AllFreeNovel
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Me: Best night of my life.
(I’m not going to gloat here like you assume I will. But I may have done a happy dance in the privacy of my office because you’d answered that way. You know why? It was the best night of mine too. Hands down.)
He’s good. This is definitely getting to me. Only me? Best night of his life too? I doubt he’s hurting in the sexual-partner department, so that’s saying something.
Rena: Fuck.
Me: Yeah.
Rena: So, your politicians?
Me: Still the plan.
(Shouldn’t be. I’m not done with you, Carver. Doesn’t sound like you’re done with me either. And I’m tired of being so polite.)
Rena: Then, I guess enjoy him while you can.
(Good advice. No expiration.)
No expiration? That feels like a grandiose statement somehow, and suddenly, I can’t breathe. I should be mad, outraged, aghast at how violating it was for him to read my personal messages, and yet all I can concentrate on is the sweetness. Of him wanting me. And how much I want him.
Me: I have a date tonight—aka a hearing to determine my sentencing for political eye-candy incarceration—so I think that ship has sailed.
(It will never sail.)
Oh, my heart.
Rena: I’m so sorry, girl. I wish I had some advice, but sadly, we’re both fucked.
Me: Yep.
(Not yet, baby. But I’m on my way.)
On his way? Oh fuck. That can’t be good.
My throat dries, so I lift my wine and swig the nearly full glass in a single unladylike guzzle. Scott’s eyes fling to mine in alarm.
Yep. That’s right. Twenty-four years of etiquette washed down with cabernet, buddy. I’m spiraling here. For both of us. You should drink up, too, before the demented gangster arrives to claim me.
Jesus, I kind of love that. Not the time.
Scott’s mouth drops open in concern, but before he can inquire about my newfound alcoholism, the restaurant manager arrives at the table.
“I apologize for the intrusion, sir, but there is an issue at the front desk that requires your attention.” He turns to me. “May I—”
“I’ll have another.” I lift my empty glass, still reeling in panic and searching the restaurant, to which Scott’s cheeks twitch with tamped-down mirth. That makes sense. Based on his reputation, he probably prefers his women sloppy drunk. I’m on my way. But so is my deranged spy, who has a history of scaring the life out of my dates.
“Celeste”—Scott’s muffled amusement laces through my name as he rises to button his suit jacket—“I won’t be long. Enjoy your drink.”
“You too,” I mutter, which makes no sense, but he lets me off the hook and scurries away with the manager to the front desk.
Within thirty seconds, the most delectable golden god in an all-black suit, like the night at La Lune Noire, slides into my booth. Arm perched behind my neck as he dips his mouth close to my ear, stubble grazing my cheek with an electrifying bristle—everything that was missing on this date exploding in a single touch.
“Christ, baby,” he growls, like he’s ravenous. “You are beyond beautiful. Fucking radiant. Unholy red is your color.”
Dismissing the way his scent curls around me; the way his fingers skimming my thigh instantly make me wet; the way his breath cascades over my skin, evoking a full-body shiver; and the way his words make my heart thump against my sternum, attempting to seek refuge inside him, I say what I should. “I’m so pissed at you.”
He strings his fingers through my hair, a tender ogle prancing over me. “We don’t have time for that, baby girl.”
