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I can imagine she even had an outfit picked out. Clay’s a micro-manager.
“But the perfect moment found me, instead.” Her voice softens, serious. “And I couldn’t stop it.”
I scale my hands underneath her arms, and we meet, her coming down and me rising up until her arms are wrapped around me and we crash to the bed. The hat tumbles off her head.
“She was better than I’d dreamed,” she tells me against my cheek. “Nothing could tear me away from her.”
Nothing. How hard it would’ve been to stop if she’d asked me to in the hotel room. I would’ve, but it would’ve been painful. There was no music. We weren’t alone. We didn’t plan it, and we were both disheveled. Nothing went according to her idea of perfection, because you realize everything you end up wanting is the last thing you expected.
But it was perfect. God, it was good.
“I’d dreamed of her a lot before we did it,” she says. “Sometimes I’d lock my door at night and take off my clothes.”
A jolt hits me down low. While she was busy hating me, she was fantasizing about me, too.
She settles her head on my shoulder, her lips tickling my neck. “I wanted to feel my sheets on my skin like I would if I were in bed with her.”
Like now. My brothers’ laughter carries up the stairs, and I wish I was alone in the house with her, because I’m tired of worrying about being interrupted or caught.
But I can already feel her growing heavy on me, her speech getting sleepy, and we have school tomorrow.
“Did you dream about me holding you like this?” I ask her.
She nods. “Except in the dream, you’re the boss, and I’m your assistant and we’re going to New York on a business trip for the weekend. It was kind of hot for you to abuse your authority on me in bed when I simply bring you papers to sign to your room that night, but then…”
“Yes?”
She holds her breath for a moment and then sighs heavily. “I was in a turtleneck on the plane.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“A black one,” she spits out. “Me. In a black turtleneck. And you made me style my hair in a ponytail like Ariana Grande, and you know I don’t look good with my hair pulled away from my face. It was awful.”
I laugh, holding her close and shaking. I feel her smile on my neck.
Threading my fingers through her hair, I pull her lips up to mine. “I like ponytails,” I tell her, layering our lips. “I need a good handle on you.”
She shivers, and we kiss, going in for more and more. Visions of wrapping her hair around my fist, her on her hands and knees… My stomach swims.
“How about I dream of you tonight, instead?” I ask her. “I’ll be thinking about that dance for the rest of my life.”
She nods once, sounding pleased with herself. “Good.”
I don’t think my brothers ever got lap dances they didn’t pay for. I’m loving my sex life lately.
Gently, I slide out from underneath her. “I’ll be back, okay?” I leave a kiss on her cheekbone. “Get some sleep.”
“’Kay.”
She tucks a pillow under her head, remaining on her stomach on top of the covers. I pull on some black cotton shorts, my loose white tank top a little see-through with my purple bra, but they’ll live with it. I need water.
We need water.
I walk for my door.
“Liv?” she calls.
I stop and turn my head, my hand on the knob.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I shake my head, amused. “Is this becoming a habit for you? What are you sorry for now?”
“You said you were fifteen,” she says. “We knew each other by then. I wanted you by then.”
When I lost my virginity in the back of a car.
“You should’ve been at that carnival with me,” she tells me.
A knot tightens in my throat. I would’ve loved that. For her to realize sooner that this was going to be good. We might’ve been happier years ago.
But Clay has hurt me as much, if not more, than anyone else, so who’s to say anything would’ve been different. She might’ve broken my heart back then, too. It was always a risk.
“Go to sleep,” I tell her. “I’ll be back.”
I leave, closing the door quietly and heading down the stairs, my bare feet picking up the dirt my brothers tracked in. I growl under my breath, knowing who’s going to have to clean it up.
“Did you see him limping away?” I hear Trace shout. “I was like bam! I almost broke his damn neck.”
I pass them in the living room, grab a cup and pour some water from the Brita pitcher into the glass.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Dallas replied. “We’re not done with them.”
“You got that right,” Iron adds. “And I hope they fucking come over here. God, please.”
