I drop a hand to the same bare curve of her waist that I saw earlier and give it a rough squeeze. It’s careless and selfish, but I leave it there, her hot skin blistering my rough palm. She doesn’t back away as I hold her, barely keeping my weakening grip on the thread of sense that’s keeping me this far away. Her eyes flick between mine, more inviting than they should be.
“You have no fucking idea what you’re doing here,” I warn her, unable to hide the need clinging to every word.
“That’s what makes it fun.”
My fingers slide from her waist to her lower back, to the tattoo inked there. I glide my thumb over where I know it sits and feel my chest tighten with guilt. My stomach pinches before I release her, unable to shake the memories of everything I’ve seen on After Hours.
The moment I take two large steps back, it’s like I can breathe again. Her pouty lips are in an O shape as she stares at me, confusion washing away the desire I already ache for more of. I swipe a hand over my hair and down my mouth before clearing my throat.
She still hasn’t looked away.
“Let’s go,” I command, sharpening my voice to ice.
The slight flare of her nostrils does little to relax me. Her anger doesn’t fill me with anything but frustration.
“Fine,” she snips.
And then we’re leaving.
12
BRIELLE
Okay,sue me. I took advantage of the situation so that I could spend some time with Roman. As if any other warm-blooded woman wouldn’t have done the same.
I’m starting to regret it a bit, though. His surly attitude is making it pretty hard not to, even if I still want to force the car to the side of the road and jump his bones. He doesn’t have to talk to fuck me.
At this point, I’d actually prefer if he didn’t.
The entire ten minutes we’ve been sitting in this fancy-ass, perfectly scrubbed car with the sickeningly perfect stitching on the seats, he hasn’t spoken a word. With every direction I give him, he grunts and moves the steering wheel. There hasn’t been one single thank you uttered or grateful smile.Surprising, I know.
And holy shit, who drives without music? He’s had the long, thin screen stuck on the home page instead of the music app I’ve been itching to press since doing up my seat belt. The silence has made it that much more awkward. I’ve debated rolling the window down and having terrible wind-blown hair just to get a break from the thick tension.
I tap my nails against the door and turn my head toward him. The sharp line of his jaw looks deadlier in the dark. Dim light from passing streetlights casts shadows across his face, illuminating only enough to emphasize his heaviest features.
His hair is black enough that no amount of light can brighten it. It’s styled professionally with a sheen of what I assume to be gel keeping the longer pieces swept out of his face. And then there’s the firm, tight pull of his lips that I can’t tell is natural, or something he’s just done so many times it became the norm. There’s a third possibility, but I don’t want to think that he’s actuallythatannoyed with me.
Not when his presence is still somehow so appealing to me.
It’s a curse, being this physically attracted to someone who looks like they’re too busy contemplating tossing you out of the moving car to strike up a conversation. This is new territory for me. Usually, I’m the one who’s pursued. Whether that’s for genuine reasons or, more commonly, the ones that I’ve been dealing with more and more these last few years.
As much as I wish Roman were making the moves on me, I’m almost intrigued by the switch in roles.
“So, you don’t just not like rock music, then?” I ask, fighting past the awkwardness.
“What?”
“Clearly, you don’t like music at all.”
He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “I prefer the quiet when I’m driving.”
“That feels a bit pointed.”
“It was meant to.”
“Right. Well, I’m the opposite. I like it loud.”
“That isn’t surprising,” he mutters.
