one before, either.”
Preston gave her a quick kiss, impressed by her honesty. He thought that might be a huge part of the appeal of this woman. He’d spent too much of the last decade and a half around women who would say anything—most of it lies—to catch his attention or impress him. He didn’t doubt every word Chelsea said tonight had been the truth, and she hadn’t shied away from telling him the uncomfortable stuff—like being jilted at the altar.
“Are you sure?” he forced himself to ask, praying to every single deity she said yes.
Once again, she took the time to consider his question, which reassured him way more than an immediate response would. Because she wasn’t being impulsive.
Finally, after what felt like a hundred years, she gave him a smile that was pure seduction. “I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”
He took her hand in his, lifting it and kissing her palm. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Three
Chelsea stepped out of the passenger seat of Preston’s badass Audi, staring up at the Rittenhouse Hotel, butterflies fluttering wildly in her stomach.
They weren’t bad butterflies. Not based on nerves or second-guessing or fear or anything like that.
Nope, these butterflies were driven by pure excitement, anticipation, and hormones.
