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You’re always horny when you drink. Don’t read into it—this is a bad idea.
Shut up, brain.
I move closer, pressing my hips against him and rocking in time with the music. It’s bass-heavy and dirty, made for a slow grind and being pinned against a wall. I can’t even remember the last time I went dancing.
“Presley.”
My name is a warning and a prayer. I don’t want to be warned. And I most certainly don’t want to hear his prayers.
I turn, backing up against him and swinging my hips, bringing my hands up so I can run my fingers through my hair as I arch back. I’m in a borrowed outfit on unallocated time and flying free without a plan. I’m not me. I’m the kind of girl I always watched, envious of her lack of inhibitions and insecurities. Jealous of the way fear didn’t seem to touch her.
Sebastian’s hands are at my waist and I tug them around me. His muscles cord and bunch, and he’s hard. Everywhere.Thatcan’t be faked.
Go home now. You’re drunk and this is a bad idea.
“We should stop this.” The growl in my ear echoes my sensible brain’s reservations.
I tilt my head back, pressing against him. “You wanted to dance.”
His forearm is still tight at my waist and there’s a tension in him. A push and pull. It’s delicious and I want more.
“I should take you home.”
I know he doesn’t mean it like that, but I’m feeling spiteful and broken and angry. I want him more than anything in that moment. “Yes, you should.”
The world spins a little. My thoughts go ’round and ’round and ’round. Why was I always so worried about feeling out of control? This is magnificent. I’m flying. I’m a bird. Is this how my sister feels, jetting around the world and living lifeherway? Without rules or expectations or pressure?
The spinning gets worse. Now it feels like I’m falling. Free-falling. Tumbling. Oh no. My edges are too blurred. Sebastian’s arm tightens around my waist, but my knees feel like jelly. My tongue is heavy in my mouth, and why am I giggling so much?
This is not how I wanted tonight to go.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sebastian
IHEADTOWARDthe doors of 21 Love Street for a second time this evening. Only now, Presley is in my arms, her blond hair trailing down and swishing with each step we take. I wasn’t joking about the Widow’s Kiss, by the way. Luckily, I caught her before she found the floor.
I managed to get her apartment number in the taxi ride back here, and her key is securely in my pocket. She’s muttering something about being a bird and having clipped wings and preferring the aisle seat. It’s adorable gibberish.
I need to get her home and safely tucked into bed with a bucket by her side. I suspect she might not have eaten dinner before she headed out tonight, and she’s going to have a nasty hangover tomorrow.
We take the elevator up to her floor and I manage to get the key in her front door without needing to put her down. She’s pressing her face into my shirt, mumbling to herself.
“We’re home,” I tell her, looking around the apartment. I understand it’s not hers—just a temporary fix until she and my stepbrother sort out their things. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Her bed is neatly made, all the pillows in the right places and pyjamas folded into a perfectly square pile at the foot. Gently, I ease her down, but she wobbles on contact with the floor. Holding one arm around her waist, I guide her back. Without giving it a second thought, she flops backward until she’s horizontal, legs bent over the edge of the bed.
“I’m not flying anymore,” she says, sooty eyes closed as her head rocks back and forth with a gentle sway. “The eagle has landed!”
I have no idea what’s going on in that head of hers and I’m glad she has no idea what’s going on in mine. Because when we were dancing, I was ready to burn everything to the ground just to taste her. Just to touch her. Her body was heaven in my arms and even though I knew in that moment it would be the worst, most idiotic, lacking-in-strategy decision I could have made... I would have given it all up to feel those lips on mine.
And Idon’tmake those kinds of decisions.
In fact, from the moment my father announced he’d found a new wife less than one year after my mother died when I was eight years old, I knew love was a sham. How could a marriage be so easily moved on from? Once I met my stepmother, I understood. Men made stupid decisions around beautiful women. They forgot who they were, what they stood for, what their goals were. And I wouldneverforget those things.
Not for a beautiful woman. Not for anyone.
And yet...
