Play Rough (Black Rose Kisses 2)

It’s a notepad document of all things, and I click on it quickly. Part of me is sure it’s going to be about something unrelated, even while another part of me is breathless with hope that I’ve finally found what I’m looking for.

It’s an address, all right. Labeled with the name Alex-$$. That’s good enough for me.

I pull out my phone to copy the address into my text chain with Paul, and then nearly drop it when I hear a noise downstairs like someone coming through the door from the garage.

Fuck. Someone’s home.

My hands shake with urgency, and I give up on typing out the address after about two seconds of making typos and just take a picture of the whole screen. I attach it to a message and send it to Paul, letting out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding as I press the button on my screen.

That’s it.

It’s done.

I’ve gotten what they want, and I’ve given it to my contact. Now it’s time for them to make good on it.

If I can just make it back to my room before—

The sound of footsteps are heavy in the hall, already past my door and heading this way. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Someone’s coming, and I don’t have time to get out.

I fumble to close the lid to the laptop, hoping the screen will lock itself and prompt for password again if Sloan opens it soon. It’s too late to get out without being seen, and there’s nowhere to really hide. Frantically, I try to think of a reason to be here, anything that will throw whoever it is off the scent of what I was really doing. I’ve never been invited into Sloan’s room, of course. Why would I be? He barely talks to me when we’re in the common areas.

Thinking about that gives me an idea, and I whip my shirt over my head and toss it to the floor. I have just enough time to lean against the desk and put on a nonchalant face before Sloan walks in.

He frowns at his open door, pausing in the act of running a hand through his hair. His posture is tense, like it always is, but there’s a little slump to his shoulders that speaks to how tired he must be.

In another sign of how out of it he is, it takes him another few seconds to even notice I’m here. He turns his head from the door—probably wondering if he left it open in his hurry to leave earlier—and then sees me standing on the other side of the room, leaning against his desk with no shirt on.

Sloan freezes, gaping at me for a second. The furrow in his brow smooths out as the surprise of seeing me fades, and he trails his eyes up and down my body slowly, taking in every inch of me.

I feel it like a physical thing, like his gaze has weight and is brushing up and down my body, and it makes me shiver.

Confusion turns to heat in Sloan’s gray eyes, and it seems to take him a good few seconds to remember I’m not supposed to be in here.

He clears his throat and finds that displeased look again, even though he doesn’t take his eyes off of me. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I’m trying my hardest to play it cool, but my heart is in my throat. Even though I’m nervous as hell and totally on edge, I can’t let him see that. If I can keep control of this situation, then maybe I can get out of here without him figuring anything out. Maybe I can pull this off.

I raise my chin and hold his gaze, swallowing hard before I start talking. “I’m here because I can’t take this anymore, Sloan,” I say, hoping the rasp in my voice sounds more like desire and less like my throat closing up from fear. “Whatever this thing is between us, I’m fucking sick of pretending it doesn’t exist. I’m sick of denying what we both clearly want.”

The words come out easily, actually. Too easily, and I know it’s because they’re laced with truth. There is something between us, and I am sick of denying it, and I know he probably is too.

The only question is whether or not he’s going to go for this ploy. There’s a heart-stopping second where he just stares at me, and I’m so, so sure he’s going to call me out and see through my bullshit. The silence seems to stretch on forever, and my mind supplies me with countless images of him figuring out what I did and killing me for it, right here and now.

I keep staring at him, and I know I’m breathing harder, my chest rising and falling, my cheeks flushed.

Please, I beg silently. Please let him think it’s arousal. Let him think I just want him so bad. Please don’t let him—

Before I can finish the thought, he’s moving across the room, covering the space in three long strides. He reaches out and grabs my arm, yanking me toward him so that my body slams against his. My breath catches at the suddenness and force of it, but I don’t resist.

White-hot flames lick through my veins as he crushes his mouth to mine.

It’s like that time in the locker room at that Black Roses warehouse they took me to, except ratcheted up a hundred degrees. His arms are tight around me, and he leans down, capturing my mouth in a bruising kiss. It’s hungry and demanding, like he’s finally letting himself loose after so long spent holding back, and I find myself kissing him back the same way.

I bite down on his lower lip hard, drawing a groan from his mouth, and he grips me tighter for a second before letting his hands slide down over my bare sides to my hips.

His touch lights a fire in me, blazing a trail down my spine to my core, and I shiver against him, leaning up to chase the nipping kisses he gives me in return with deep, searching ones of my own.