Page 12 of Game Misconduct
Sloane
It’s beena couple of hours since I left Maddox’s place, and my body is still on high alert.
I can still feel the vibration in the air.
I can still feelhim.
He didn’t physically touch me with those rough, player hands or with that full, smirking mouth that looked like they knew exactly how to make a woman beg.
And the fact that I’m thinking about his mouth at all is a problem.
Even more of a problem is that it isn’t just the physical I’m feeling here.
It’s more.
The imprint of Maddox Lasker is etched into every nerve ending like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.
When I left his place, I came straight to the hotel Tessa booked for me, uncorked a vintage red someone had the forethought to leave me, and buried myself in work. I didn’t even bother to kick off my shoes or shed my blazer.
With the way I feel, though? I might as well still be in hisdoorway, staring down the bare chest of a man built like a weapon, and looking at me like I’m the enemy.
An enemy he wanted to kiss or kill but wasn’t sure which just yet.
Blowing out a hard breath, I put my laptop on the coffee table and stand to stretch the kinks that assault my neck.
I slip off my blazer, letting it fall onto the sofa like it weighs ten pounds. The rest of my armor follows—heels, earrings, watch.
Every piece that says: “I’m a Carrington. I’m an in control CEO.”
One by one, I strip them away until it’s just me in this hotel suite that costs a small fortune and yet feels like a cage.
Crossing to the bathroom, I flip on the light and brace my hands on the marble vanity, staring into the mirror.
I look the same, with the same sleek, dark blonde hair and serious expression. The same woman who doesn’t flinch, at least not on the outside.
But I see the difference in my eyes. The green irises won’t lie to me tonight. If the eyes are the window to the soul, my soul is tired, confused, and haunted.
I press a hand to my sternum, like I can settle the buzz still alive beneath my skin.
My heart won’t slow down and the burn he left behind isn’t on my body.
It’s in my bloodstream.
Jesus. Get it together, Sloane.
I flick the light off and move through the suite, bare feet silent against the thick carpet. I hit the remote, and the TV blares to life—some overly tanned couple shouting about trust issues while a pop remix screeches behind them.
Love Island.
God help me, but I love this shit.
Normally, I let this kind of chaos numb me out. Other people’s disasters, served up with a side of abs and accent drama.
But tonight it doesn’t land. I’m too keyed up. Too raw. My whole body hums with that scene, that apartment, that man.
Maddox didn’t back down. Not when I pushed, not when I stepped into his space, not even when I delivered the damn contract like a challenge.
He looked at me like I was fire.
