Chapter 4 Sloane #3
I push his hand away and try not to think about the swell of disappointment that springs in my chest when his warmth fades from me, revealing a tear in my bodysuit. Now I understand the murder in his eyes.
“Jesus, fuck.” He tosses his head back and releases a string of low, angry curses before looking back at me and pointing at the passenger door. “Get. In. The. Car. Before I go back in there and tear that man apart with my bare hands.”
I swallow the snarky remark that pops into my mouth. Nothing in his tone suggests he’s in the mood for an argument, and for the first time—probably due to a fear of watching him get arrested—I fight against my need to antagonize him.
Without another word, I climb into the car and shut the door. Dominic is in the driver’s seat in a flash, peeling out of the parking lot before I can pull my seat belt on all the way. The force of his turn onto the busy street sends me flying into the console, and my elbow bumps his shoulder.
“Slow down, Nic!” Mal hisses from the back seat. “Are you trying to kill us?”
Glancing over at Dominic, I wonder if he should be driving. Mal and I both caught an Uber to the club, anticipating being too far gone to operate a vehicle. Of course, I feel relatively sober now. The shock of the last twenty minutes burned through every bit of alcohol I managed to consume.
It’s strange to me that Dominic would drive here knowing he was going to drink.
I saw him toss back at least three tumblers full of a dark liquid I could only assume was liquor.
Even if the surge of adrenaline from getting into a fight had cleared his head and steadied his motions, should he be driving us home?
I open my mouth to ask him but lose all train of thought when his slow, heavy gaze turns on me.
“I had three Jack and Cokes, minus the Jack.” He turns his attention back to the road like it’s completely normal for him to be reading my mind.
He wasn’t drinking.
That, I suddenly remember, is another by-product of his upbringing.
Satisfied we aren’t actually in danger of crashing, I decide to try and relax.
My head sinks into the buttery leather of the headrest, and Dominic’s spicy scent tickles my nose as my eyes fall shut.
The quiet hum of the engine lulls me into a state of relaxation.
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until I hear the low murmur of a voice in my ear.
“Sloane, wake up.”
My exhausted mind is struggling to leave the fuzzy confines of sleep.
A hand cradles my face, one thumb stroking over the line of my jaw.
It’s such a warm and gentle touch, I can’t stop myself from nuzzling into it.
My lips brush against rough skin, and a hiss rings out.
Like someone just sucked in a painful breath through their teeth.
The sound pulls my sleepy brain back into the realm of reality. My eyes pop open, and I find Dominic’s face a whisper from mine, worry creasing his brow as he studies me. His eyes rove over my features for a few seconds before he settles back in his seat and crosses his arms.
I look around, completely disoriented by the quiet in the car. “Where’s Mal?”
“I dropped her off twenty minutes ago,” he breathes, running a thumb over his bottom lip with his eyes still on me. “She asked me to text and let her know I got you home safely.”
One glance out of the windshield of his SUV tells me he’s done exactly that. Driven me home while I slept soundly in his front seat, and woke me up with gentle whispers and caresses that still have my skin tingling.
“Well.” I clear my throat, looking anywhere but him. “Thank you for the ride and—”
“Don’t mention it.” He cuts me off, saving me from the awkwardness of expressing my gratitude for his capacity to be violent on my behalf.
“Got it.” I grab my purse and pull my keys out. “I do appreciate it though.”
He nods but says nothing as I hop out of the car.
I’m acutely aware of his watchful gaze on me as I walk to my house.
When I glance over my shoulder, his dark figure is barely visible, obscured by a glare caused by the streetlight slicing across his vehicle.
I reach my door and wave awkwardly from inside before I close it, breathing a sigh of relief as I turn the lock and abandon my shoes by the front door.
My body is aching. The stress of the night pressing down on me until I feel ready to break.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I let them fall freely as I make my way to my bedroom and turn on the light.
Bright light illuminates the room, and I hear a faint squeaking of brakes ring out.
I pad over to the window and open the blinds just in time to see Dominic’s taillights as he drives down my street.
Surprised, I watch him drive away. He must have waited for me to get upstairs and turn on a light to make sure I was okay.
It’s such a kind, caring thing to do. Something you do when you want a person to know they’re safe and loved.
I’m not used to anyone doing things like that for me anymore. Not since Eric died.
In a moment of pure appreciation, I take my phone out of my purse and pull up his contact information. The message I send is short and does nothing to convey the riot of emotions coursing through me.
Sloane: I know you said don’t mention it, but I have to say it again. Thank you.
It isn’t until I am freshly showered, safely ensconced in my bed, and on the brink of sleep that it occurs to me he didn’t bother to text me back.
Doubt trickles through me. I can’t even be sure I have the right number for him, and I don’t remember the last time I had a reason to call or text him directly.
I flip over on my stomach and close my eyes, reminding myself no matter how grateful I am for what he did tonight or how my pulse flutters when I recall the feel of his skin on mine, Dominic Alexander is not my friend.
And the fact I’m not even sure I have the right number for him, even though we’ve known each other for years and share a slight obsession with people whose last names are Kent, proves it.