Chapter 8 Sloane
Sloane
Now
I must be in an alternate universe. Somewhere between leaving my house this morning, after another night of inappropriate dreams featuring Dominic, and exiting the boardroom a few minutes ago, I must have fallen into a black hole and been transported to another reality.
That’s the only thing that can explain my continued participation in this exchange with him.
Letting him brand me with his touch again when I still haven’t fully recovered from the last time he touched me.
Answering his ridiculous questions about my well-being.
Telling him about my sad plans to eat lunch at my desk alone.
And worst of all, seriously considering his random offer to share a meal that doesn’t include Mama or Mal.
I tilt my head to the side, a little too aware of his darkened gaze on my mouth where I’m still biting my lip.
Releasing the flesh from my teeth, I struggle for an answer.
Part of me wants to say no—it only seems fair to turn down the man who made a point of ignoring me on two different fronts when all I did was thank him—but another part of me, the one that’s developed a slight obsession with the Dominic from Saturday night, is screaming yes at the top of its lungs.
“Fine.” I shrug, attempting to appear indifferent. “But you’re buying.”
If he’s surprised I accepted his offer, Dominic doesn’t let it show.
Instead, he smiles at me before gesturing for me to lead us down the hallway.
My steps feel shaky as the weight of his curved lips settles like a brick in the pit of my stomach.
I can’t recall a single instance in which the man has directed a smile at me. Not once in the time I’ve known him.
Before Saturday, you couldn’t recall a time when he touched you either. And now he’s made a habit out of it.
As if on cue, Dominic’s hand presses into my lower back, steadying my wobbly stride.
I’m slightly annoyed that something as simple as his smile can impact my ability to walk, but the feeling is quickly wiped out by the hum of awareness dancing up my spine, radiating from the warmth of his hand that I shouldn’t be able to feel through layers of clothing.
Moments later, we’re stepping out into the humid August air, and I’m massively regretting my choice of outfits.
All black had felt like a good idea this morning when I was standing in my closet looking for a clothing option that would put some much-needed space between me and the world, but now I’m close to melting out of my skin.
I pause in the middle of the parking lot and slip out of my jacket.
Dominic stops beside me, releasing me from his hold for a moment and then settling his palm against the silk of my camisole when the blazer is gone.
I toss it over my arm and glance at him. “Awfully quiet there, Alexander. The voices in your head aren’t giving you too much trouble, are they?”
Amusement flickers in his gaze, but he says nothing as he pulls out his keys and unlocks the doors of his SUV, ushering me over to the passenger side and opening the door.
I pause, realizing too late he intends to drive us to lunch.
Memories of the last time we were alone in his car flood me.
His gentle murmurs, the soothing caress of his fingers on my skin.
The embarrassing way I nuzzled into him like a cat in heat.
Dominic’s dark eyes are dancing with humor as he assesses me.
“Do I need to threaten to physically place you in my car again?”
“If you do, I’ll scream bloody murder.”
“It’s adorable that you think you’d be able to get a word out before your ass hits the seat.”
When I don’t move, he releases a low growl and swoops down, lifting me off the ground with ease.
His large hands grip my waist securely, but his touch is gentle as he twists to place me in the seat and slams the door.
Suddenly, I’m drowning in a mixture of his scent—warm, spicy, and inherently male—and buttery leather.
Briefly, I consider hopping out and making the short trek to my car, but images of him hauling me back like the caveman he apparently is stop me.
The last thing I want to do is make a scene in the parking lot.
So when he finally opens his door, flexing his fingers like they’re injured, I fix him with a withering glare.
One that would be enough to make any one of the contractors I’ve worked with before cry, but Dominic doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, he reaches over and pulls the seat belt across my chest, inadvertently brushing my breasts as he does, and I suck in a breath, refusing to acknowledge the tightening of my nipples at the small amount of friction or the wave of guilt and self-loathing that follows.
It’s a feeling I’m all too familiar with now that I’ve spent the past few nights dreaming of Dominic doing things to me I shouldn’t be associating with my husband’s best friend.
It doesn’t help that a lot of those dreams start with me in this very seat. Letting him snake those large hands up my skirt, push my panties to the side, and sink one thick finger into my soaking wet core while he swallows my moans with his lips.
I try to slap his hand away. “I know how to put on my seat belt.”
“That’s funny.” He chuckles but continues his ministrations. “Up until now, I didn’t think you had the slightest idea how to get into a car let alone secure yourself in one.”
The seat belt clicks into place, punctuating his last word. Dominic tugs on the belt to annoy me further and finally removes himself from my personal space. I breathe a sigh of relief.
“You’re an ass.”
Dominic makes quick work of his seat belt and starts the car before reversing out of the parking spot. “What can I say? You bring out the best in me.”
He handles the large SUV with ease. The long fingers of one hand grip the steering wheel while the other shifts the car into drive. Then we’re moving forward, the engine purring quietly as he turns onto the street.
I force myself to turn away from his hands and look out the window.
Lunch-hour traffic is in full swing. Cars are pouring into the street, and business professionals are spilling out of their high-rises in search of a quick meal before heading back to the office.
While I’m trapped in a car with a man who loves pissing me off.
“I’m starting to think I should have stuck with my original lunch plans.”
He releases an amused huff. “Missing your stapler and office plants already?”
“Not really. I just prefer the company of inanimate objects over you.”
“Better conversation?” he counters drily.
“Something like that. At least when they ignore me, I can attribute it to their inability to talk back.” Why the hell did I just say that?
Dominic looks at me, but I keep my eyes trained on the passing buildings as we weave in and out of traffic.
I can’t look at him, because I don’t want those pools of obsidian to mock me for being upset about an unanswered text message from someone I didn’t expect anything from a week ago.
While my brain was busy torturing me with explicit images of the man in my dreams, it didn’t seem the least bit concerned with finding a reasonable explanation for how bothered I am by his silence in real life.
Well, at least not one I can live with anyway.
He turns his attention back to the road. “I didn’t know how to respond.”
“Don’t tell me ‘you’re welcome’ are the only two words in the English language you don’t know how to say.”
I shift in my seat and hope the movement will dislodge the lump his confession has placed in my throat.
Something that feels an awful lot like relief springs in my chest, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m glad he doesn’t hate me enough to leave me on read when I’m trying to be nice or because my message shocked him enough to keep him silent for four days.
We make a right down a familiar street, and I realize I haven’t even asked where we are going for lunch.
“Three words.”
I drag my gaze back to him. “What?”
“You’re welcome. Technically, it’s three words.” He glances at me, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You are welcome.”
I give an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “Right, I guess you don’t know anything about contractions either.”
“Of course I do.” He makes a left turn, swinging the vehicle into the parking lot of my favorite café. “I also know being corrected makes you irritable.”
I nod my head, pretending to understand his logic. “And it’s easier to ignore or irritate me than it is to text me back or acknowledge my presence. Got it.”
He puts the car in park, and my gaze flicks down to his hands on the gearshift. When I look back up at him, he’s already watching me. Damn, if I’m going to make a habit of staring at the man, I need to learn how to be more covert. Good thing none of my plans involve doing that.
“Well.” He shuts off the engine. “If I had known it was going to mean so much to you, I would have texted you back immediately, but let’s not forget about the part where I told you not to thank me.”
And there it is. A sharp gaze cutting into me like a blade laced with poison. Anger swimming in their endless depths.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re mad at me for saying thank you?”
“Yes,” he states simply. Like it’s natural to be offended when someone thanks you.
“Please, tell me how that makes sense in your head.”
His gaze hardens, and I almost regret letting the words slip past my lips. I don’t know if I can take another second of him looking at me like I’ve asked him for something far more insidious than an explanation.
“You’re an intelligent woman, Sloane. Do you need me to spell it out for you?”
“Yes. It would be extremely helpful, since I’m not in the habit of reading minds.” A ball of frustration expands in my chest when amusement creeps into his otherwise dark expression. My hands itch with the urge to wipe the look right off of his face.