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“That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
He slanted his head back to meet my gaze. “I’ve never had the clap.”
“Not the point,” I muttered. “I was talking to him for, like, five minutes. There is nothing to be jealous of.”
“I’m not jealous.” He held me closer as the song changed to a faster-paced one, while we still slowly rotated, dancing to our own melody. “I’ve never been jealous in my life.”
I snorted at the lie.
“I haven’t.”
“Except for right now,” I said.
He adjusted his hold on me, letting go of my hand to fit both of his along my lower back. “Your words are saying one thing, while your tone is telling me something completely different.”
“If my tone is telling you you’re a jackass, then that’s what I’m trying to convey.”
A few strands of my hair caught on his beard as he shook his head, his jaw scraping along my cheek. “It sounds as if youwantme to be jealous.”
With my heels still on, we were the same height, but I rested my chin on his shoulder, admitting, “I don’t know what that feels like. I’ve never been with anyone long enough for them to be jealous.”
He let out a harsh breath that tickled my neck. “Growing up with a twin, I always sort of felt like I wasn’t wholly me. I had to share, if not DNA, then something else. The world has some weird obsession with twins, they want to put us in boxes, but I was me.”
With how he was rambling, I had no idea where he was going with this, but I understood there was truth to be discovered in his drunken rant.
“Even being fraternal, everyone wanted us to be exactly the same. Our family, my parents. We had to do everything together, and that’s why I learned to be possessive about what was mine. I wanted to keep what I had separate. I was me, and she was her, and my stuff was my stuff, my friends were my friends. I think that’s why accepting her and Ethan was hard. He was my friend first.”
My fingers found their way into the hair at the nape of his neck as he spoke, his own hands gently curling and uncurling against my spine like he was trying to dig into me. As if, maybe, he was looking for something. The same something I was looking for in him.
“I have a tendency to get weird about people touching my stuff,” he said. “I’ve worked hard my whole life to get what I have—my job, my house, my car, and I do everything I can to keep it all pristine. I’m not going to let my stuff go to shit after I spent so many years to get it. I’m the same way with women.”
“You treat them like yourstuff?” I asked, leaning away from him, but my mocking smile faded when his hand coasted up to my neck.
“Never.” Then his hand slid up into the back of my hair, gripping it roughly. “But when I work hard for something, I won’t let it go. I won’t let anyone else have it.”
“Women aren’t objects. They aren’t yours to own,” I told him, though there was no heat in the reprimand because I liked the hint of danger in his words. Because I knew, had already experienced, how safe I was in his hands, and desire pooled deep in my belly at his delicious promise.
“Something tells me you’d like to be owned, at least for a little while.” His lips ghosted over my cheek, and my heart beat in my ears. “You’re always going on about needing something special, needing a certain type of guy.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whispered, having trouble regulating my breathing.
“Don’t I?”
I shook my head, though it was nearly impossible with how he held me, and the slight tug on my hair sent a ripple of heat over me, settling between my legs.
“I think I do,” he said, tilting my head back to skim his nose along my pulse. “And I think you like it.”
I gulped down air, my chest heaving with the action, but Dean didn’t care. In fact, he pushed me away from him, holding on to one of my hands, and then twirled me into him like a rag doll. My body was so confused, it didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or strip naked right then and there.
I did none of the above as the DJ handed off the microphone to Laney and Ethan, who each took turns thanking everyone for coming then introducing the last song of the night, “Sunday Morning” by Maroon 5, which was apparently one of Laney’s favorites. They took to the center of the dance floor, scream-singing the lyrics, and I took the opportunity to snag an untouched glass of champagne from a random table. I downed it, but it did nothing to soothe my wretched nerves.
As Dean cupped his hands around his mouth to shout something to the bride and groom, I coasted my gaze around the ballroom, wondering how I got here, to this literal and figurative place, at a wedding, contemplating having sex with the guy I’d hated since law school.
What the fuck have I been doing with my life?
But I didn’t have long to assess the possible damage because the lights of the ballroom turned up. It was eleven o’clock, and though we didn’t have to go home, we couldn’t stay here.
Dean, with his tuxedo jacket over one arm, his vest open, his tie long gone, slung an arm around my shoulders, the alcohol evidently hitting hard now. Seemed like once the party ended, so did his tolerance. He leaned into me, and I struggled to keep him upright as we made our way toward the elevator.
