by Lexi Ryan
If alcohol has made my world go blurry around the edges, it’s made her come into sharper focus, and I want to memorize everything about her—the part of her red lips, the sway of her hips as we dance, the way her fingertips curl into my biceps as she holds on to me.
“You’re too beautiful,” I tell her. I run my thumb along her jaw. “Too fucking beautiful.”
“I’ve missed you. You’re the best man I’ve ever met.”
My stomach clenches and I shake my head. “Don’t think that. It’s a lie. It’s what I wanted you to believe. Don’t bring that lie into tonight.”
“How was it a lie?” She grins up at me, and I know a full confession would erase all the happiness from her face.
“When we were together before, I wasn’t the man you thought I was. I wasn’t good.” It’s the closest to the truth I’ve ever given anyone about my past.
“So you don’t want me believing you’re good?”
I pull her hips tightly against me as I exhale in frustration. She still thinks this is some kind of joke. “I’m different now, but then…”
She lifts onto her toes and flicks her tongue against my ear. “Don’t be so different. I like you a little bad.”
I groan and stop dancing. I don’t know how much longer I can do this without diving over the line. “Is that permission to stop being your friend?” I’m obsessed with knowing if she tastes as sweet as I remember. And if I swipe my tongue over the sensitive spot beneath her ear, will she gasp like she always did?
She shrugs and grins, and the dance floor tilts off balance. It’s crowded, and we’re surrounded by writhing bodies, cocooned in the crowd. I turn her in my arms so her back is to my front and settle my hand against the soft skin of her midriff. She arches her back and rubs against me.
I sweep her hair to the side, and when I press my lips to the long, smooth column of her neck, she trembles against me.
“Are you okay?” I ask against her ear. “Is this okay?”
“I—I’m not sure…”
“Tell me what you want. Not five years ago. Not tomorrow. What do you want right now?”
She reaches back and threads her fingers through my hair to guide my mouth back to her neck.
I don’t hesitate. I kiss and suck on that tender skin while we move to the beat.
The rest of the room fades and one song blurs into the next. A waitress comes by selling shots, and I buy two, one for each of us, and we lock eyes as we throw them back. At some point, I’m vaguely aware of Bailey checking on me, but my focus is one hundred percent on Emma, on this night that takes me back to when I was eighteen and so fucking in love it hurt. Tonight, Emma isn’t the woman who once broke my heart. She isn’t the girl who wrote me off with a simple goodbye note and apologies I didn’t want. Tonight, she’s a dream, my fantasy in the flesh, my reward for surviving the hardest year of my whole life.
When her face begins to blur, I realize I’m way more drunk than I ever intended. I need to sober up or I’m not going to remember a minute of this night. “Want to get out of here?”
She nods, takes my hand, and leads me out of the bar and down the hall to the elevators. My watch reads a quarter past two.
“Let’s get some food,” I suggest, but at the same moment, an elevator dings and the doors slide open.
Emma grabs my hand and drags me inside. “I don’t want food,” she says, punching a button.
I spin her around and press her against the wall. “What do you want, Em?” I drop my hand to her side to skim my knuckles over her skirt, and she widens her stance to part her thighs. “Fuck,” I whisper. I shouldn’t do this. Not here, not when any moment someone could join us on the elevator, not when we’re both so damn drunk it’s a wonder we can stand upright. But shouldn’t is so much weaker than want, and I want to touch her more than I want anything right now.
I’m faintly aware of the soft beeping of the passing floors as I slide my hand up her skirt and cup her between her legs. She gasps, and I rub my fingers over the damp lace of her panties, teasing her swollen flesh.
When the elevator stops and the doors slide open, she grabs my wrist and holds me still. “Please,” she whispers in my ear. “Please. Don’t stop.” Then she tilts her hips and rocks against my hand. I couldn’t refuse her if every person in the hotel was watching us.
I squeeze my eyes shut and step closer, then I pull the lace of her panties to the side and slide a finger into her wet heat. I don’t know what makes me harder—the sound of her gasp followed by her quick moan of pleasure, or the way her muscles squeeze my finger so damn tight. Suddenly, I’m desperate to taste her. I want to lay her out and strip her bare, want to spread her legs and use my lips and tongue on her until she’s screaming for more. I’m a better lover than the kid she knew five years ago, and I want to prove it to her.
Slowly, I fuck her with my fingers, watching the pleasure move across her face as I move in and out of her. “You’re so damn close,” I whisper.
“I know.” She bucks against me, half helpless, half desperate. “God, I’d forgotten how good…”
I move my hand faster. Rougher now. Demanding. “Were you wet for me the whole time we were dancing?”
“Yes.”
“Were you thinking about this? Or were you hoping I’d make you come on the dance floor?”
“I…” She closes her eyes and shakes her head.
I take her chin in my free hand and tilt her head up so she has to look at me. “No, baby. You’re not getting off the hook that easily. I want to hear you say it.”
“I want you to make me come,” she begs. “Keegan, please. I—”
I slide a second finger inside her, and her muscles clench, squeezing me tight as her orgasm rocks through her. I’m so turned on that my cock aches, but I watch every second. I drink in the way her lashes look against her freckled cheeks, the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she shudders with the aftershocks of her pleasure.
And when she drunkenly stumbles away from me and pulls me into her penthouse suite, I blindly follow.
Chapter Twelve
Emma
I wake up with a gasp and confusion hits me in the face with the intensity of my aching head.
Oh my God. What have I done?
Keegan is sleeping on his side facing me, one arm draped over my waist. The few times we slept together, this was his MO. His body always facing mine, at least one limb wrapped around me as if he’s afraid I might run away while he sleeps. The gesture makes my pounding heart ache for something I haven’t let myself want in five years.
Snippets from the night before come to me. The burlesque show, Keegan’s hands on my hips as we danced, his mouth skimming down my neck, flashes of the elevator and being pressed against the wall. His hands. His mouth. My desperate pleas for more. What have I done?
My stomach heaves. I slide out from under his arm and run to the bathroom. I lose the contents of my stomach in the toilet, and I don’t know if I’m sick from the alcohol or the horror ushered in by sobriety and the light of day.
Our safety net of “just friends” failed us. I lean my forehead on the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl and whimper. Maybe the night was a bad idea from the beginning. I drank too much and fucked up, but can I really blame the booze when it led me exactly where I wanted to be?
When I close my eyes, I’m bombarded with flashes of what happened in the room. Clothes coming off. Hands and mouths everywhere. My thighs spread, his body over mine as he whispered in my ear… “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this since you left me? Do you have any idea how many times I’ve gotten myself off by remembering the sounds you make when you come?”
The memories are fragmented—delicious bites of a decadent dessert. I relish them while feeling guilty for wanting more. My body aches in that delicious, well-used way I haven’t felt in five years.
What have I done? What have I done?
The words echo like a death knell in my pounding head. I thi
nk about scribbling a note and leaving before he wakes up, but I left him with nothing but a note once, and I can’t stomach the thought of how much he’d hate me if I did it again.
I climb in the shower and hang my head as I let the water pour over me. I don’t want to wash away last night. If I could choose, I’d keep those moments and hold them close. No, it’s the oppressive weight of reality that has me turning the water hot. It’s tomorrow that I want to wash away, not last night.
I screwed up, and no amount of hot water will change that.
When I get out of the shower, I grab my toothbrush and scrub the taste of too much alcohol from my enamel and tongue. I splash water on my face and stare at my reflection. Last night, I excused myself to the restroom after dinner, and I remember holding on to the vanity and staring in wonder at the stranger in the mirror. She looked younger than I’ve felt in years. She looked like she knew how to have a good time. Like she’d never known the loneliness that’s haunted me most of my life. This morning, the girl in my reflection looks lost and terrified, and all too familiar.
“Emma?” Keegan calls from the bedroom. His voice is husky with sleep and laced with an edge of worry.
I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the edge of the bathroom counter.
“Emma?” he calls again, and the sound of my name on his tongue makes my throat go thick with sadness.
I have to tell him. I screwed up, and now I have to explain.
“I’m coming,” I croak. I slip into one of the hotel’s fluffy white robes before returning to the bedroom. He’s sitting up in bed, his broad chest bare, his gaze running over me again and again. I give him a shaky smile. I don’t want him to see how unsure I feel this morning. I don’t want him to know about the guilt that’s eating away at my gut.
“I thought you left,” he says. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. “Hungover. The shower helped.”
He leans back against the headboard, and I stand stupidly beside the bed, not sure where to sit or stand or what to do with my hands. I have no idea how I’m supposed to explain what a mistake this was or why I let it happen. I wish I could choose not to explain at all. Instead, I’d straddle his waist and run my hands over the muscles in his chest. I’d soak in his warmth and his strength and forget everything but the lust in his eyes and the way I feel when he touches me. Suddenly, with every breath I take, the question weighs heavier on me, the question I wouldn’t let myself think yesterday. What would happen if I didn’t go home? What would happen if I stayed with him?
He cocks his head to the side. “Penny for your thoughts.”
“I was thinking…” I snap my mouth shut and bite my bottom lip. I’m not brave enough for this.
Reaching out, he grabs my hand and tugs me onto the bed. I squeak as he rolls over me, and his weight on my body is so delicious that I close my eyes. When I open them, he’s propped himself up on his elbow and he’s looking down at me. “Tell me what’s wrong.” He snakes one hand between our bodies and inside my robe. His knuckles graze my belly then dip lower. “You can tell me anything.”
He slides a hand between my legs, and I gasp. “I walked away from you once, Keegan. I forgot how hard that was. What if I’m not strong enough to do it again?”
His hand stills and he exhales heavily before lowering his mouth to mine and kissing me hard. The kiss is teeth and tongue and a hunger that I understand all too well. His tongue slides against mine and his hand resumes its intoxicating rhythm between my legs. “Then don’t,” he says against my mouth. “Don’t fucking walk away. Not again.”
“Vegas can’t last forever.” My voice betrays me, cracking like my heart in my chest. I know I have to go home, but right now the week ahead of me looms like a hell I don’t deserve.
On the nightstand, the suite phone rings. I don’t reach for it. I don’t want Keegan’s hands off me. I want to close my eyes and sink into the pleasure of his hand working between my legs. I want to relish the way he makes me feel—like I’m a woman again, brave and unafraid of life and love. I’m a greedy dreamer refusing to open her eyes and let the dream end. “It’s probably just room service wanting to know what time they can bring up breakfast.”
“Then I’ll let them know it’s going to have to wait.” Keegan reaches for the phone with his free hand, and I hold the other between my legs, letting my hips arch into his touch, showing him with my body what I need. He squeezes his eyes shut as he places the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
I rock my hips, working myself against his still hand.
“Can you say that again?” I wonder if the person on the other end can hear the arousal in his voice as clearly as I can. In this instant, it’s as if tomorrow isn’t real. My life in Georgia and my plans are nothing but a work of fiction I enjoyed once. This. This is real. This is everything.
All the color drains from Keegan’s face as he takes the phone from his ear and his hand from between my legs. His jaw goes hard and his eyes icy as he hands the receiver to me. “It’s the front desk. Your fiancé is here and asking to speak with you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Keegan
When you just spent the whole night kissing, tasting, touching, and fucking a woman, and you tell her that her fiancé is on the phone, the last thing you want her to do is take the receiver and talk to the man on the other line.
I held my breath as I waited for her to laugh and tell me that the guy on the phone must have the wrong number. Instead, she rolled out from under me, stood beside the bed, took the phone, and said she’d speak with him.
“Zachary?” she asks. “What are you doing in Vegas?”
That’s all I needed to hear. Ten seconds ago, she was getting herself off on my hand, and now she’s speaking to Zachary? Who’s her fucking fiancé? I climb out of bed and leave the bedroom. My clothes are scattered all over the suite, but I gather them and pull them on one item at a time. I don’t let myself think about what we did in these rooms last night. Nothing good will come of thinking about the way she unbuttoned my pants just inside the door or how she ran her nails down my chest after I pulled off my shirt. If I think about taking handfuls of her red hair as she drew me into her mouth, I’ll lose my fucking mind.
Instead, I buckle my belt and button my shirt as I head to the door.
Before I can open it, Emma’s in front of me, standing between me and my only choice: walking away. “I can explain,” she says. Her eyes are so big and desperate that I want to believe her. I want to listen to anything she has to tell me.
“That’s why you wanted to be someone else. And that’s why you kept changing the subject when I asked about your life.” I arch a brow. “Is that what you wanted to explain? Because I get it. I figured that much out myself. But frankly, I’d have liked to have the choice before I fucked another man’s fiancé.”
She opens her mouth and closes it again. She hangs her head before she says, “I should have told you.”
“Yeah. You should have. But now you can tell him.”
She lifts her head, and when I meet her eyes, I hear my dad’s voice in my head. Wake up and see that she’s conning you, son. “It isn’t what it seems.”
“What? Like you and Harry wasn’t what it seemed?”
She flinches and backs against the door as if my words were a punch that landed right in her gut. “Yeah. Something like that.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Keegan. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
I swallow hard. I’m being torn in twelve different directions and I’m paralyzed because I don’t know what the fuck to do next. Part of me wants to storm out of here and never look back. Part of me wants to pin her against the door and kiss her until she comes to her senses and tells me she won’t marry Zachary. Then there are all of the variations between those two extremes: the part of me that wants to hear her explanation, the part that wants to say fuck her fiancé, last night she was mine, and if he wants her he’s going to have to prove he’s the better man.
“Will you tell him?” As soon as I say the words, I regret them. I hold up a hand. “Never mind. Please don’t answer that. It’s none of my business, and I honestly don’t care.”
“Keegan—”
“Emma, get out of my way.”
She lifts her hand to my cheek. The second her fingertips brush along my jaw, I flinch and turn my head the other way. She makes an awful choking sound. I tighten my jaw and refuse to let myself look at her.
“I will always care for you.” She steps out of the way as I turn the knob and yank open the door, leaving before I can talk myself out of it.
* * *
Emma
Five Years Ago…
“Emma!” My mother greets me at the door of her brand-new house in Hollywood and wraps me into her arms. Apparently, she’s playing the role of adoring mother today. “It’s so good to see you, baby! Come into the living room. I have a visitor I think you might be excited to see.” She grabs my hand and drags me into the living room, where a man is sitting on the couch, one leg crossed over the other. He’s tall and lean in his expensive suit, and his neatly parted dark hair curls at his collar. The bits of silver at his temples have taken him from Hollywood stud to “silver fox.”
Something sharp rips through my chest at the sight of him. Harry Evans was my costar on Lucy Matters, and my feelings upon seeing him are never simple and rarely painless. “What’s Harry doing here?” Does she know? Did he tell her? He’s wearing headphones and bopping his head to a beat we can’t hear.
“Remember, I told you I was seeing someone.”
I shake my head. That explanation doesn’t make any sense. “Who?”
She grins. “Harry. It just happened. You know I’ve always admired him, and then a couple of months ago he called me up and, well, the connection was there. It’s all happening so fast and I’ve never been happier.”
