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Clay moves forward, eyes on me. And then he’s behind me. Like a shark circling a diver. “Tonight isn’t about me. It’s about you. Are you having a good time, Island?”
He slides his hands down my waist. Rough callouses against silk. Heat, friction and lightning.
I whimper when his hands skate over the high slit in my dress.
Flesh on flesh.
Hard on soft.
Lord have mercy, I wanthim.
And I hate that.
I hate that I have no control over my own body. It feels like the worst betrayal.
“Do you like the food? The wine? The company?” Clay rasps in my ear.
My nostrils flare. “Screw you.”
“The conversation?” He tugs the lobe of my ear into his mouth. “He seems like a bright one.”
I scowl into the distance even as I melt against him. The warmth of him, the smell of him, the sensation of his hands tugging my dress up. It undoes me.
More.
Closer.
I wrap an arm around the back of Clay’s neck. I squeeze him to me and arch myself against his front. Back a perfect ‘C’. Legs spreading a little wider.
His fingers slide up my leg. Firm and searching.
“How long do you plan on sneaking around in the hallway with me?” he taunts, even as his fingers flick against the edge of my red, sheer silk underclothes. “You need to get back to your date.”
It’s at that moment I think of violence. I imagine raking my nails down his face. I imagine punching him clear in the jaw.
How dare he show up? How dare he finally cross the line and touch me? How dare he bring an adorable wingman? How dare he remind me that I’m happier, more myself, and inexplicably free when I’m with him?
How dare he do it all without throwing a single punch or demeaning Byron and unearthing every embarrassing flaw in his past?
Because he could.
One command.
One order.
And everything Byron has done to warrant public ridicule, resentment and even jail time would be exposed.
My chest rises dramatically.
My breath comes faster and faster.
I said it from the very beginning of our strange, tenuous relationship. Clay Bolton brings out the darkest sides of me, parts that I never knew existed.
Byron’s waiting, but all I can think about is him.
And his hand.
And how close it is to where it needs to be.