Vaguely, as if from a distance, I’m aware that “Say You Won’t Let Go,” by James Arthur, is on the speakers, a song about two people connecting . . . maybe it’s a message.
Her lips brush against my neck, almost hesitantly; then, braver, she moves back and kisses my throat. Electricity flares, and I toy with the top of her loincloth, rubbing the fabric. I ease my hand underneath it, my fingers grazing the curve of her ass. My heart hammers as she responds by swishing her leg in between mine, brushing against the bulge in my pants.
Powerful and greedy, desire slams into me.
I stop our dancing and slide my hands up her arms to her neck, tilting her face up. Need soaks her features, eyes dilated, cheeks flushed.
She isn’t one of Tuck’s party girls who flirts with me to be nice.
And I’m not misreading her signals.
I didn’t see this (her) coming, but . . .
“You wanna get out of here?” I ask in a gravelly voice. “Maybe do some role-playing, hmm?”
She knows what I mean. Her. Me. One night.
Her pink tongue dips out and dabs at her plump lower lip. “All right.”
“Good,” I purr as my thumb brushes her mouth.
I crook her arm through mine and lace our hands together. We move through the dancers as we leave the ballroom. Outside, the foyer is crowded with people, and we dodge past them with heads bent. I’m doing it to not be recognized; she seems to understand.
With each step, the air thins, my chest tightening. I’m not sure if it’s because this is an impulsive decision I’ll probably regret tomorrow or if it’s her. We get inside the elevator, and I slap the button for the top floor, then ease her against the wall. Words don’t feel necessary as I run my nose up her throat. She smells fresh and tart, like apples, and I’m rushing, totally—I don’t know this girl, even her name, but I don’t care. Nothing has stemmed the darkness, even alcohol, but I’ll sink myself into a beautiful woman to bring on oblivion.
She looks up at me. “I—I don’t normally, um—”
I stop her with a finger to her lips. “I’m going to kiss you. Is that okay?”
She nods.
I slant my mouth across hers, our breaths mingling as I part her lips. She melts against me. A shudder ripples over me as lust, long banked and hungry, strains to be unleashed, to crush her beneath me. I hold it back, for now, and learn her mouth, the shape of it, the dips and valleys. Her breath hitches as I tug on her bottom lip with my teeth, then kiss it softly. I move from her cheek to her ear, my teeth biting on the lobe.
“I don’t normally either,” I breathe.
Later, she takes the card from me and opens my door. We walk inside the suite and pause in the foyer as she takes in the penthouse I booked. The decor is mostly white with a low-profile, black gas fireplace burning in the den. The views of Manhattan are glorious from the windows, which is where she drifts, but my gaze goes to the kitchen . . . and the whiskey bottle.
I offer her a drink, and she says no. I pour a glass for me; then we wander into the master bedroom, where an empty bottle already sits on the nightstand. Tuck was right about me not being a drinker. For years, I set high goals, studying how to be a great leader and quarterback for my team, pushing my body to its limits with training, eating right, rarely consuming alcohol. For me, it was the game I lived for.
I won three Super Bowls in a row.
Look at me now.
There’s a moment of clarity, my mind debating if bringing the girl here was a good idea. I’m supposed to see Whitney’s parents tomorrow—
I kick that thought away.
She gives me a heart-stopping smile and does a pirouette in front of the window, her loincloth billowing around her. She repeats her quote, correctly this time, then laughingly admits she doesn’t know any more. I tell her I’ll teach her all my favorites. I finish my drink, then another. Time passes fast, yet slow, as she flits around the room. She talks, telling me things, maybe her name, and I soak her in, the graceful way she walks, the way her overgenerous lips curl when she smiles.
Propping myself against the wall to keep steady, I find music on my phone, some slow pop song.
“You’re incredible,” I murmur in her ear when she glides over to me.
How did I get here with you? How did you find me?
With our arms draped around each other, we sway as she sings along with Savage Garden’s “I Knew I Loved You.” Her voice is rich, each note perfect and clear. She’s good. Or maybe I’m just trashed and anything sounds good.