Chapter 17 #2
“Angela,” I mutter back in greeting, taking a sip of my whiskey.
I don’t look towards her though, so focused on Whitney swishing her hips, and marveling at the way the light bounces off her shiny hair.
My irritation spikes when Angela steps in front of me, cutting off my line of view to the dark-haired Marilyn on the dance floor.
“You never texted or called after our date ended so abruptly.” Angela pouts, reaching up to run a hand along the collar of my white shirt.
“Sorry. Things have been hectic.” I speak, running a hand along my chin.
“Let’s reschedule.” I nearly slam my head against the bartop for speaking without thinking.
Why the fuck did I say that? I don’t want to reschedule any kind of date with Angela, I just want her to move so I can go back to being the loser that watches Whitney from afar.
Angela beams, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, and rather obviously working to push her breasts up in her bright-red cocktail dress. “Great! Um–did you want to dance?”
“I’m not a big dancer.” I reply as kindly as I can.
Her face scrunches. When I peek over her shoulder, I catch Whitney pushing through the crowd and out into one of the main halls.
She moves like the devil himself is hot on her heels–and the fact that she was smiling ear-to-ear a mere second ago tells me something isn’t right.
I pull from the bar and murmur a polite, “Excuse me.”
I don’t wait for Angela to respond, don’t acknowledge my less than gentlemanly attitude.
I make it to the exit, catching the tail end of Whitney’s green dress disappearing around a corner.
I quicken my steps, determined to find her before she’s gone entirely.
I turn around the bend, catching up to her before she can slip into a random door.
The bathrooms are in the other direction, so I know she’s not looking for that.
“Whitney,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Not in the mood, Wyatt." Her tone is snarky, and it grates against my nerves. "Angela might be in need of some company, so why not go bother her instead?” I grit my teeth, hand lashing out to grab her wrist. I rip open the door we’re in front of and shove us both through.
When it shuts, I spin her around and pin her until she’s stuck between me and the door.
“Are you jealous, Winnie?” I ask. I lean one hand against her head, letting my weight fall into it so I can dip to meet her eyes.
She tracks the movement but turns her head away so she’s not looking directly at me, but over my shoulder.
I refrain from moving to tug at her hair and redirect her attention back on me.
From unraveling it to see how many times I can wrap my fist around it.
“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” My voice is as thick as gravel as it escapes.
Whitney rubs her thighs together, and her body stills when she realizes how obvious it was.
How my eyes lowered to track the moment.
A pretty flush breaks onto her neck and creeps up her face.
Her nipples harden through the flimsy fabric of her satin dress.
She’s wearing heels, but it doesn’t give her any leverage with our height difference.
I grip her chin, forcing her to look at me.
Tequila and Whiskey. Whiskey and Tequila.
Our breaths mingle, and it’s so similar to the first night she let me touch her.
A newfound determination courses through my veins.
I brush my lips against hers and let the hand hanging at my side trail along green satin.
Her breath catches, but it’s me who speaks first. “Say the word. Say the word, and I’ll stop. ”
Stop what? I don’t know. But whatever she says next will determine exactly which way I take this.
I wait, but she doesn’t speak. Her eyes flicker, to below my belt, and any restraint I may have had left snaps.
I let loose a growl, tugging the fabric of her dress up.
Past her knees, up her thighs, and when it’s finally balled in my fist at her hip, I pause.
Because this fucking girl isn't wearing anything under her dress. She's completely bare. I groan, tipping my head back. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
She huffs a sexy laugh. “Have you seen this dress? Way too cute to ruin with panty lines.”
“I’m not complaining.” I bring my attention back down to her bare sex. I can’t stop myself from running a thumb over her slit. I clench my teeth at the wet, hot, feel of her. “Fuck. You’re soaked, baby.”
“Good observation,” she bites. But it’s breathy and desperate. I pinch her clit in retaliation, drawing a sweet whimper from her lips.
“Are you always this mouthy?” I ask, drawing lazy swirls along her folds. “Or is that reserved just for me?” I plunge a finger in, reveling in the way she instantly bucks against me, already begging for more. Fuck, if she is the death of me, this would be one hell of a way to go.
When she doesn’t answer me right away, I yank my hand out and land a light slap on her pussy. “Answer me, Whitney.”
“Yes!” She cries. “J-just for you.”
“That’s what I thought.” I sink two fingers in this time, and when she moans, I capture it with my mouth.
The hand gripping her chins trails down to her neck, fingers wrapping around the skin and slightly squeezing.
Her gasp sends a shock straight to my dick.
She arches, body tensing, and world shattering as she finally comes all over my hand.
When she comes down from her high, slumping against the wall, I pull the pocket square from my suit and clean her up.
I bend down to place a light kiss on her thigh.
When I turn to leave, to let her clean herself up or pull herself back into reality, she catches my wrists and shoots a pointed look at my crotch.
It’s my turn to huff a laugh as my eyes skim over the bust of her dress.
The fabric shifted with her movement, giving me a brief, unintended peek.
“Just do me a favor and fix your dress before going back out there, Winnie. I’d hate to kill a man on my brother’s big day. ”
I leave Whitney there, mouth gaping, cheeks flushed, and looking freshly fucked.