Page 136 of Dream On

There were cameras everywhere. People watching.

But my God…nothing has ever felt more tangible and pure.

There’s an ache between my legs, between my ribs. His proximity swallows me whole as he collapses into the seat and tips his head back, eyes closed.

Words evade me. Questions scatter across my mind, but I can’t get my tongue to move, my throat to work. I stare at him beside me as the limo rolls forward.

A minute passes in silence.

Two minutes. Three.

And just when I want to shrivel up and die inside, Lex’s hand slowly raises, reaching across the space between us.

He links our palms. Threads our fingers together.

Squeezes me tight.

My eyes gloss over as the warm, dizzying feeling returns, and I slide closer while simultaneously tugging him to me.

Just like that, he spills across my lap.

I hitch a startled breath when his head gently lands atop my thighs. Our hands unlatch, my arm hesitating midair before carefully lowering and wrapping around his upper body.

A makeshift cocoon.

My opposite hand lifts. I swallow, inhale a deep breath, then sink my fingers into his hair, my nails gliding through the soft strands and massaging his scalp.

Soft music begins to play through the speakers, and I hum along with it. My fingertips sift and skim through his hair, my voice a raspy lullaby.

The tension drains from his body.

His breathing calms.

Not a moment later, he’s asleep.

Chapter 33

Lex

I wake up the next morning with what feels like a hangover, my temples pounding, mouth parched, eyes dust-dry. The sun outside my window pours obnoxious harsh light into the bedroom, bringing me back to reality before I’m ready to dive in. I scrub a hand down my face, dig the heels of my palms into my eye sockets.

An image of Stevie helping me crawl into bed last night flickers through my mind. Gently pulling the covers up over me. Pushing my bangs back with a warm hand. Pressing a kiss to my forehead and whispering “good night.” I was so fucking exhausted, I barely managed to kick off my shoes before burrowing under the blankets and zonking out.

It’s then I realize I don’t have an alcohol hangover—I have a mental-breakdown hangover.

Splendid.

I’m still in my whole-ass suit, the tie twisted around my neck, shirt wrinkled, one pantleg halfway up my thigh.

Groaning miserably, I lift up on my elbows.

I kissed her last night.

Reallyfucking kissed her.

The “I’m one dirty moan away from shoving you into this bathroom and losing my virginity on a sink” kind of kiss.

And I should probably feel the hot pokers of regret scorching holes into me right now, but the truth is I’m honest-to-God grateful for her perfect mouth. That kiss is the only thing burning brighter in my mind than the image of Bianca Kendricks laughing across the room with her gaggle of girlfriends while I gracelessly unraveled a few feet away.