Chapter 47 #2
“Same.” He laughs, only slightly winded—no surprise there. I’m pretty sure he could’ve spent the entire night on the dance floor without taking a breather. But he lets me off the hook, planting a tender kiss on my cheek. “I’m going to take a leak. I’ll meet you back at the bar.”
I nod. My chest swells with so much admiration, so much joy, as I watch him walk off one way and I head the other, wearing the biggest fucking smile on my face.
“Two waters, please!” I call out, raising two fingers as the bartender waltzes by, effortlessly balancing five cocktails in one hand. He nods at my beaming face. I must look ridiculous, but ask me if I care… I don’t. I’m riding this happiness high for as long as possible. Forever, if I can.
Leaning casually against the bar, I swipe a napkin across the back of my neck, enjoying this moment of calm before our drinks arrive.
Not a minute later, the bartender returns with two bottled waters, and I have mine uncapped and between my lips in a matter of seconds.
Sighing in relief, I recap the bottle and place it down, licking my smiling lips.
“Are you drinking?”
I freeze.
My breath catches in my throat, almost choking me.
Sweat beads on my already slick forehead. My mouth goes dry—again.
Noah.
“I-I’m… dancing,” I stutter, swiping the sweat off my face, feeling goose bumps erupt across my arms in a chaotic rush. “Would you like to dance with me?”
I keep my back to him, knowing his pretty eyes are smiling.
We’ve played this game before.
Only—I shouldn’t be playing it right now.
But those eyes. God, I need to see them. Just one last time.
Against my better judgment, I turn around. And—yep, I was right. They’re smiling. And so fucking beautiful.
My gaze drops to his glossy lips, and I let myself linger there for a beat—just soaking them in—before drifting back to meet those impossibly blue eyes.
His lashes are thick with black mascara. A dusting of glitter catches the light as they flutter over his pretty eyes. Goddamn, he takes my breath away.
Sandy-blond hair falls loose and messy over his razor-tight fade. A fitted black shirt made of mesh and lace hangs seductively off one slender shoulder. Being in the fashion industry, I instantly recognize the designer as étoile Noir.
A belly chain dangles from his tapered waist. It’s very feminine.
Very Noah.
He totally pulls the look off.
He moves closer to the bar—closer to me. My fingers tap, tap, tap on the slick surface as I watch him slide something under a napkin and push it my way. It stops when it touches my restless fingers.
“I’d love to dance with you, Alex.”
He’s changed the game.
I snap my eyes up from the napkin.
Tears?
For fuck’s sake. Why? They weren’t there before, but they are definitely there now. Gathering at the corners of his eyes like a pause in a parade. He stares straight through them, like he’s holding himself together by a thread, and I’m the one tugging it loose.
Calm on the outside, uncertainty just beneath.
I drag my eyes away from his tears and let them fall to his mouth, desperate to steady myself. To regain control.
Bad move.
He puckers his gold-glittered lips, and without thinking, I sweep my tongue over my own. Dry. Wanting.
And that’s when I know—I’m drowning.
“Figure it out?” he asks, turning to leave. It’s no longer a statement.
I catch his elbow. “Strawberry,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “I love strawberry.”
Which is so fucked up. I know.
He turns back around—and God fucking help me, it’s all I can do not to crash my mouth into his.
I glance over my shoulder. Clear.
So, without another thought, I slip my hand to the back of his neck, finger fucking those silky strands of dirty-blond hair. My gaze locks on his shimmery lips, and naturally, my hand follows.
I trail my fingers down the nape of his neck, across the curve of his jaw, skimming his flushed cheek before finally brushing over his pretty pout.
“Alex,” he whisper-speaks.
I press down lightly on his bottom lip, needing to feel his words rather than hear them.
His lips tremble beneath my touch.
Figure it out.
Figure it out.
Figure it the fuck out!
I figure, the more I think, the more I want to swim in those oceans of blue… and eat fucking strawberries.
I also figure I have a boyfriend. And his name is not Noah!
God fucking damn it!
It’s like he cast a damn spell over me. Voodoo or something. Hypnotizing me with those striking blue eyes. And those lips… don’t even get me started on those lips.
Nrgh.
This must be a dream. Could also be my imagination because I certainly am tired.
Yeah. Tired of pretending I don’t feel this.
Tired of trying to look away.
Tired of trying to figure this out—whatever this is.
Tired. Tired. Tired.
I run my thumb under his lip. “God, Noah. You’re so pretty.”
My fingers tremble as they leave his face, raking through my hair in a desperate attempt to pull myself together.
But my eyes stay locked on his. I can’t look away.
“Do you see the rain?” he asks.
What?
“Rain,” he repeats.
I heard him the first fucking time.
I blink and glance toward the windows. There’s nothing but neon lights bleeding into the sky.
Frustrated, I shut my eyes.
I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me—so open, so heartbreakingly innocent through a blur of blue-tinted tears. It’s making me uncomfortable.
And please… could his eyes get any bluer?
The only time I’ve ever seen that shade was at a photo shoot in the Gulf of Mexico.
Or—wait. Is it the Gulf of America now?
Fuck if I know.
In fact, fuck the person who renamed that beautiful body of water to begin with.
And fuck me—because I’m losing my goddamn mind!
I pop my eyes open.
He’s still staring.
I’m still stuck.
I struggle to look away. Fucking stage a war against myself.
But every effort is useless. Like swimming against a rip tide—I’m already under, already losing air.
And the worst part?
Some reckless part of me wants to drown in him.
I hate it.
Slowly, I lift my hand back to his face, my thumb brushing across his cheek. His skin is warm, a little damp from the tears, but still soft—still his.
There’s not a single thing I’d change about him. Not one.
He’s perfect.
Tears and all.
His hair slips through my fingers as I sweep it aside, fingertips resting lightly against his temple before tracing down the curve of his face to his mouth.
He puckers those glossy lips against the tips of my fingers, and I almost lose my mind.
Or what’s left of it anyway.
I drag my thumb across his soft, doughy pout, soaking in the feel of him. Telling myself this is it. The last time I’m ever going to touch him—so help me God.
He presses a gentle kiss into the pad of my thumb as if he just heard my thoughts, and I close my eyes, searching for a pocket in my brain to tuck this moment into.
And once I’ve found it…
I turn away.
Away from his pretty face.
Away from my pretty dancer.
Exhaling slowly, I run my palms down my thighs, like I’m trying to rub the guilt off my skin. It clings, though, thick and heavy.
I force my eyes open and look at the bar.
The napkin.
It’s still there.
White. Innocent. Waiting.
Fuck my life.
I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling.
One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three. Four.
I roll my shoulders.
Breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth.
Blink back the tears I swore I wouldn’t let fall.
Then I count out the number eleven and look back at the bar.
The napkin is still there.
But he’s not.
He’s gone.
My fingers fidget and flex.
Don’t do it.
I’m antsy. Agitated.
Do not do it.
I shift my weight, one hip to the other.
I’d love to dance with you, Alex.
Nrghhh!
I glance over my shoulder and see Elijah weaving his way back. His dark eyes are bright, happy, aimed directly at me.
He smiles.
Fucking smiles.
And it lights up his whole face.
His skin is damp, like he splashed water over his face and ran wet fingers through his hair. The effect is stunning.
Super sexy.
Latino-licious.
I return the smile and pivot back to the bar, back to the napkin, back to temptation.
I bite down on my knuckles. Hard.
Don’t. Do. It.
My hands go numb, so I shake them out, then slam my fist down on the bar. I can’t take it—not knowing.
Is it his number? Something about the rain? A picture? A message? What the hell did he leave me?
At the very last second, I give in.
I sweep the napkin aside.
Oh Noah.
Alex!” Elijah calls out, my simple name sounding so filthy and seductive as it rolls off his Spanish tongue.
Nervously, I lick my dry lips.
I need water.
And lip balm.
A bourbon.
With strawberries.
And a fucking prison cell to keep me from going to hell because there’s no doubt in my mind that’s where I’m headed.
I’d love to dance with you, Alex.
The words echo in my head as Elijah’s lips come crashing down on mine—right as I shove Noah’s keycard into my pocket.
Heat, guilt, plastic, lips… all colliding into one.
The hard plastic scrapes across my thigh, slicing into my conscience like a blade, sharp with guilt, as I hum into Elijah’s mouth.
He chuckles, breath hot and tangled in a mix of English and Spanish.
“Elijah.” I pant his name, barreling into his sexy words, removing my hand from my pocket and my mind from spiraling into temptation.
I reach for his water.
“Ah… almost forgot about the water.” He winks, tilting his head back just as my eyes catch the back of Noah’s sandy-blond hair and slender bare shoulder slipping through the crowd as if retreating behind a wall of rain.
Just disappears. Doesn’t even spare a glance back.
Breezes out of my life as easily as he breezed into it.
Goodbye, my pretty dancer.
“Ready to leave?” Elijah asks, offering me the rest of his water.
Pulling myself together, I swallow the last drops, tasting the faint flavor of bourbon and spice still clinging to the bottle’s rim.
And I feel so fucking guilty.
For failing to be strong.
For teetering on the edge of temptation.