Chapter 17 Sadie
SEVENTEEN
SADIE
“Then hold on tight, Fosforito,” Quentin murmured, his voice pitched low enough to slide under her skin, promise and warning tangled together. His hands cinched tighter at her waist, dragging her flush against him until she could feel every breath he took, every flex of muscle beneath his shirt.
This was stupid, objectively and undeniably stupid. They were dancing in public, in front of people. Work people who had signed NDAs but still had eyeballs and functioning memories. And still, she had to keep whispering to herself that she did not like him.
Yes, he was stupid hot. And yeah, flirting with him was more addictive than binge-watching an entire season of your favorite show while eating ice cream straight from the tub at 2 a.m. But did she really want to bang the man who had emotionally suplexed her?
Apparently… yes. Yes, she did.
Her body had officially staged a coup, fired her brain, and handed the keys to her inner slut, who was now joyriding full throttle through the red flags.
She had to touch him. Tease him. Dance just a little too close.
Her lizard brain was fully on board, waving tiny pom-poms and chanting grind on him, grind on him.
Every brush of his hands through the fabric of her shirt felt like a brand. His touch was confident, grounding, like he wasn’t just dancing with her. He was commanding her nervous system. And she was letting him.
The way he looked at her didn’t help. Steady and smug as hell. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her and worse, like he liked watching it happen. Her knees softened, her mouth went dry, and her brain tried to reboot itself with something intelligent.
It failed. All it managed was: Touch him back. Maybe with your mouth.
Their bodies fell into rhythm so easily it felt unfair, it felt like muscle memory from a dream she hadn't known she'd had. Maybe in some other life, they’d done this a hundred times. Or maybe they were just that synced. That combustible.
He danced like few men fucked. With rhythm, heat, and full-body awareness. His touch never wandered aimlessly, it landed with purpose. Like he knew what made her body jolt, what made her breath stutter. Like he wanted to drive her insane and take his time doing it.
Then he spun her. His grip never loosened, and when she crashed back into him, it was like slamming into a wall of sin—broad chest, solid arms, pure male heat. Her breath caught as her breasts pressed flush to his chest, nipples aching at the contact, already too hard for her own sanity.
The corner of his mouth curved. He knew. The smug bastard knew.
“Not bad, sweetheart,” he drawled, his lips brushing her ear, voice thick and slow like molasses on bare skin. “You always this easy to handle?”
She turned her head just enough for their mouths to nearly touch, her breath catching as her hips rolled instinctively against his. “Only when the handler knows exactly what he’s doing.”
His mouth curved, dark and dangerous. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” he murmured, his hand sliding a fraction lower on her back. “And if you let me keep going, you won’t be walking straight after.”
Her laugh came out shaky, but it died the second his hand slid lower, skimming over the curve of her ass. His fingers brushed the seam of her jeans like he’d done it a hundred times before. Then his thigh slipped between hers, high and solid, pressing right where she ached for him.
He rocked into her, the hard muscle of his leg grinding against the heat between her thighs. Just enough pressure to ruin her a little. Her breath caught, a soft gasp slipping out before she could stop it.
“You good?” he asked, his mouth grazing her jaw, his voice all heat and wicked promise.
“No,” she whispered, hips shifting, chasing the friction. “Do it again.”
His chuckle was low and filthy, like it came from somewhere deep in his chest. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you?”
She dragged her nails down his chest, eyes dark with want. “You started it.”
He dipped her without warning, one arm locked around her back, guiding her into a deep arch until the world tilted and she was suspended entirely by him. The tips of her hair brushed the floor, and the rush of it made her gasp.
His right hand slid to the front of her jeans, fingers slipping just inside the waistband.
The backs of his knuckles dragged slowly over the bare skin above her underwear, heat flaring where he touched her.
He dipped lower for a heartbeat, close enough to make her ache, then curled his fist into the belt at the front of her jeans, knuckles biting in as he gripped hard.
He hauled her up by it.
The rough pull yanked her upright in one smooth motion, dragging her body flush into his like a struck match.
Her gasp cracked free, sharp and helpless, as her chest slammed against his, nipples brushing tight and aching over solid muscle.
Her thighs clenched instinctively around the heat of his leg still slotted between hers.
Her whole body lit up, wired for this moment, this tension, this pressure, him.
One hand slid to the small of her back, the other threading into her hair with a firm grip that tilted her head just how he wanted it. Her hands clutched at his shirt, wrinkling the fabric over his chest.
His mouth hovered over hers, so close she could taste the tequila-heat of his breath, the promise in it.
"One more look like that, sweetheart, and I’m dragging you out of here."
"Good," she whispered, leaning in. "I was starting to get bored anyway."
He let out a dark chuckle. "You won't be bored where I'm taking you."
His nose brushed hers. Her lips parted. And then the bastard spun her again. Her boots skidded, pulse skittering, but before she could curse him out, his hand was back, sliding up her spine, cupping the back of her neck, threading through her hair again, this time with a grip that said mine.
The song was ending, but her body didn’t get the memo.
Neither did Quentin. His hands stayed on her hips, holding her still, holding her close, heat pressed to heat, and everything that was still decent in her threatening to come undone.
Sadie tipped her head back, chest rising in shallow, needy pulls. She reached up slowly and tugged the brim of his cowboy hat down until their mouths were so close her lips brushed his with every syllable.
“Thanks for the dance, cowboy,” she whispered.
He stayed perfectly still. She flicked the brim, popped the hat free, and yanked it clean off his head with a smile.
His eyes darkened, jaw flexing. She put the hat onto her own head, tilting it at a cocky angle like it belonged there.
She spun on her heel and strutted toward the bar. Her hips swaying, confidence cranked up to fatal levels. She didn’t even need to glance back to know he was watching her. His gaze burned into her, heavy, practically burning.
"Hot diggity dog!" Devi practically howled, fanning herself with a bar napkin. "That was straight-up illegal levels of hot. Like, I need a cold shower and possibly a priest!"
She snatched Devi’s drink and took a long sip. "Shit, I need something stronger than this sad excuse for a margarita. Does this even have tequila in it, or did they just wave the bottle over the glass and pray?"
“You’re cracking, babe. You wanna climb that man like a jungle gym.”
"Never." Sadie rolled her eyes, though the smirk tugging at her lips said otherwise.
"Uh, sorry to break it to you, but that wasn’t just a casual two-step, sweetheart. That was foreplay with footwork. I’m pretty sure an elderly woman in the corner was clutching her pearls."
"Yeah, he's fun to play with," Sadie snorted, shaking her head. "But I don’t like that man as a person. And he’s famous." She practically spat the word out like it burned her tongue.
Except… he didn’t feel famous. Not when he was rolling up his sleeves to fix a broken step or cooking her dinner like it was second nature.
He was down-to-earth, annoyingly charming, and just normal.
All of this would be a hell of a lot easier if he were an actual, untouchable celebrity and not just Quentin.
"I don’t give a single glittery shit if he’s the actual King of England," Devi said, throwing her arms in the air. "You’re both single, hot, and practically sweating chemistry. I say climb him like a tree, plant your flag, and see God.”
Sadie snorted again, and the fact that she didn’t immediately deny it felt dangerously close to agreement.
Devi was, objectively, a terrible influence, but unfortunately she was also very right.
She was teetering on the edge of making a choice she would absolutely overthink later, and the scariest part was how close she was to not caring at all.
Reggie was still near the bar, talking to Avery, and blessedly had not mentioned the tiny, humiliating fact that she had matched with him on a dating app.
The longer she thought about it, the clearer it became that matching with him had been a spite-driven lapse in judgment, the kind you make when you are lying to yourself with impressive commitment.
Because the truth was loud and inconvenient and had Quentin’s face. She wanted him. Wanted him in a way that felt sharp and restless and wildly unhelpful. Tonight had taken that truth, wrapped it in neon, and shoved it directly in her face.
They had chemistry. This undeniable, pulse-racing chemistry. She didn’t like him, but, wow, did she want him.
There was only so much a girl could tolerate before she snapped. It didn't help that he was toying with her. Every smirk, every touch, every damn look felt like a carefully placed trap, baiting her closer, daring her to fall headfirst into whatever this was. And she wanted to despite everything.
If she stayed in this bar any longer, she was going to cross a line, and not gracefully. This was going to be a headline-worthy lapse in judgment, and she did not need witnesses.
"I need to get out of here before I jump him in a broom closet," she muttered, already backing away.
She offered the world’s fastest goodbyes, ordered a cab with the urgency of a woman fighting her own hormones, and bolted.
The cool night air hit her in the face as she stepped outside, doing its best to cool her off. But mostly it just made her aware of the fact that she was stone-cold sober, and still deeply, painfully horny.