Page 40 of Cold as Stone
His hands slide up, thumbs stroking just beneath the edge of my top, teasing against skin. “I watched you walk through that door and forgot how to fucking think. You look like trouble, Kya.”
I flush, thighs clenching involuntarily.
“You’re nervous,” he murmurs, voice low and wicked. “But you still showed up. Good girl.”
My heart’s hammering. I can’t breathe. I can barely stand still under the weight of his gaze.
“Say the word,” he says, brushing his lips along my jaw. “I’ll take you upstairs right now, lay you out, and show you exactly what it means to be worshipped. Or…” His teeth nip gently at my neck, just once. “We can stay down here and pretend like I’m not thinking about you with my mouth on your thighs.”
I sway toward him without meaning to. His hands hold me steady.
“Why are you like this?” I whisper, breathless.
“You make me like this,” he murmurs.
“Ahem.”
We both turn, to find Poppy standing behind us with a smug smile and a raised brow. Her eyes flick between us, assessing, amused.
“Sorry to interrupt the smolder-fest,” she says, not sounding remotely sorry, “but there’s a Fleetwood Mac remix playing. You, my darling, are coming to dance with us.”
“And do shots!” Ginger adds cheerfully.
Lee’s brows lift. “You mind? We’re busy here.”
“Shut up, you animal,” Poppy laughs, grabbing my wrist. “You can go back to eye-fucking her later. Right now, she’s mine.”
Tank claps Lee on the shoulder. “Come on, brother. Let the women have their fun. Steel’s about to demonstrate his interpretation of ‘dancing.’ You don’t want to miss this.”
“I don’t dance,” Steel protests.
“You do tonight,” Ginger says, handing him a shot. “That’s what prospects are for, entertainment!”
Lee chuckles as I glance back, torn between staying in his gravity and letting myself get pulled into something lighter. But Poppy’s infectious grin makes the choice easy.
“I’ll come back,” I promise Lee.
“I’ll hold you to it,” he says, and there’s something in his eyes that makes the promise feel heavier than the words.
The next hour is a blur of laughter, dancing, and clinking glasses. Poppy is a terrible influence and an even worse drinking buddy—in that she constantly refills my glass but never takes a shot of her own. I come to find out around shot three that she’s close totwelve weeks pregnant. Maybe she isn’t a crappy drinking buddy after all.
Andi joins us halfway through a song and suddenly we’re all swaying together in a loose triangle, hips moving to the music, shouting lyrics like we’re back in college.
Somewhere between the fourth and sixth tequila shot, I lose track of my worries.
The music pulses through the clubhouse, the lights low and warm, bodies moving everywhere. I’m sweaty, breathless, and tipsy enough that I keep laughing at things that aren’t that funny.
“This is the best worst idea ever,” I shout to Poppy over the music.
“I know!” she beams. “Wait till Bones gets drunk. That bitch can do the worm.”
I snort and nearly spill my drink. That’s when I feel it—a hand, large and steady, pressing against the small of my back.
I turn and there he is.
Lee.
“Hey,” he says, voice low enough that I have to lean in to hear it.
