Page 133 of Things We Left Behind
“One night,” I offered. “We get this insanity out of our systems.”
“We don’t even like each other. How am I supposed to let someone I don’t like do naked things to me?”
I let the heel of my hand press harder. “Because I’ll make it feel so good you won’t care.”
Her pupils were dilated, candy-red lips parted.
Our drinks appeared on the bar, but neither of us looked at them.
“Of course, if you don’t think you could control your feelings—” I began.
She tossed her head back. “You can’t double-dog dare me to get into bed with you, smart-ass.”
A man in Armani sidled up behind her and leaned on the bar. Sloane, sensing new quarry, peered over her shoulder. She flashed him the sunny smile that I never got out of her. The idiot looked as if he’d won the lottery, then glanced at me.
“No,” I said coldly.
I held his gaze and stroked my thumb over the middle of the damp spot I found on Sloane’s underwear.
She jolted, nearly knocking over her drink. To steady herself, she gripped my arms.
“You sneaky son of a bitch,” she hissed. Her knee was now pressed firmly against my balls.
“Either you and I go upstairs now, or I shadow you for the rest of the night,” I warned.
“You devious bastard.”
“Decide.”
“Fine,” she said with a careless shrug. “I’ll fuck your brains out for one night only. But don’t think this means anything.”
This victory was a sweeter, headier rush than any I could remember.
“You have five seconds to finish your drink,” I told her, signaling the bartender again.
She picked up her martini, eyes narrowed.
“Five, four, three…”
She took one fortifying gulp, then put the glass on the bar. The look she sent my way was the definition of antagonistic.
Neither of us was walking away this time.
With a mix of reluctance and anticipation, I removed my hand from between her legs and coasted my fingertips down her thighs.
“Let’s go.”
I threw some cash on the bar, gripped her arm, and pulled her toward the elevators. As I did, I brushed my thumb over my lips and savored the faint flavor of Sloane Walton.
21
The Dumbest, Hottest Mistake I Ever Made
Sloane
It was the longest elevator ride of my life, and my room was only on the fourth floor. The atmosphere between us was charged with something that felt like lightning. We didn’t touch, didn’t look at each other. We both just stared straight ahead at the brushed gold doors.
His stony, silent presence made it feel like the car was closing in on me.
