4. Chapter 4 #3
Thoughts about her legs—long and toned and currently hidden under silk—wrapped around my waist, her back arched, pussy soaking wet as I—
I run a hand through my hair, exhaling hard, and head back to my room.
Because this is a problem.
A significant, legally binding, rose-gold-dress-shaped problem I need to solve with a lawyer on Monday and absolutely not with any of the filthy things I'm currently thinking about.
The walk back to my suite is a blur.
Jacket off, cock hard enough to hammer nails, I pour a Scotch the second I’m inside.
I'm halfway through the dark liquor when the knock comes.
It takes two strides to the door and when I open it, my heart knocks beneath my ribs.
Dark-haired and irritatingly gorgeous Darcy Madison stands there.
Still in that sultry, shimmery dress. Her raven hair, which was pinned over one shoulder, is down now, cascading over her collarbone and toward her breasts.
She's holding something in her hand.
A jacket.
More specifically, my jacket—the bloodied Armani from last night.
She blinks up at me, hazel eyes hot enough to singe.
"The bartender gave this to me," she says. "A few hours ago. Said you left it at the bar after our... disagreement."
I look at the jacket, then at her, saying nothing.
"I thought maybe you left it there on purpose," she continues, something sharp in her voice. "Maybe you were too busy with Kayla to remember it. She seemed very interested at the bar that night. Very complimentary about her taste in jackets, as I recall."
Ah. There it is.
"I didn't spend the night with Kayla," I say.
"I didn't ask—"
"You implied."
"I was simply suggesting—"
"You were fishing."
Her golden eyes narrow. "I was not—"
"I didn't spend the night with Kayla," I repeat, slower, pulse racing beneath my skin.
"I didn't spend the night with anyone. I went to my room.
I poured a drink. I sat there thinking about the woman in the lavender dress who told me she had a situation seventy percent handled and somehow managed to get under my skin in the span of six minutes. "
She goes very still.
"And for the record," I continue, "I don't want Kayla. Haven't wanted Kayla. Apparently, I have a very specific type.” I take a step closer, body thrumming. “A type that includes dark hair and hazel eyes and a complete inability to take direction."
She stares. For a second, I wonder if she’ll slap me.
If I want her to.
She exhales slowly. Then she steps forward, rises up on her tiptoes…and kisses me.
The act itself is war.
Her hands go to my collar first—fingers curling into the fabric, pulling me down—then they're in my hair, nails scraping my scalp hard enough to sting.
She tastes like champagne and something sweet I can't identify, and instantly I pull her against me, one hand splayed across the small of her back, the other fisting in her hair.
She gasps against my mouth and I take advantage, deepening the kiss.
For all Darcy Madison’s frostiness, her heat is undeniable. The maid of honor’s lithe body melts like honey against mine.
All those curves I've been cataloging mold against me, the rose-gold silk doing nothing to hide how hard her nipples are or how much she wants this.
I can feel everything.
And so can she.
"Declan—" she breathes.
"You feel that?" I ask, low and rough, pressing my hips forward so there's no question what I'm referring to.
"That's what you've been doing to me for three fucking days. Walking around in those dresses. Looking at me like you can’t decide if you want to argue or fuck, and I haven't been able to decide which one I want more. "
"The truth," I continue, backing her up until her shoulders hit the doorframe with a soft thud, "I want both."
She makes a sound—part scoff, part gasp—as her hands tighten in my hair, pulling hard enough that my scalp burns.
Good.
I want her rough. I want her wild.
I want every bit of that fire she's been throwing at me.
My hand slides from her back to her hip, then lower, finding the slit in that goddamn dress and slipping beneath the silk to grip her bare thigh. Her bronzed skin is impossibly soft, and when my fingers dig in, she arches into me with a whimper that shoots straight to my erection.
The jacket—the bloodied Armani that started all of this—is still in her hand, somehow, caught between us.
I take it from her, dropping it to the ground.
Neither of us looks at where it falls.
"Last chance," I say, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes, my hand still high on her thigh, her leg hooked around me. "You can walk away. Go back to your room. We pretend this didn't happen. Monday, we fix the other thing, and none of this matters."
"Or?" she asks, breathless.
"Or you come inside," I say against her mouth. "You want to stop, you say stop. You want me to slow down, you say slow. You want more—"
"More," she gasps.
"—you ask nicely."
"I don't ask nicely for anything."
I smile against her neck. "You will tonight, Miss Madison."
She freezes against me for three full seconds—chest heaving, breaths deep, body suspended.
Then I feel her nod.
It’s all the answer I need.
Stepping back, I pull her with me into the darkened room.