Fall (VIP 3)
“I don’t think we’re supposed to be back here,” I say, eyeing the way we came.
He huffs out a laugh. “God, you’re adorable.” When I glare, he grins back. “Babe, I could make use of Pete’s bedroom all night and he wouldn’t bat an eye. He’s my producer.”
“You make him sound like a pimp,” I mutter, then tense. Shit. I do not want to venture into the subject of pimps and prostitutes.
Oddly, John doesn’t say a word but simply shrugs.
“This is rude to Brenna,” I go on when he stays quiet.
“Brenna?” A wrinkle forms between his brows.
“Yes, Brenna. You just left her there and ran off with me.”
The wrinkle gets deeper. “Brenna can take care of herself.”
Unbelievable. “She’s your date. You don’t run off with another woman when you’re on a date!”
For a long, too silent moment, he stares at me. Then a smile spreads over his face. “Brenna is most definitely not my date. She’s like a sister to me. An annoying, bossy little sister.”
“Oh.” Shit.
“Yeah, ‘oh.’” His grin is downright smug now. “But let’s go back to why you thought she was my date.”
I shrug as though I’m not completely embarrassed. “You looked … familiar with each other.”
“Well, we are … familiar with each other.” He’s not even trying to hide his amusement. “She’s Killian’s cousin. She knows all my shit and will hold it over my head without flinching. She’s evil like that.” He tilts his head, catching my gaze when I try to look away. “So that’s why you made that face, like you’d sucked a rotten lemon.”
“A rotten lemon?”
“Yeah, all green and puckered.”
“Wouldn’t that be a lime?”
“No. Limes do not carry the sour taste of jealousy.” He wags his brows in goofy triumph.
“I am not jealous.”
John shrugs, still way too pleased. “It’s okay if you are. I found myself hit with an unexpected wave of it when I saw you with Richard.”
Wait. What?
An inarticulate sound leaves me.
He looks down at our hands, still somehow linked, and rubs his thumb in a slow circle around my palm. The edge of his thumb is rough and hard with calluses, almost scratching my skin. My thighs clench.
He makes another slow exploration, his attention wholly on my hand. “You’re so soft.”
“Aren’t most women’s hands soft?” I quip, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest as he continues to stroke my palm, the backs of my fingers.
“I don’t really hold hands.” He glances up, and I’m hit with the full force of his green gaze. “Been thinking about you, Stells.”
My insides swoop. Stupid insides. I don’t say a word but stared back with a hard look.
His wide lips quirk. “I’m sorry I was a dick. I didn’t mean to offend you. I have a bad habit of speaking without thinking.”
He still has hold of my hand. As if it’s his. I can’t have him thinking that. But he’s warm and the little touches he gives send pulses of pleasure to different spots on my body. Until this moment, I had no idea how sensitive my hands were. How is it that a gentle stroke along the side of my index finger feels like a stroke up the inside of my thigh? A press of his thumb to the meat of my palm makes my breasts swell as if cupped.
With a sigh, I lift my hand and deliberately extract it from his. He lets me go but watches me, all but waiting for an argument.
“Thank you,” I say, somewhat stiffly because I miss his warmth. “I understand. I say stupid things all the time.” A flush hits my face when he grins. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know.” The smile fades. “Thing is, Button, I know I’m going to screw up again. I tend to do that.”
“Well, knowing is half the battle.”
He laughs, a soft, almost distracted sound. It fades to heavy silence as he worries the corner of his bottom lip with this teeth. Tension hums along his lean frame, and when he speaks, his words are tight and fast like he’s forcing them free. “I can’t get you off my mind. I’ve tried. But nothing works.”
My heartbeat kicks up. “You can’t?”
John leans a shoulder against the wall. “I can’t let my curiosity go. I’m trying. Then I see you here with Richard, who obviously wants to fuck you—”
A shocked laugh bursts from me. “Oh, please. He does not.”
John’s dark brows wing up. “You’re joking, right?”
“Richard is a friend.” Who won’t stop talking about paying me, but still. “That’s all he’s ever been.”
“Stells, you must be blind or in some serious denial. He looks at you like he’s mentally taste-testing his sauces off your tits.”
Instantly, my nipples go stiff, but it isn’t from picturing Richard doing that. No, my mind sticks on a certain rocker who glances down at my chest like he wants to do the same thing to me.