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She knew those fingers on her back. Knew that pressure. And oh god, why was Slade touching her?
A fingertip coursed down her vertebrae, heading toward her zipper.
Whipping around, she pinned him in an evil glare.
Ignoring her, he extended a fist toward Frost. The two bumped knuckles in greeting.
“Frost. Lookin’ less fucked up than last time I saw you.”
Frost grunted in amusement. “You too. Looks like that gash on your eye won’t leave a scar.”
Lena’s stare shifted to Slade’s eye. Last time she saw him, he’d been sporting six neat little stitches from his last op. The injury was healed now, and Frost was right—she could barely detect a fine white line of a scar that would most likely fade in a few more weeks.
Slade captured her gaze. A thousand tiny sparks flickered through her system, and she tore her stare away from him.
“I need another drink,” she announced. Without waiting for Frost to question her newfound interest in getting hammered or Slade to follow her, she darted into the crowd.
She stalked across the room to the open bar. But she barely had her drink in hand—this one mixed with soda—when she spotted Slade sauntering up beside her.
He crowded far too close. His elbow brushed her bare arm, leaving a ripple of goosebumps on her flesh. She jerked away and started to take off across the room again when he closed his fingers around her arm.
She swung back to him, coming toe to toe and eye to eye with the man she wanted nothing more than to get away from. And stay away from.
Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone?
“Let me go,” she demanded in a furious whisper.
“We need to talk.”
A humorless laugh broke from her lips. “Talk? That’s funny. I can’t remember ever being able to hold a civil conversation with you before.” She twisted her arm from his grip and strode away as fast as her heels would allow her to cross the room.
To anyone watching, she must look crazed, zigzagging across the ballroom, weaving through people like a submarine attempting to flee from the enemy.
When she saw the big doors along one wall thrown open to the night, she gasped in relief and sailed through them.
Cooler air struck her face, and she gulped it in. A group of men stood in a cluster in one corner of the outdoor area, and she offered them a brisk nod of greeting. She drifted far away from them and brought her glass to her lips.
But she didn’t really want alcohol. She wanted…
Slade Overstreet.
Damn the man! Damn her addiction to him and all the obsession she’d once felt that continued to surface again and again until it consumed her.
Why couldn’t she just treat him like any other man?
Because he wasn’t. Not to her.
“Fuck!” she burst out and lifted the glass to her lips again.
Warm air brushed across her earlobe, followed by the deep, gravelly voice she’d recognize even if she had a bag over her head.
“I was hoping you’d wanna fuck, Lena.”
Her pulse tripped, and her stomach careened south to nestle between her thighs, where it pulsed in time to the roughened rasps that broke from her lungs.
“What do you want from me, Slade?” She didn’t look at him. Feeling his closeness was enough. His body heat scorched up her spine.
His hand landed on her waist, fingertips probing, kneading. “You know what I want, Lena.”
