Page 17 of Prey

The club is too loud. Bodies pressed together on a dance floor that smells like sweat and expensive perfume.

Not my scene. Never has been.

But Rose wanted to celebrate. The William deal closed this afternoon, and she’s been texting me since 5 PM about champagne and somewhere with actual energy. I owe her, she worked the board while I played cat-and-mouse with my secretary.

So here I am. A glass of whiskey I’m barely drinking while Rose talks about quarterly projections.

"You’re not listening to me," she says, touching my arm.

"I’m listening."

"You’re staring at the door."

I am. I’ve been staring at the door since we walked in. Not because I’m expecting anyone. Because I can’t stop thinking about him, at my desk, in my chair and on my bed. I haven’t been able to look at my sheets the same way since last night. Haven’t been able to close my eyes without seeing him there, arched over my pillow, hand between his legs, mouth open, hungry and mine.

"Cain." Rose snaps her fingers at me. "Earth to the man who just made another eight figures."

I blink, forcing a smile. "Sorry. Long week."

"You need to relax." She signals the bartender for another round. "You’ve been tense for months. When’s the last time you got laid?"

Last night. To the sound of my secretary saying my name.

"None of your business," I say.

She laughs and leans in. Starts talking about something who knows, I nod in the right places. Then I see him. At the far end of the bar. Grey.

Shirt open at the throat. Sleeves pushed up. A drink in his hand, untouched. He’s watching me, not even pretending not to. Of course he’s here. Of course he followed me. He looks flushed, but his eyes are clear. His posture is straight. He’s buzzed enough to be brave, and sober enough to know exactly what he’s doing.

Good. I’m not interested in men who fall into my bed because they’re too drunk to stand.

Rose notices my gaze.

"Is that the one who follows you around with his eyes? He's not very subtle." she asks.

Grey looks away as soon as our eyes meet. Takes a swallow from his drink. Fingers tight around the glass. He’s nervous, but he doesn’t leave.

I could ignore him. I don’t. I want him scared and honest. I want him to stop hiding in the shadows of my office and step into the light where I can see him.

I stand.

"Bathroom," I tell Rose.

"Alone?" she asks, teasing.

For now. I walk through the crowd. Past the bar. Past him but close enough that my arm brushes his. The bathroom is empty. White tile. Black sinks. A row of stalls with doors that don't quite close. I lean against the counter and wait.

One minute.

Two.

The door opens. Grey. He stops when he sees me. Hand still on the handle. Eyes wide.

"Close the door," I say.

He doesn't move.

"Close it, Grey." He pushes it shut. The latch clicks. The music fades to a muffled throb. We're alone.