Chapter 21 #2
Martha moved on to the last two dates of the night, and once everyone had stopped looking at her, Allison finally let her eyes search for Wells in the crowd.
He was speaking to Jessica, his waitress. He gave her a thumbs-up and a high five as they talked.
Her mouth dropped open.
Oh my god. He planted her.
The degenerate conman.
Wells walked out into the lobby of the building.
Allison scooted her chair back. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
Olivia nodded noncommittally as they all cheered for Gerald, a tiny man in a bowtie.
Allison stalked after Wells. She was going to throttle him.
Or make out with him.
Either? Both?
It had been a week since they’d last had sex at Bloom, and frankly, she was just really, really horny.
Stalking over to the lobby doors, she pushed them open to find Wells staring up at the sky in the cold March night.
“You planted her,” Allison said, marching toward him.
“Thank you for your generous donation,” Wells said with a slow, knowing smile.
“You were conning everybody,” she said, pointing back toward the room. “I saw you talking to Jessica.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wells said with a shrug that didn’t look innocent at all.
“Oh, I know that look,” she said, slapping his chest. “Are you defrauding people, counselor?”
The door opened behind them, and two members of the waitstaff walked out.
Wells put his hand on the small of Allison’s back and led her around the corner of the building. “You accusing me of cheating for a good cause?”
“Yes, I am.”
He leaned in closer, eyes on her lips. “No one made you bid, Styles.”
“Well—” she sputtered, taking a step back to think.
He backed her against the brick wall of the alley, his eyes wolfish with hunger. “You could have let the beautiful woman on the right side of the hall win.”
Beautiful?
“No, I couldn’t have,” she said, grinding her teeth.
The territorial feelings coursing through her body were new.
She didn’t like them.
“God, I love it when you’re mad,” he said, his eyes never leaving her lips.
Allison’s chest rose and fell hard with every unspoken feeling she’d shoved down inside. He smelled so fucking good.
She hated that she didn’t have a reason to kiss him anymore.
Maybe that was what she was mad about.
A hand landed on her waist, and he tugged her around the corner of the L-shaped alley, out of view. “I think you might be”—he hovered over her lips—“just a little jealous.”
He shrugged his jacket off.
“It’s just like you, that’s all,” she said, bewildered as he wrapped the warm jacket around her bare shoulders. She stifled a shudder at how good the warm fabric felt.
“What’s like me?” he said, taking a step closer to her, leaning over her with a hand pressed against the brick wall, forcing her to tilt her chin up to stare at him.
“Not playing by the rules.”
His thumb came to her chin, and he stared at her lips for a breathless moment. “That’s how I get what I want.” His thumb traced the curve of her bottom lip.
Her entire core ached at that subtle motion. Her hands were fisted in his tux shirt. When had they gotten there?
“What do you want?” she murmured as he brushed a kiss over her jaw, the stubble of his five-o’clock shadow scraping against her jawline.
“You, mad as hell,” he murmured against her skin. “Showing everyone you like me.”
Each brush of his lips sawed away at the cord of her resolve, bits of twine springing into the air as the little bit she had left was held taut, pinned to this brick wall.
“Who was that shirtless text for?” she said, wanting him to say it.
“Admit it: you like me,” he said, rolling her earlobe between his teeth.
She whimpered, arching into him. Her hands squeezed his waist, pulled at his shirt. She needed to feel his chest. “Don’t like you. I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he whispered. His free hand moved up the high slit of her dress, squeezed her thigh, her ass.
Her hands slid under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the thick hair trailing down his abs.
“Yes, I do.” She pressed her face against his throat, inhaling the scent she’d missed, licking him right there. “Hate you so much.”
He nuzzled her nose with his, kissed the corner of her mouth. “No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t,” she whispered as she pulled him to her for a bruising kiss.
They both moaned, and the sound of it landed somewhere between her thighs.
He moaned for me.
His kisses were hungry, and she raked her teeth across his bottom lip. Their tongues tangled mindlessly as their kisses became gulping, scraping.
She scraped and grappled at his shirt, his hair. His muscles and softness.
He pushed her skirt up higher and lifted her leg onto his hip as he leaned into her ear. “That text was for you, Styles. Only you.”
Twin flames of irritation and victory flared in her as she kissed him deeper, sliding her mouth over his again and again.
Why hadn’t they done this every day for the last two months?
“Wells,” she moaned, not even knowing what she was asking for.
He pressed her against the brick wall, and she squeezed her leg around him tighter. His cock was hard against her thigh. She ran her fingers under his belt line, teasing his hip. His moan vibrated into her mouth as he took and took what he wanted.
“Oh, sorry—” a surprised voice said beside them. They ripped away from each other, looking up. A wide-eyed teenage server holding a bag of trash looked away, tossing it in the bin before running back to the community center.
“So, does tomorrow work for the Frost Fest?” he said, tucking in his shirt.
“Obviously, I’m not doing that,” she said, picking up his jacket that had fallen to the ground and handing it to him on one outstretched finger.
This was already too confusing as it was.
His jaw ticked as he pulled down her skirt. “Obviously, you are.” He slid his jacket on and straightened his tie.
They walked out of the alley. “You will go on the charity date that you demanded to win,” he murmured low, a hand on her back, as people flooded out of the doors of the meeting hall.
“You will walk with me in public so everyone knows you can’t help but like me.
You will dance with me and let me buy you a Frost Fest hot chocolate, or”—the warmth of his hand left her back—“I will tell all these nice people how you couldn’t wait ten minutes after winning my date before you were moaning my name. ”
Allison’s mouth fell open in outrage. “That is blackmail.”
“Correct.” He tugged at his cuffs and nodded, smiling proudly. “Tomorrow. Don’t be late,” he called over his shoulder as he walked inside.
Her mouth was still hanging open as a drunk Margie, Beulah, and Maria wobbled past her in good spirits.
“Hi, Allison, dear,” Maria said with a smile. “The flower arrangements were so pretty—oh no.”
The concern on the three women’s faces made Allison panic. “What?”
“You got an allergy or somethin’?” Margie said, the omnipresent cigarette hanging between her bright pink lips. They stared at Allison’s chest, and Margie turned to look at Allison’s back.
“Honey, you’ve got red marks all over you,” Maria said with concern.
Allison’s cheeks flamed. “Yep, just, um”—she backed away from them—“itchy material. Have a good night.”
She darted for the door, hoping like hell her friends wouldn’t put two and two together.