“I …” He swallows as he pulls me closer to his body. “I didn’t like that.”
“Didn’t like what?”
He presses his palm into my back. “I didn’t like seeing you in his arms.”
His words flood me with a cascade of emotions. So many, in fact, that I don’t know where to start.
My grin is dopey, and I don’t dare look at him and let him see it. Instead, I press my cheek into his chest and let him guide me into a circle.
“I never should’ve left you alone,” he says, his words soft. “I don’t know why I did that.” His chest rumbles with a chuckle. “Nah, I do know why.”
“Why?”
“Because you told them you were my executive assistant.”
I jerk my head back and look him in the eye. Those beautiful blue-green orbs glitter back at me.
“I am your EA,” I tell him.
One side of his lips turns up. “That you are.”
I study him for a long moment. “I only said that—the truth—because you left it a question and they were looking at me for an explanation.”
“Well, you gave them one.”
“What did you want me to say?” I ask as the saxophone kicks in behind us.
The sultry, smokiness of the music descends over the dance floor, adding a sexy undertone to the room. Oliver’s body relaxes as he tugs me even closer—so close that taking a full breath is difficult.
But I’m not complaining. Not even a little.
Breathing in his cologne, feeling the firmness of his body, listening to the grit of his tone, which is laced with a familiar layer of desire, has every cell of my body firing. For him. This might be a complication, and I might wake up tomorrow morning and regret everything, but right now—in his arms—I only want one thing: more.
More of him. More kisses, touches. More promises. More laughter and more feeling like I’m worthy of a man like Oliver Mason. More than being left alone while he flirted with other women.
It’s not that. Not really. I’ve never equated my worth with a man’s opinion. But seeing him want me, respect me, desire me in the way I do him, makes me feel less like the struggling mess of a human I’ve been lately and more like the person I want to be.
Oliver holds me close to him, and our bodies sway back and forth to the music. My eyes flutter closed, and I let the thumping of his heart carry me away into a world that’s probably not real, but I welcome with open arms.
At least for now.
“Do you want to know what I wanted you to say?”
His words—low and soft—bring me back to the gala.
“What?” I ask.
He takes a breath. “I wanted you to tell them that you were with me.” He pauses. “That you were mine.”
I lean back and look into his eyes.
He smiles hesitantly. “I know it’s crazy. I have doubts that this is the right thing—but I wanted those fuckers to know that Shaye Brewer was with Oliver Mason and that they shouldn’t dare look at you twice.”
My skin prickles with goose bumps. The heat of his gaze travels through my body and pools between my legs.
I bite my bottom lip, unable to believe I heard him correctly. But then he smiles—a different one. The one I haven’t seen him use with Kelly at work or the girl with the green dress tonight. He gives me that smile, and I know I heard him right. More than that, I want that too.
I hated being left to describe who I was to Oliver. And then left behind as he socialized. But there is no doubt in my mind now what, or rather who, Oliver wants. And this time, I don’t mind being the one who has to step up. Ask for what I want.
“I think,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “that if you want me to be yours … you have to make me yours.”
He growls—the sound rough and nearly guttural. I’m still processing it when he releases me from his grasp. He takes my hand and nearly drags me through the ballroom.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice a combination of both a yelp and a laugh.
He doesn’t answer me until we pause at the exit to let an older gentleman pass. Even then, his answer is brief.
“Your wish is my command.”
He tosses me a wink before leading us to his car.
Twenty-Two
Shaye
“Where are we going?”
We’ve been in the car for a solid fifteen minutes. Neither of us has spoken a single word. The radio is off, our phones are muted—not one word from us or otherwise has been said.
Oliver tilts his head my way at my question. One arm extends over the steering wheel; his other hand plays with his bottom lip like he’s thinking. Or planning. Or plotting.