Chapter Thirteen #3
My blood went molten and every thought in my head winked out completely.
I reached for him, cupping his face with my hands, letting the coarse stubble scratch my palms. Dex’s eyes fell shut, letting out a jagged breath, and his arm slipped around my waist, dragging me against him.
His touch burned through my shirt. I was on fire, surely.
Our noses brushed. I couldn’t breathe.
I lost every ounce of self-control in my body and pulled his face the rest of the way.
His lips and mine touched, just barely; it couldn’t be considered a kiss, but electricity pulsed through my live-wire veins, solar flares popping in my lips, and where his beard tickled my chin, and my lower back where his fingers dug in like he still had one last shred of the self-control I’d lost. Showoff.
I pushed up on my toes, pressing harder, and his mouth tipped open for me, that first real taste pitching me down a rabbit hole.
The elevator might as well have come crashing down—it was world-bending, the pressure of him against me, the slide of his tongue, the delicious scrape of his stubble, the lingering taste of strawberry.
He pinned me against the wall, a low, desperate groan coming from his throat.
And I was there, too, grabbing at him, gasping into his mouth as a rough hand slid up my shirt and drew across the underside of my breast, tantalizingly slow.
“Fuck,” he rasped against my mouth, and pulled away slightly, skating his lips across my jaw, down to my neck. His hand shifted, thumb brushing over my nipple, and I arched into him, so wildly satisfied that he’d flown past my expectations already.
He bared his teeth against my neck and I dropped my fingers to his shoulders, nails digging in through his T-shirt.
“Fuck,” he said again. Keeping one hand working over my breast, Dex slid the other down over my ass to my thigh, below the hem of my pajama shorts.
His fingers curled around and hiked my leg up, and I nearly blacked out at the feeling of our hips gnashing, him hard grinding against the blinding pressure between my legs.
He moaned into my neck, shifting away and into me again.
My head fell against the metal, fingers so tight against his shoulders, they might bruise. I was close already.
His mouth returned to mine, a short taste before moving in deeper, slower, the sharp scrape of his chin stoking the fire as his hips ground against mine again, harder.
I moved my hips in tandem, desperate for more.
There was so little fabric between us, I could almost feel everything.
I wanted it all. Wanted his skin against mine, him inside me, impossibly close, closer than any upright position would allow.
He shifted, hand flexing against my leg as he angled me closer, and I dragged my hands down to his hips to show him exactly what I needed. We panted into each other’s mouths, unable to keep up the kiss when this felt so fucking good.
The elevator chimed, cutting into the breathy silence, and the doors slid open. Dex was off me in a flash. I blinked several times, dazed, unable to return the smile of the drunk man stumbling into the elevator from the lobby. Apparently, we’d missed our stop.
“Heyo,” the man said gruffly, eyes sliding between us. “Good nights all around, yeah?”
Dex cleared his throat and hit the button for our floor again. I brushed my fingers over my beestung lips; the buzz remained. I looked at Dex, but he avoided my eyes.
When we finally stepped onto our floor, I stole another glance at Dex. He still wouldn’t look my way, fists clenched at his sides. Her name flashed in the space between us.
Catalina.
We were on our way to hand deliver a love letter written by a man who couldn’t even talk about her and I was dry humping him in an elevator.
I was going to hell, for sure. But Dex was right there with me—with all the compliments and the soft smiles and the sweet words, he was every bit as much to blame.
We wanted each other. We gave in. That had to mean he wasn’t pining for her, right? Or was I simply a doomed optimist?
Dex slowed as we approached our rooms, his directly across from mine. He turned to me, allowing an unfiltered look of his bitten lips, his unkempt hair made messier by my fingers. “Violet,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. No more Vi.
“It’s cool,” I blurted, throwing on a trusty fake smile, but it felt wrong. I never realized how unabashedly real I’d been with Dex until now.
He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced down the hall. “I don’t want you to think—”
“I’m not thinking!” I stepped away from him. “There could not be any less thinking in this building tonight.”
“Violet—”
“It’s fine. It’s the curse of the strawberry margarita. Mistakes are made. We pretend it never happened in the morning.”
For a horrifying five seconds, I hoped he would protest. Tell me it wasn’t a mistake, he couldn’t pretend, that it felt as monumental to him as it did for me.
There was something here, there had to be.
But of course he didn’t argue. He had someone we were on our way to, who I’d vowed to help him reconcile with.
My eyes stung. “It never happened,” I added softly.
Dex nodded stiffly. “It’s better this way.”
“Cool, yeah. Agreed.” I fumbled for my room key, turning my back to him. “Well, good night.”
I didn’t give him a chance to respond.
It was better that way.