“When you claimed you were a lightweight,” he clarified, hitting the button for the elevator, dragging me backward away from the door with him. “Three drinks and you’re hammered,” he added as though it was ridiculous.
“I don’t have a lot of time to drink. My tolerance is low. And I just… don’t indulge much, y’know,” I told him, turning inward toward him, resting my head on his chest because I wanted to, and I knew it would feel good. And it did. It felt so good.
“You don’t want to be like your mom,” he guessed correctly, giving me a squeeze.
“Yeah. Can’t have that,” I agreed, my hand sliding across his chest to his arm where a particularly intricate tattoo was half-hidden by his sleeve.
“You’ll never be your mom, Sloane. You can have a few drinks, let down your hair.”
“Ugh,” I agreed, my mind immediately leaving the idea of exploring his tattoo, going upward to yank at my updo. “It’s giving me a headache,” I explained when I saw him smirking down at me.
“Pretty sure that is all the fucking sugar in those sex drinks of yours,” he informed me. “But I like your hair down, so I’m not fighting this.”
I was only half-distracted by untangling my hair from the tie, conscious enough to feel that newly familiar warm, gooey feeling inside at the compliment.
“You like my hair down?” I asked, finally feeling it freefall around my shoulders.
“Yeah, duchess,” he said, reaching up to run his fingers through it, tucking some strands behind my ear. “I like your hair down,” he finished just as the doors chimed and opened to our floor.
“Let’s just stay here,” I suggested, resting my head to his chest again, somehow knowing that the second we left this elevator, the spell would be broken, the dreamy possibilities my brain and body were entertaining would be gone.
Things would go back to normal.
What a depressing thought.
“Got water and aspirin in the room for that headache of yours,” he reasoned, pulling me with him.
And it was exactly the second I felt my foot step out of the doorway that his arm fell from my hips to dig for the keycard.
The loss was a strangely poignant thing, something I felt too deeply, something that sober-me would likely blame on the alcohol, but I knew better.
It was the sadness of losing something I knew deep down I had wanted my whole life.
A real, genuine connection.
And everything in me seemed to know that the only chance I had for it was to be found within Gunner.
“Alright, you first,” he said, waving toward the bathroom. “I have a feeling you’ll be dead on your feet in ten minutes. Get today’s taste out of your mouth before you hit the sheets.”
With that, I did.
Brushed my teeth.
Washed my face.
Changed into my now clean pajamas, all the while wishing it was his tee again.
I climbed into bed and watched as he disappeared into the bathroom after me, the shower turning on just seconds later.
He was in there for a long time too.
A part of me was convinced he was just trying to get away from me, remove temptation, let me pass out before he came back out.
Or maybe that was just my own wishful thinking, my projecting my feelings onto him.
The door whooshed open a long while later, just as sleep was starting to pull at my eyes.
As such, I was sure I was dreaming when he moved into the doorway.
Because he had forgotten to grab clothes.
And was standing there in a towel.
Just a towel.
Slung low.
My heart started to hammer as I realized I wasn’t asleep, that he was genuinely five feet from me, all but naked, the towel situated directly below the sharp juts of his Adonis belt muscles, showing off the wide breadth of his chest. Tattoos wove up his arms and across his chest, sneaking around the back. There was an odd spot almost to the center of his chest where the tattoo looked odd, distorted, almost puckered or something. But he was too far to make it out. And my eyes – and other body parts – were too greedy to focus on that when there was so much more to explore. Like how his deep abdominal muscles tapered downward to reveal a small happy trail that disappeared into the towel, making me want to rip it off and explore more.
I didn’t realize that the low, pained, animal sound that I heard came from me until Gunner’s head jerked up, looking taken aback at finding me there, ogling him like a dog in heat.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he demanded softly, almost looking pained as he just stood there. And I just sat there. Both of us knowing what was on the other’s mind.
“Why?” I asked, swallowing hard.
“You know why.”
“I can’t help it,” I admitted, feeling the way need was coursing through my system, knowing it was likely plain as day on my face as well.