Page 171 of The Doctors Will See You Now

But as I’d watched her say quick goodbyes to everyone but me and scoot out of the party after leaving me aroused and emotionally twisted on the dance floor, I hadn’t been able to stop myself from following her.

And I still was.

We made our way through the crowd in The Library, an ironically named establishment with loud, pounding bass and a heavy beat. With Harlow leading the way, we ended up at the bar, where she ordered two shots of tequila.

The bartender set them both on the bartop, and I pulled money out of my pocket to pay as she slammed the first one back and then picked up the second.

“Uh…” I laughed and leaned in to speak closely enough that she’d be able to hear. “Isn’t one of those for me?”

“No,” she said, just before she tipped the second glass back and swallowed the liquid whole with ease. My eyes dilated as they zoomed in on her throat and lost all real focus. The glass knocked as she slammed it back to the bar surface, and my eyes jumped back to hers. “Order your own.”

“I thought you didn’t drink much hard liquor,” I said, watching her eyes turn almost immediately hazy with the fresh buzz.

She smiled, looser already, and plopped onto the stool to her left. “I don’t. Trust me, with those two shots, the edge is officially gone.”

“Well, then,” I said with a laugh, taking the seat to her right and signaling the bartender for two more. “I guess I better catch up.”

We didn’t say anything else as the bartender prepared my shots, placed them on the counter, and took my payment.

Something was going on inside of Harlow’s head, but I wasn’t the guy to try to figure it out. I didn’t spend my time musing over complicated women and wondering about the things that made them that way. I was out to entertain and be entertained, and at the end of the day, if both of us got physical gratification out of it, all the better.

I’ll admit I had to fight the urge to wonder—and ask—with Harlow, though. An urge that had never before existed.

I tamped it down and swallowed both shots one after the other as she looked on. The heavy, seductive beat of the music pulsed inside my chest, but a part of me still thought this wasn’t a good idea.

Immediately, I ordered two more. I had a higher tolerance than she did, and if the way she was smiling at me was any indication of things to come, far be it for me to let her have a good time all on her own.

Rinse and repeat, the same routine with the bartender, the same routine with the shots, and a high buzzed in my veins.

“There,” she shouted over the music before reaching out and grabbing me by the tie almost violently. “Now we can dance.”

I followed her lead once more, the hold she had on my tie not giving me much choice as she dragged me out onto the dance floor and plastered her body to my own.

I still had one working brain cell that was trying to reject her flipped switch—a fast transformation from objection to demand in the area of physical contact—but the combination of alcohol and her breasts against my chest did a pretty good job of turning it off.

“Get ready, Scott,” she taunted. “You may have some fancy footwork at fancy parties, but I’m gonna teach you how to really dance.”

Selena Gomez’s “Good for You” filtered through the speakers as she pushed back away from my body and swayed, running her hands across her own chest and down to her hips, until they were inside the slit on her dress and against the perfect skin of her tanned thighs.

I swallowed thickly and swayed, enthralled as she turned her back to me and let her head drop back.

My lingering groan slid perfectly into the rhythm of the song. Why is she so fucking sexy?

Reaching out, I grabbed onto her hips and pulled her ass against me. She went with it, settling her head onto my shoulder and moaning at the obvious sign of my excitement.

Good Christ.

The salty, sweet taste of her skin as her throat hit the tip of my tongue was the last thing I remembered from the inside of that bar.

Stumbling, bumbling, fucking fumbling, I pulled at the zipper on the back of her dress as she unbuckled my belt and the button on my pants and shoved them down off of my hips.

The door of my apartment shutting behind us rang out like a gunshot, but neither one of us slowed down. Her throat was highly addictive, like sugar on a tart strawberry, and I couldn’t stop going back for more.

“God, Low,” I hummed against her skin, still fighting with her fucking zipper. She pulled back out of my arms, and the swollen, well-used state of her lips made my dick jump.

“Don’t ruin this by talking, Scott,” she teased, a sexy as hell smile on her face as she reached around her back to free herself from the demon-zipper dress on her own.

Thank fucking goodness.