Chapter 13
YOU WIN. I WANT YOU.
NOLAN
Rishi was already deep in flirtation mode—schmoozing a band of women by the glass railing as though he’s casting the next season of The Bachelor: Penthouse Edition.
I’d lost track of how many times he’d tried to loop me in, throwing out introductions. So far, he’s attempted to get me hooked up with at least two of them.
But my eyes aren’t on any of them.
They’re on someone else entirely.
Jackson, ever the smug little shit, had plenty to say before I sent him packing. He paused on his way out just long enough to toss over his shoulder, “So let me get this straight—you let her steal your pitch, and now you’re just… standing here, brooding over her?”
I ignored him.
Didn’t stop him from doubling down on his way out. “Damn, man. First Chloe, now this. You just gonna keep handing your shit over to people?”
That one nearly earned him a fist to the dick. I let it slide. Barely. Because…public.
And yeah, he’s not wrong. Here I am, doing exactly what he accused me of—watching a woman I have absolutely no business watching. Especially after she hijacked my moment with Asher Cross.
Rorie Adams.
She’s dancing like the night was built for her, wild, radiant. She’s in her element, hair flying, satin midnight-colored dress catching the light like it’s being paid to. She twirls under Jeremy’s arm, all teeth and laughter. This woman burns too bright and love it.
And I’m not the only one.
They’re lining up, buzzards in tuxes. One douchebag in particular swoops in like he invented charm, palm sliding too confidently across her waist, fingers suspended in that narrow space between flirtation and a harassment charge.
Another leans in—too close—the guy adjusts his cufflinks more than he listens, whispering words that make her throw her head back in a laugh that lands like a punch to my gut.
She’s working the room.
And I’m standing here, watching like a man who forgot how to move.
She laughs again. That laugh is a fucking weapon. Dazzling. Completely unearned by that guy. And a fucking problem. Because it makes my chest twist in ways I don’t appreciate.
I should be halfway across the city, licking my wounds and pretending this night never happened.
But instead, I’m still here. Leaning against this balcony. Watching her.
Those glacial blue eyes flick up.
Right at me.
It’s fast. A glance that barely lasts half a breath. Still hits like a body shot. Direct. Sharp. Right to the cock.
She knows I’m watching. She likes it.
Another guy moves in. Slower song. His hands drift to her hips. Rorie doesn’t stop him. That gaze of hers darts back to me, quick, and searing, checking if I’m still paying attention.
I am.
I hate that I am.
Draining the last of my drink, ice rattles in the glass as I swirl it once, jaw set hard. I signal the waitress for another.
So, Rorie thinks I’m nothing but a snake in her grass, strategically annihilating her client list.
Which, if we’re embracing metaphors—
I wouldn’t mind slithering through that particular terrain.
Still…
The way she looks at me—warily, boldly, like I might bite—makes me feel seen in a way that doesn’t come easy.
Yeah, I need to leave. Let her have this win. This stolen celebration.
Call it even. Walk away.
Then again, maybe she needs a reminder that the game isn’t over. Hell, it’s only getting interesting.
Rorie stumbles out of the crowd, breathless. Flushed cheeks. Kiss-damp lips. Hair a wreck, but gorgeous in its ruin.
Strands cling to her neck. She swipes them aside, scanning the patio.
Eyes lock on the drink in my hand. Not a word spoken. Just that look.
I offer it out.
She eyes the glass with suspicion, but there’s heat behind it.
“What’s that supposed to be?” She eyes me. “A peace offering?”
I shrug, gaze dragging over her. “More of a challenge.”
Her brow arches. And then, before I can blink, she plucks the glass from my fingers and tips it back. One smooth, unapologetic swallow.
Her throat works. Her spine stays straight. She doesn’t flinch.
Then—because she’s a vixen with a vendetta—her tongue darts out, deliberate and slow, catching the stray drop on her bottom lip like it’s her job to wreck me in high definition. She doesn’t rush it. No. She drags it out, gaze flickering up just enough to confirm what I already know.
She’s doing it on purpose.
And it’s working.
That’s it. That’s the moment everything in me locks up. Spine, breath, thoughts. She flipped some internal kill switch.
My dick hardens instantly, aching with so much pressure, it’s hard to breathe.
One lick. One look. Jesus. She’s not even touching me, and I’m already gone for this girl.
“You’re going to feel that tomorrow,” I warn.
She scoffs. “Please. I’ve had worse nights and still made it to a breakfast meeting looking like a damn vision.”
But I catch the micro-pause, the slight flutter in her lashes. Her hand clamps over her mouth. She’s about to lose it.
I lift one brow. Surprisingly, she recovers.
“You were saying?” She tosses her hair and shoves the glass at me like it’s beneath her.
I smirk, take a drink. “You are something else, Rorie Adams.”
“Fuck yeah, I am. And you’re not as clever as you think, Rhodes.”
“Sure I am.” I push off the railing. “Come with me.”
Her arms cross, suspicious. “Where?”
I tilt my head toward the lounge end of the patio. Lanterns glow across cushioned seating, illuminating everything in a haze of soft light and shadows. The air smells like melting citronella, and something sweet like mango juice left out in the heat.
“You trying to get me alone?” she asks, voice low, a little lazy, a little lethal. Like she’s sizing up a mark.
I shrug. “Figured I’d tempt fate.”
Her gaze traces a calculated path over me—not curious, not impressed, just weighing outcomes. Wonder what kind of worst-case scenarios are playing out in that brilliant brain of hers. Probably best she doesn’t know what’s playing out in mine.
Rorie’s lips curl. “Brave soul, risking going off with someone who fantasizes about your public downfall.”
Stepping closer, her perfume reaches me, jasmine and a darker note that’s going to haunt me later. “You fantasize about me, Adams?”
Her eyes flash, but I catch that tiny bit of awareness. It gives a man ideas.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says, smooth.
“Too late.” I let the words hang, rough around the edges. “Now I’m stuck picturing what that fantasy looks like.”
She arches a brow. “It ends with you humiliated in front of a live studio audience.”
We’re close enough I feel the warmth of her skin. “Am I naked in this humiliating fantasy of yours?”
She snorts, but her mouth twitches.
I don't let up.
“I guarantee, if I’m naked, the only thing getting ruined is your ability to think straight for the next week.”
Her breath stutters. Just for a second.
“And that,” I murmur, “would be very, very private.”
“Cocky son of a bitch.” Her tongue flicks out, wetting that pouty bottom lip. Then she turns and heads toward the lounge with a sway in her hips that makes my blood buzz.
And I follow.
Because I don’t know if I’m walking into seduction or sabotage.
But I’ve never wanted both more.
The moment we step away from the noise, the city purrs beneath us. Cars crawl along the avenues, neon signs flicker like heartbeat monitors against high-rise glass. The party still pulses behind us, but here, it’s different. Removed. Intimate.
Rorie drifts toward the edge of the terrace, resting her fingers on the wrought-iron railing.
The wind lifts her hair in soft waves, tugging loose strands across her cheekbone.
She tilts her head back, face tilted to the skyline.
She’s stealing this view and storing it somewhere only she’ll ever go.
I watch her longer than I probably should.
Not just because she’s beautiful. There’s something deeper with her. She’s all long lines and blue, fiery eyes, the kind of pretty that kicks you in the chest if you look too long. But it’s more than that.
She’s real. Untamed in a way Chloe never was. Chloe was a brandished feed. Rorie’s the live stream. She’s not trying to be watched—she just is. And that makes her impossible to look away from.
I track the way she lifts her hair off the back of her neck, exposing the slope of her shoulders, the edge of that black satin dress slipping just slightly lower with the movement. My cock stirs to life like it’s got its own set of eyes.
God help me.
It’s been days since Chloe detonated my life. Since I realized I was just a footnote in my own relationship. I should be dead inside. But standing here, watching Rorie, my body clearly didn’t get the memo.
Don’t mistake me.
I don’t want a relationship.
I don’t want intimacy.
But I want her.
And maybe it’s the altitude, or the residual bourbon still moonwalking through my bloodstream, but I need air.
With the soft click of loosening silk, I slide my tie free and slip it into my pocket.
My fingers move to the top buttons of my dress shirt, undo two, just enough to breathe.
I roll the sleeves up my forearms, one then the other, exposing skin and tendon and just enough muscle to draw attention if someone should perhaps be looking.
She’s looking.
Her eyes glance at my throat, down my chest, all the way to my forearms, and back again in that easy way that makes it feel accidental.
But it’s not.
I catch it.
And so does she.
Because when our eyes meet, there’s nothing accidental about the tension blooming between us.
I lift one brow. Just a fraction.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile. “Okay, Rhodes.” Her voice breaks through the fog in my head. “What’s the plan? You got me over here. What do you want?”
A loaded question if I’ve ever heard one.
“Just a drink,” I lie. “And a conversation.”
The truth:
I want your legs draped over my shoulders while I learn every one of your sounds.
I want your moans stitched into my skin.