Chapter 10
Cain
The club is too loud. Bodies pressed together on a dance floor that smells like sweat and expensive perfume.
Not my scene. Never has been.
So here I am. A glass of whiskey I’m barely drinking while Rose talks about quarterly projections.
"You’re not listening to me," she says, touching my arm.
"I’m listening."
"You’re staring at the door."
I am. I’ve been staring at the door since we walked in.
Not because I’m expecting anyone. Because I can’t stop thinking about him, at my desk, in my chair and on my bed.
I haven’t been able to look at my sheets the same way since last night.
Haven’t been able to close my eyes without seeing him there, arched over my pillow, hand between his legs, mouth open, hungry and mine.
"Cain." Rose snaps her fingers at me. "Earth to the man who just made another eight figures."
I blink, forcing a smile. "Sorry. Long week."
"You need to relax." She signals the bartender for another round. "You’ve been tense for months. When’s the last time you got laid?"
Last night. To the sound of my secretary saying my name.
"None of your business," I say.
She laughs and leans in. Starts talking about something who knows, I nod in the right places. Then I see him. At the far end of the bar. Grey.
Shirt open at the throat. Sleeves pushed up.
A drink in his hand, untouched. He’s watching me, not even pretending not to.
Of course he’s here. Of course he followed me.
He looks flushed, but his eyes are clear.
His posture is straight. He’s buzzed enough to be brave, and sober enough to know exactly what he’s doing.
Good. I’m not interested in men who fall into my bed because they’re too drunk to stand.
Rose notices my gaze.
"Is that the one who follows you around with his eyes? He's not very subtle." she asks.
Grey looks away as soon as our eyes meet. Takes a swallow from his drink. Fingers tight around the glass. He’s nervous, but he doesn’t leave.
I could ignore him. I don’t. I want him scared and honest. I want him to stop hiding in the shadows of my office and step into the light where I can see him.
I stand.
"Bathroom," I tell Rose.
"Alone?" she asks, teasing.
For now. I walk through the crowd. Past the bar. Past him but close enough that my arm brushes his. The bathroom is empty. White tile. Black sinks. A row of stalls with doors that don't quite close. I lean against the counter and wait.
One minute.
Two.
The door opens. Grey. He stops when he sees me. Hand still on the handle. Eyes wide.
"Close the door," I say.
He doesn't move.
"Close it, Grey." He pushes it shut. The latch clicks. The music fades to a muffled throb. We're alone.
He doesn't speak. Just stands there with his back against the door, watching me. Waiting. I don't speak either. I look at him. The flush on his cheeks from the alcohol. The way his hair is falling across his forehead, messier than at work, less controlled.
"You're staring," he says. His voice is rougher than usual. Is it the whiskey? Or something else entirely?
"You're worth staring at."
He blinks. Like he didn't expect me to say that. What did you expect, Grey? That I'd pretend not to see you? That I'd let you keep hiding?
"You've been watching me all night," I continue. "From across the room. Through the crowd. Like you were trying to memorize me."
His jaw tightens. "I wasn't, "
"You were." I push off the counter. Take a step toward him. "You've been watching me for months, Grey. In the office. On the street. In my apartment."
He flinches. There it is. The crack I've been waiting for.
"You know," he whispers.
"I know everything."
He should run. Should turn around, open the door, disappear into the crowd. He doesn't. He stays. Pressed against the door like it's the only thing holding him upright.
"Why didn't you stop me?" he asks.
"Because I didn't want to."
I take another step. Close enough to touch him now. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin.
"You're looking at me," I say, "like you want to live in my skin."
His breath catches. He doesn't deny it. Doesn't look away. Doesn't do anything except want. God, look at him. Look at what you've done to him. Look at what he's done to you.
"Tell me I'm wrong," I say.
He shakes his head. Just barely. A movement so small anyone else would miss it.