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I eye the people around us on the dance floor. Les and the guys are backstage getting ready for their set, and Kaden is nowhere in sight. But if someone spots us like this, and it gets out—or worse, gets back to his wife—I could lose my job.
Again.
I could lose him…which doesn’t make any sense, because he’s not mine to begin with.
“We’re not exactly alone here,” I say.
“Jules, I really don’t give a shit. Please,” he says, raising his fingers to my cheek, “come upstairs.”
“And do what?”
“Talk.”
“We are talking.” My tone indicates resistance, but the softness of my voice spells doom. Defeat. He must have picked up on it too, because the next thing I know, he’s leading me toward the stairs with his large hand wrapped around my smaller one.
And I’m following.
Putting up no resistance whatsoever.
Because apparently one fuck-up this year isn’t enough.
The bouncer lets us pass without a second glance, and after we reach the top, Cash grabs my hips and walks me into the shadows. He is domineering yet tender as he pushes me against the far wall. I’m caught between the hand he’s bracing himself with and the hand he’s wrapping around my waist. There’s possession in that touch.
He leans in, and I’m helpless to move away. Not because he’s got me trapped, but I’m so glued to this spot that a fire couldn’t persuade me to leave the circle of his heat.
“It’s your business, Jules. I’m making it your business.” He grips my waist a little tighter. “And I want you to know that I haven’t been with Monica in months. We sleep in separate bedrooms, for Christ’s sake.”
“Oh,” I manage to squeak out, my heart pounding with violent longing. And relief.
“I can’t get you out of my head,” he says. “I know it’s wrong. I’m breaking every moral code I’ve ever lived by, not to mention several ethical points as your boss.” His brows furrow. “And probably some laws, too.”
“Cash, this can’t…”
“Happen?” he finishes.
I nod, unable to do anything else because if I open my mouth to speak, the wrong words might slip out.
“But it is.” He brings his fingers to my lips. “Happening, that is.” The soft pad of his thumb trails along the seam of my mouth, applying just enough pressure to coax me into parting my lips. I accept the gentle quest of his thumb on my tongue and swallow a moan. His taste is intoxicating—a bouquet of pure Cash with a dash of salt. My lids flutter shut, and I can’t hold back a moan any longer.
“Fucking hell, Jules.” Slowly, he withdraws his thumb, leaving a damp path of desire on my bottom lip. My lungs hollow out, and there’s nothing but breathless huffs escaping my mouth. I’m throbbing between my thighs, panties drenched.
He curses again. “We’ll probably regret this in the end, but I’m having a hard time giving a shit about that right now.”
“Do you regret meeting me?” My voice sounds faraway, as if I’m speaking from the other end of a long tunnel. Hell, I’m drunk from the spell of him, standing with my eyes closed in a lust-filled trance. And I’m terrified of what he might say because I’ve grown dependent on him wanting me as much as I want him.
“I have many regrets, but that’s not one of them,” he says, grasping me by the nape. “My biggest regret is not kissing you on that goddamn plane.”
His mouth is on mine in the next instant. We come together in mutual madness, gone to reality as our tongues slide together. His kiss stalls the air in my lungs, steals the strength from my limbs. There’s no buildup, no getting to know the softness of his lips or the taste of him. It’s like zero-to-sixty in two seconds flat.
My knees buckle before I can stop them.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, tightening his hold on me.
“Don’t let me fall.”
Too late.
“If you fall,” he says, breath shuddering against my mouth, “I’m going down with you.”
