“What are you gonna do now?”
Here we teeter on level five: making plans.
“I haven’t decided,” I say, pondering.Ponder lonely as a cloud.I almost snicker. Wordsworth I am not. “My choices are run a bath, have a long soak and a drink or five. Or hit the bar and let my hair down.”
“The bar, definitely,” he asserts, grabbing the opportunity with both hands as the doors to the elevator slide open. “And as an apology on behalf of my gender, your drinks are on me.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Oliver answers for me. His voice sounds like it should come with a yellow warning label.Caution. Volatile when under pressure.
“This is Oliver,” I offer as his fingers curl possessively around my hip.
The man frowns.
“He’s not staying.”
“Gav. You coming?” one of the group calls from the open elevator.
Poor Gav. So conflicted. And Oliver? I can practically feel the heat of him simmering.
“I’ll see you in the bar?” Despite the question in his tone, Gav isn’t giving up hope.
“Maybe you will,” I say.
He steps into the waiting car with the kind of swagger that would’ve dissolved my guilt, had I been feeling any. “Room for a little one,” he offers suggestively as he turns.
“We’ll wait.” Oliver’s grip tightens, his words dripping with a frightening civility.
My stomach turns over with excitement.
Well, look at that. Game on.
Chapter 5
OLIVER
“You’re quite proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
She smells like gardenia and secrets, yet she looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.I know she’ll melt under mine.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I need a drink,” I mutter. Lie. What I need but shouldn’t is my mouth on her pussy.
“So you’ll be in the bar too?” She turns to me, her face a beautiful, blank mask.A ruse.
“A drink might help me appreciate your brand of humor.”
“Who’s joking?” she says, twisting away from my hand.
“I don’t do funny.” I find myself straightening my cuffs to stop myself from reaching for her. This infuriating woman needs some sense fucked into her. My mind bends to that image, my heart thumping loudly once in my chest, my throat growing dry as I see myself kissing her, holding her down, fucking her until her cries rock the room. “And I don’t do women in wedding dresses.”
“I thought it was just this bride you objected to.”
“That’s not it,” I snap. My temper isn’t the only thing frayed.
“That’s right. You objected to the groom. Like I said, Mitchellhastainted the day. My day. This is my way of fixing it.”
“Whatever can you mean?” I find myself drawling.
