Chapter 38 #2
I debate it for a moment. I hardly trust myself when I’m sober, let alone intoxicated. But then Jamie never lets me—
His name has me clutching the neck of the bottle, chugging it down so quickly Harry laughs. “Whoa there, princess.”
I wipe my mouth with my wrist, handing it back to him. He glances at me sideways, that maddening grin softening just enough to make me forget myself.
“You look like you could use some more.” He hands me the bottle again, but instead of letting go, he holds it as I drink. He tips it higher. I struggle to chase it, a red stream dribbling down the corner of my mouth, running in a slow line down my chin and pooling at the hollow of my throat.
“Oops,” he mumbles drunkenly. The prick is as sober as they come. This was no accident. “I should clean that up.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I’ll be gentle,” he says, but the look in his eyes promises the opposite.
“Why are you like this?” I murmur.
The side of his lips tilts up. “Because it works on you.”
His hand touches my jaw, tilting my face up towards him. The pad of his thumb grazes the spill. He brings it to his mouth, pressing it between his lips. Then he draws back – not completely, just enough for me to gather the sense that this is wrong.
“I’m engaged,” I say, more to myself than to him.
“And I’m devastated …” His voice trails off as he leans in.
A splint of fear sends me still. The square-necked T-shirt I’m wearing is enough to cover the poker burn I desperately plastered with concealer, but the closer he gets, the stronger my heart races.
Before I can protest, his thumb is on my chin, angling my head up. And then his mouth is there, licking from the edge of my jaw to the curve of my throat. The tip of his tongue chases the wine, lips tracing my skin, following the path like it’s sacred.
My heart kicks into my ribs as he drags his mouth lower down my neck, where the spill disappears beneath the neckline. And then he kisses me there. My head tilts back against the bed, lips parted, heart in freefall.
His hand slides under the hem of my top, splaying over my ribs.
“Harr—”
“Say my name,” he murmurs against my skin. “I swear to God, Gigi …”
His mouth trails upward, every breath louder now. Harry’s palm finds my waist, holding me still, hovering just above where the wine was.
My hands move on their own, one closing round his knee and the other braced against the carpet for balance that doesn’t come. I want to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.
I really don’t think the engagement matters to him at all … because Harry lifts his gaze, staring at my mouth with such intensity I remember what it felt like when he used to kiss me.
For one fleeting moment, why doesn’t the idea seem so terrible? And wasn’t there a reason I wasn’t supposed to be considering this?
“I’m not going to kiss you,” he whispers. “Not while you’re still pretending that ring means something.”
I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe. I’m forced to tilt my head back into the foot of the mattress to meet his eye, and it’s a mistake. Because there’s a promise in it of things I won’t come back from.
“I’m not pretending.”
“Of course you’re not.”
My whole body is screaming for him, greedy and desperate. My hand twitches at my side like it remembers what his skin feels like. And his mouth … God, his mouth is right there.
“If the ring means something …” His voice is a breath against my neck. “Then why have you just spread your legs for me, princess?”
I freeze, and Harry grins slow, drawing back. Sure enough, my thighs are parted, his hand splayed against the floor mere inches away from where my traitorous body was inviting him closer.
His voice drops to a low growl. “I could feel the heat of your pussy without even touching you.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Poppy groans from the corner.
My face flushes red.
Harry pulls back slowly, his eyes flicking towards Poppy.
“I’m literally ten feet away.” She glares at us from behind her screen. “I can see you in the reflection of the window.”
Harry lifts both his hands in mock surrender. “We’re just cleaning up a spill.”
Poppy closes the laptop lid with a huff. “I’ll leave you guys to it. I’m going to sleep.”
My heart stops. Then stutters. Then starts again, faster.
Leave us to it?
Oh no. No. No. No. I do not trust myself alone with this man.
I scramble to my feet, almost tripping over myself. Harry leans back on his elbows, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I’m coming with you,” I say quickly.
Poppy shrugs, unbothered, and I duck sheepishly, leaving the room. Though a final look over my shoulder catches the end of Harry’s gaze trailing over my body as I exit.
Ten minutes later, I’m showering with the lights off, letting the water scald my skin, trying to wash off the memory of Harry’s touch, his voice still echoing.
“I could feel the heat of your pussy without even touching you.”
He’s across the hall, only a few feet and a couple of walls between us. And I feel him like gravity. Every step I take in the room, every second I pace, is haunted by the pull of him. I slip into the hotel robe, tie it tight, then pace some more. Like I’m waiting for something. A knock, maybe.
Then it happens. Once, strong.
I’m going to put an end to this right now and lay down the rules.
I charge for the door, throwing it open.
I halt.
He’s there, leaning against the doorframe in nothing but dark jogging bottoms that hang low on his waist, drawing my attention to the trail of dark hair that goes lower, lower—
I snap my head up. A smile tilts his lips.
His hair is damp. Chest bare. Tattoos half-lit by the hallway sconces. His eyes drag over me, over the robe, over my bare legs, the way I’m holding the door like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling.
“Bedroom light’s still on, princess. That bed not soft enough without me in it?”
He so close I have to tilt my chin to hold his gaze. He leans in, closer than he should. I smell all of him – the leather, the mint. Harry could kiss me right now. I’d let him. I’d let him ruin me.
I look away. My pulse is a traitor.
He reaches out. His knuckles graze my jaw, lingering there.
“You’re marrying someone else,” he says, tilting my face back. “You let him put a ring on you, you let him touch you, yet you still look at me like you want me to ruin you. Admit it,” he says, like he already knows the answer.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet …” His hand follows the curve of my waist. “You haven’t moved.”
I don’t. Because I can’t. Because I want to climb him like a tree.
“Touch me again,” I breathe, “and I’ll shoot you before we land back in London.”
He laughs – really laughs – and it’s devastating, full of mischief and memory.
“You sound so sweet when you lie,” he murmurs, leaning in. “Almost makes me want to let you.”
His fingers trail inwards from my hip, toying with the tie of the dressing gown. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t need to. He looks at me with that intoxicating confidence, as if he still owns me.
“You miss me.” He leans even closer, his breath at my ear. “Tell me how much.”
“No.”
He chuckles again, then his lips brush just beneath my jaw. Not a kiss, but the ghost of one.
“You’ll tell me eventually,” he says. “When you’re under me again and you’re too wrecked to pretend he even mattered.”