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But unlike her sister, Natalie wasn’t sure she could drag her baggage forward into a happily-ever-after future. Not that she planned to try. Because according to Jack, this afternoon never happened.
Chapter Eighteen
“You’ve been avoiding me.” Jack moved to her side and she slowed her pace, allowing the rest of the bridal party to blaze a trail through the hotel lobby toward the bar.
“I thought you might ask for a personalized thank-you,” she said, stealing a glance at Jack. She’d spent most of dinner picking apart her salmon and wondering how it would feel to tear off his crisp white button-down dress shirt.
His lips formed a smile that threatened to dissolve her underwear. “And you forgot your pen and paper?”
“Not that kind of thank-you,” she murmured as the rest of the group bypassed the elevator banks and disappeared around the corner.
He stopped in front of the up and down buttons. “I’m still feeling pretty grateful myself for this afternoon.”
She shook her head. “Not for that. A thank-you for throwing the bet.”
His smile faded and his brow furrowed. “Cade told you?”
“I overheard your conversation,” she said. She probably owed him an apology for eavesdropping. But after what he’d said, after the way he’d misled his teammates, guilt was low on her list of feelings. “Cade knows you’re lying,” she added.
“I know.” Jack leaned over and pressed the up button.
“What about drinks in the bar?” she asked. “Or do you need to call your brothers first?”
“Trust me, talking to my family is not part of my plan for tonight.” His gaze locked with hers. “And when I do, I’m sticking to my story. I lost.”
The elevator dinged. He took her hand and drew her inside the mirrored and thankfully empty space.
“Why?” she demanded as the door closed. “You won. Why would you let Colton believe he beat you?”
“Because…” He stepped forward, guiding her back against the elevator wall. She pressed her palms against the mirrored surface as his gaze dropped to her mouth. He leaned in, and she closed her eyes, waiting for a kiss. But his lips bypassed hers and brushed up against her ear. “Because I’ve spent the last hour sitting across the table from you wishing that I could pull these straps down.” He ran his hands up her bare arms to the spaghetti straps and dipped his index finger under the fabric.
“You didn’t have to pretend you lost—” She gasped as he drew the straps down her shoulders. “For
this.”
“Yes, I did.” His fingers teased the bare skin above her dress. “I like seeing you in a dress instead of your work jeans.”
Was it really as simple as that? Did he just want her for sex after all? Part of her yearned for that simplicity, even as the other part yearned to know that he cared for her, even if just for a moment.
“After this weekend…” She gasped as his finger dipped beneath the neckline. “It’s back to bar clothes.” “I spent the entire main course wondering if you were wearing a bra. You weren’t earlier.” His hand moved lower, drawing the front of her dress down. If he kept that up, the top of her sundress would be decorating her waist—and offering the security cameras quite a show.
“I’m not.” She gave him a little push as the elevator stopped and the doors opened.
“I know.” Abandoning her breasts, he wrapped his arms around her waist and took her with him as he backed out of the elevator.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, looking up at his face.
“I barely heard a word of the speeches tonight,” he said, turning their bodies, continuing to move backward down the hall—his hall, toward his room.
“Me neither,” she admitted. “I was thinking about how you forfeited the bet.”
“Yeah, the bet was close to the last thing on my mind.” He kept her close, as if they were slow dancing through the hotel’s mazelike interior to her room. “I wanted to send everyone out of the dining room and pull you onto my lap. I’d have lifted your dress to your waist, torn your underwear off you, and begged you to ride me. Cowgirl. Reverse cowgirl. I don’t give a damn. I wanted you, Natalie.”
Cowgirl—her on top, setting the rhythm and driving them both over the edge. She wanted the power to decide how fast and how deep he thrust into her. But would he hand over control?
“You’d never give up control,” she said as they approached his bedroom door, clinging to remains of the crumbling barricade between them. Even without the bet, they wanted different things.
“I don’t need to call the shots.” He spoke those words with the determination of a man who went into battle focused on winning. He’d never planned to lose. Ever.
