Page 71 of The Roommate Subtext

Maggie tipped her head back, staring up at the sky. “No,” she said with reluctance, then looked back at him. “I guess she deserves to know. She’s not a kid anymore, and it’s hard for me to remember that.”

“You want to take care of her.” He let himself loop a lock of her hair around his finger, the silk tress gliding across his skin before he allowed the curl to slip free. “You’re a good person, Maggie St. Claire.”

Maggie let out a huff of laughter. “I don’t know about that. I almost punched Arnold Chauvel in the middle of your ball.”

Blake smiled. “He probably deserves it.”

Maggie nodded. “Do you think I should give up the contract?”

“Only you can answer that.” Blake took her hand, wrapping her chilled fingers in his. “But I do think the best decisions are the ones that let you sleep at night.”

Maggie looked down at their entwined fingers. “Do you want to go back inside and dance some more? Because I’d rather not spend the whole evening thinking about Arnold Chauvel.”

Blake grinned, relieved. “Yes, please.”

After the cold of the night, the heat of the ballroom washed over him as they reentered the main hall. She draped his jacket over her chair, once more revealing that gorgeous dress, and he took her easily into his arms on the dance floor.

Blake had been nervous for their first dance earlier, but already holding her felt natural as breathing. His instinct was to dissect the sensation and examine every nuance, but for now, he would resist that impulse. He didn’t have to concentrate on his footwork or the rhythm of the music this time. Instead, he let himself focus on the way her body felt alongside his, the warmth of her hand on his upper arm, her soft breath whispering past his cheek. She let him lead, falling perfectly into step, trusting him to guide her until the song ended and she at last stepped away and looked into his eyes.

“How long do we have to stay here tonight?” she asked.

Blake glanced up at the clock. “I don’t know if they want me to stay to the bitter end or if I can slip out early. Why? You tired?”

Maggie shook her head, eyes sparkling. “No. I just really want to fuck you.”

Blake’s mouth fell open, and he hastened to close it again. She’d condensed all their flirting and teasing and said it out loud, so direct he thought for a moment he had imagined it.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” he heard himself asking, and gosh, he had to check in with his mouth.

Maggie tipped her head to the side. “Probably not. Neither of us wants a relationship with each other, obviously.”

He found himself nodding, even though his brain kept repeating the word obviously, the way she’d said it as if there were no possible dissent.

“But we’re both adults. Both sexual beings, too. Right?” She stepped back into his space. They were here on the edge of the dance floor, and she was speaking quietly enough that he wasn’t sure how he could even hear her, except he was tuned in to every movement of her lips. “It wouldn’t have to change anything. Friends who fuck.” She met his eyes again, and for the first time, he saw the flash of hesitation in them. For all her apparent bravado, she was nervous.

He let himself nod, crossing a line they probably shouldn’t cross, and for once he wouldn’t second-guess himself. They were headed here anyway. He cupped her jaw and traced the curve of her lower lip with his thumb. “I would absolutely love to fuck you.”

Maggie’s lips parted, and Blake felt satisfaction in her shock. He didn’t swear often. Almost never, actually, except in bed, when he let his more deviant tendencies have free rein. But saying those words was nearly as good as kissing her.

“I really want to kiss you,” was what he said instead of doing it. “But I’m not going to do it here.”

She smiled. “There’s always Hank’s Corolla.”

Blake laughed, his hand dropping to his side, filled with too much anticipation and a strange, incandescent glee about the night to come. “I should stay for a little while longer.”

“It’s a shame.” She gave him a wink. “But I suppose I can wait for you.”

SIXTEEN

Maggie buzzed with anticipation as their driver pulled up in front of the condo that night. Ever since she’d said she wanted to fuck him, she and Blake had continued their teasing interplay, even returning to the dance floor a few more times. But neither of them made any more visits to the open bar. Every time Blake had been pulled away to make small talk with another donor—and there were many, so it was probably for the best that they’d stayed—he returned to her moments later, or brought her over to introduce her. Each time, it was “Marguerite St. Claire, my girlfriend,” the line seeming to come more easily to him as the evening wore on. But the evening had ended, and they climbed the stairs to the condo in the kind of thick anticipation Maggie hadn’t felt before sex in years. Anticipation along with a touch of anxiety. The Pimpernel still loomed at the back of her consciousness, and she tried to forget about her betrayal.

“We don’t have to do this, actually,” she said when Blake closed the door behind them, the words out of her mouth before she could snatch them back in.

Blake looked at her over his shoulder. “I know we don’t have to. But don’t you want to?”

“Yes, but I mean, if you didn’t want to …”

“Shh.” He stepped up to her and took her face between his hands. She’d expected doubts, or uncertainty, but all she saw was passion. “I want to.” And finally, finally, he kissed her.