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"Later."
Later is good. He's being responsible. But that isn't like him.
It means something.
What?
Damon interrupts my thought with the brush of his fingers against my side. "Let's find the bastard."
Right. It doesn't matter if Damon is drinking or not or how much or what he does when we're done.
That's none of my business.
As long as we get this right.
Pleasure before business. Or is this business before pleasure? It's all mixed up. Either way, I agree with the mission. I follow him around the room, only people stop us to say hello every three to four feet.
Finally, after half a dozen wow, is that really little Cassie Steele comments from friends of my father or Damon's father, we find Frederick and Tinsel standing at a round table, sipping clear liquor from martini glasses.
He thinks a dirty martini makes him look sophisticated, but really, he finds the drinks too strong, too bitter. Is she faking an interest too, or has he finally found a woman who is the person he pretends to be?
Damon laughs really loudly. "Pretend I made a joke."
"Pretend I made a joke," I counter.
He doesn't object. He wraps his arms around me and laughs like he can't believe how funny I am.
For a second, his eyes flit to Frederick and Tinsel. Victory, they've noticed us!
Then Damon looks at me and I don't really care about who else is watching.
He leans in to whisper, "How obvious do you want to go here?"
"Very obvious," I say.
"Say when." He presses his lips to my neck. A soft, sensual kiss. The light brush of his tender flesh against mine, again and again.
Then his mouth finds mine and my entire body buzzes. He tastes like mint and Damon.
The kiss feels right.
Way too right.
My lips part. My tongue slides into his mouth.
He moves in time with me, swirling his tongue around mine, pulling my body into his.
All of it feels real. My stomach flutters. My heart pounds. My veins buzz with desire. The sensation spreads through my pelvis, all the way out to my fingers and toes.
I feel the way I do when we write music together. Awake and alive and exactly where I'm supposed to be.
This is how people describe sex in pop songs. People like me.
Have I written something this false? Or is it true?
Is anything I've said about sex true?
My thoughts disappear as his cock brushes my stomach. He's hard under his slacks. I want that.
I want it too much.
I don't care about music or lyrics or ex-boyfriends or jobs. Only my body against his. All of him, however I can have him.
When I pull back, I'm dizzy. I forget where we are. I forget everything except how much I want to touch him.
He looks down at me with heavy lids. "Too much?"
"Perfect." I don't think. I close my eyes and bring my lips to his. I fall back into him.
His hand settles on my hip. The other goes to the hem of my dress. He kisses me like he's claiming me, then he pulls back with a sigh that can only mean I need you too.
My eyes don't go to my ex-boyfriend. They go to Damon.
"Where did you learn to kiss like that?" he purrs.
My shoulders tense immediately. He's not lost in this. He's full of shit.
That voice. It's the same put-on seduction.
Because he doesn't know how to be real here or because this isn't real. Both, maybe.
No. I'm out of my mind. We're fake boyfriend and girlfriend. Of course, this isn't real. I'm just… I'm getting mixed up. I need to get my head straight.
I need to find our old dynamic. Not the one where we hate each other, the one where we tease like friends. "My first girlfriend."
His pupils dilate.
"Most guys aren't good kissers."
"Is that a setup to say especially you or you're the exception?"
I shoot him a coy smile, but it doesn't push him further. It invites him closer. It's the sort of teasing that leads to orgasms, not the sort that leads to tears.
"Baby, you wound me." His tone is playful, but I don't know what the fuck that means anymore.
I don't have time to consider it. Tinsel waves us over. "Hey, Cassie! Damon! You both look great."
Right. We're not here to make out for the hell of it. We're here with a mission to convince everyone we're here to make out for the hell of it.
At least Tinsel buys into our ruse. She's actually… smiling at us, like she's super happy to see us. Which is odd. She knows I know she fucked my boyfriend behind my back. And we're in competition.
Why in the world is she happy to see me?
Tinsel shifts her weight between her feet, uncomfortable in her silver high heels. She looks great in the stilettos and the snug dress, and she looks totally out of her element.
