Fool Me Forever (The Confidence Game 2)

“Shut up.”

They were both out of breath. He was the worst possible choice for a girl who wanted nothing more than to be virtuous, and she was the only losing bet that was worth placing. She put one hand to his chest, the other to his face, and leaned into him like she’d done in the doorway of her apartment. She’d scrambled his brain then. This time he was ready. When she lifted her chin, he lowered his, and she kissed him, meeting his lips, making bells ring in his head and lights pop under his eyelids.

His hands went to her waist to steady her, keep her there, hell, just to make this moment, this delicious sip of her, last for as long as it took for her to realize this was a mistake. But she didn’t pull away. She gripped his shoulder and angled her head and the kiss went on, shocking him with its drenching sweetness, with its spike of heat. He didn’t want to breathe in case it broke the spell, in case he opened his eyes to find himself alone in a fevered dream. He sealed her lips with his and embraced the threat that this would end before he’d properly discovered it.

When Lenny broke off, he let his arms drop away from her, dead weights, while his head felt light enough to lift off his neck. She shifted restlessly, taking a step away and then another, half turning, and then coming to some decision and retracing all those movements until she was right in front of him again. He had no idea what she was thinking, but she had determination in every curve of her lovely body.

“Apparently, I’m damaged, and I want things that are bad for me. I need to be kissed by you.”

Who was he, not to give her what she needed? He reached for her, and she crashed into his arms and they kissed again, this time with none of the earlier tentative curiosity and angst, and a whole lot more intentional damage.

These kisses were harder, wilder, wetter, made to create a memory. A challenge and a punishment, a promise and a dumb idea, and wonder, so much wonder at what else they could make each other feel.

He lost the sense of where they were because Lenny’s lips were his new reality, her hands moving on him, his new air and water and shelter. He’d danced her up against a wall, before he realized he’d taken it too far.

“I’m sorry.” He stepped away, senses overloaded, muscles tight with how good this wrongness felt.

Her breath came heavily in short snatches. “I’m not.” She pushed away from the wall. “Halsey Sherwood, I’m going to treat you like you’re my newest bad habit, like smoking, like too many cocktails and forgetting not to be sad. I’m going to flirt with you mercilessly. I’m going to fall straight into this addiction with you and use you up, and I’m going to love it. And then I’m going to dump you hard, regret you bitterly, and never look back.”

She moved past him and headed for the exit, focused and sure and steady where he was reeling. “Let me know if that works for you,” she called.

She got all the way to the street before he caught up and took her hand. This would wreck him, but it would be just fine. He had the rest of his life to get over it.

Chapter Eighteen

The Baltic Cultural Exchange Dinner might be stiff and formal, but Lenny’s dress wasn’t. It was all about the plung

e and the Hollywood tape and seeing if Halsey could take the heat.

She wanted him to take the heat as well as he’d taken her tantrum and her ultimatum. At least he couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned.

She wanted him. The breath stealing, heart-in-mouth adventure of them. And she’d keep herself safe by calling it off before it got deep enough to cause a permanent stain. There was justice in that, in the same way there was justice in Cookie Jar being brought down.

She’d never felt quite so fierce in all her life as when she’d kissed Halsey and then told him she was going to use him and lose him. Not even when she’d been elbow deep in lawyers and dodging press packs wearing a red wig as a disguise during Dad’s arrest and trial had she felt this kickass.

She’d walked away from him expecting him to let her go—a fake date who’d become too much trouble. After all, he’d had his introduction to Cookie Jar, he had the next prime minister in his pocket, and could no doubt summon his inner scam artist and pull off the operation on his own now.

He hadn’t let her get far, and he didn’t say much, other than an emphatic “yes” to her proposition, but he’d slowed her roll with a kiss that made her kneecaps dissolve and her skin shimmer. For the next half block, as they walked hand in hand, she not only looked like she was floating in her glass slippers, she felt like it.

Since then, they hadn’t talked, retreating to their corners, as if they’d spooked each other, only an email to confirm the details for the dinner devoid of any personal information. A week was long enough for Halsey to rethink that yes and revert to being aloof with her. In about half an hour, she’d see exactly what mood he brought.

She picked a fallen hair off the shoulder of her dress. It was sleeveless and fitted. It had a deep vee almost to her waist at the back and well down to her sternum at the front. Without being truly revealing, it was elegantly suggestive of lots of va-va-voom. The color helped, a rich, raunchy red. She piled her hair up, made it artfully messy, wore statement diamond earrings and, since the dress was knee length, gold heels that bound her ankles with straps.

If the look, complete with foundation underwear that deserved a sainthood for the physical miracle it performed, didn’t make Halsey’s eyes fall out of his head, no dress she owned would.

“What do you think?” she asked Mal and her friend Ginny in the living room.

“A three,” said Mal, without looking up from her phone.

“You look hot, Lenny,” said Ginny.” She elbowed Mal, who stood and grabbed her overnight bag.

“If you’re going to sleep with your date, Len, make sure you’ve straightened your Mirena, discussed any boundaries, and he shows you his test results and uses protection.”

Lenny looked at the ceiling. “Oh my God, Mal.” She pointed to the door. She’d had the contraception and consent discussion with Mal this week, because she couldn’t be sure Mom ever had, and Mal had been talking about condoms, dental dams, lube, and IUDs ever since. She wore the new word “intrauterine” out, finding creative ways to add it into almost any sentence. Is there any intrauterine left for my toast? Can you pick up intrauterine from the market on the way home from work? She thought she was hilarious.

“My Mirena is plenty straight, and I will not be sleeping with my date.” Not tonight, at least.

Tonight, she planned to have more of his kisses and see where that led.