“Yeah.” His throat ripples as he swallows. And I remember kissing his throat—the taste of his skin on my lips and tongue. I stare at his mouth, his face—there’s nowhere else I want to look ever again.
Tommy starts. “I wanted to—”
But then Riley is there, like a wedge, angling himself between us.
“Dr. Sealing is waiting for us, Abby. We have to scrub in.”
“Yes, I know,” I snap. “I’ll be right along.”
Riley glances at Tommy a moment. Then he walks away and I catch Tommy’s glaring gaze following his retreating form.
His eyes darken back on me—possessive and questioning.
I shake my head. “He and I aren’t . . . there’s nothing—”
“Right.” Tommy nods sharply. “Well . . . you’re busy. I’ll leave you to it.” His voice goes low and rough. “It was good to see you, Abby.”
Then he turns, walking away towards the lift.
Leaving.
Panic claws at my throat and lodges there.
“Tommy!”
He turns back as I rush up to him. I lift my hand to touch him, but stop at the last moment. Because if I touch him . . . I’m very sure I’ll fall apart right here in the hall.
“I was abrupt the last time we saw each other. I’ve regretted that so much.” I lick at my lips, buying time, searching for the right words. There’s a wet, salty taste in the back of my mouth and a burning in my eyes.
“I hope life is kind to you. I wish that for you . . . every single day.”
His jaw goes tight, and he glances down at his shoes, nodding.
“All right.”
I give him a small smile, but if feels sad on my lips.
“Take care of yourself.”
“You too, lass.”
And then the lift door opens and he steps inside—and he’s gone all over again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tommy
SEEKING ABBY OUT AT THE hospital was not one of my better ideas. Now I’m like a once-sober junkie who fell off the wagon for a night—and my blood has been screaming for another fix for the past week.
It wouldn’t be so difficult if she didn’t still want me. But she does—I’m certain of it. The way she looked at me, the way she breathed, how her voice trembled—Christ, I could smell the desire coming off her as sweet as the scent of apples on her skin.
I could push her—I’m sure of that too. I could go to her place, just walk in and lock the door behind me. I could kiss her, take her mouth—take any part of her I want—and she would let me.
Or I could bring her to my place—keep her there—tie her to the bed, make her talk, make her tell me what’s happening in that twisted-up little mind of hers.
I could make her love it so easily. Have her begging for it—for me.
Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.
But I don’t want her that way. It’s not that I mind chasing Abby—I still like the chase. But I’ve been pushing her, backing her up, breaking her down since the day we met. It’s not just about us screwing anymore—it’s different now. More.
So I have to know it comes from her. That she wants me, needs me, that she feels what I feel all on her own. Not because I’ve talked her into it, or teased her or fucked her into it—but because she’s right here in this with me.
That’s the only way it’ll ever work between us, the only way it will last.
I shove thoughts of Abby out of my mind, because I need to focus on the here and now. I’m working with Gordon, guarding an international shipping magnate and his wife who’ve come to Wessco to attend a world economics forum. Tonight they’re at a posh banquet hall for the party that caps off the three-day summit. All the bigwigs are here—energy moguls, media billionaires, royalty.
From my position against the wall, I spot Duchess Olivia all dolled up and gorgeous in a shimmery gown beside her tuxedo-clad husband, Prince Nicholas. I was on Nicholas Pembrook’s personal detail for a few years before he went to New York and met Olivia Hammond . . . and the whole world changed. I stayed on with them as they dated and were married, and had two little ones—twins, Langdon and Lilliana—only leaving his employ when Logan resigned to be with Ellie and we started our own shop.
Olivia catches my eye and smiles, giving me a wave. I lift my chin and throw her a wink in reply.
Then I return my attention back to my bald-headed mark as he drinks champagne and chortles with the other nobs.
And as I once explained to Abby, I don’t listen to the clutter of conversation that surrounds me. What they’re saying neither interests me nor matters. I scan the area around my client, eyeing the entrances, the bustling waiters and other guests—searching for anything that my gut says is off.