CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BENNET
"Right this way, Mr. Sullivan." The bouncer at The War Keys opens the VIP entrance, and we move through it, Blaire's hand in mine, both of us playing the part for the cameras and the crowd pressing at the velvet rope.
"Please escort Mrs. Monroe to our table." I lean toward the waiter. "I'll join her shortly."
I let go of Blaire's hand, motion for her to follow him, and make my way to the men's room where I run cold water over a hand towel and press it against my face and neck until my pulse slows to something manageable.
I kissed her to fuck with her. To play it up for the cameras.
That's what I'm telling myself, because the alternative is admitting it had something to do with the way that dress hugs her body.
How I could tell with absolute certainty the moment her assistant opened that door that she wasn't wearing a bra, her nipples pebbled against the silky fabric.
How her ass moved just right against it when she walked.
I was so fucking angry at her for pulling yet another physical reaction out of me that when she asked where I was originally from; I wanted to punch the concrete all over again.
I wanted to scream into the rain and get the hell away from Blaire Alexander and every single thing she does to me without even trying.
When I make my way back to our table, Blaire isn't there.
The club is packed — bodies between the bars and the dance floor, noise everywhere.
I lean over the railing and scan the room below until I find her at the downstairs bar.
There's a man leaning into her ear saying something that makes her laugh, and his hand is resting on her hip like it belongs there.
"The fuck?"
The rational side of my brain says take a seat, wait for her to come back upstairs; she's a grown woman, and this is a public place, and none of this is real, anyway.
The other side — the side that apparently had a jealous bomb detonated in it somewhere between the car and the men's room — says fuck that.
She's mine tonight and he's touching what's mine, which is completely irrational and I am fully aware of that, and my body has already made the decision for me because in seconds, I've made my way downstairs and across the floor to the bar.
Blaire's back is to me, but that motherfucker with his hand on her hip sees me coming.
Sees that I have at least fifty pounds and six inches on him.
Sees whatever it is in my expression that must communicate exactly how willing I am to use every bit of that advantage, because he backs away with both hands raised before I've said a word.
Looking confused at his sudden retreat, Blaire turns and sees me walking up. She doesn't even have the decency to look guilty. Like she isn't here with me, like some man's hand wasn't just on her hip not five minutes after we walked through the door.
"What the fuck were you doing?" I lean into her ear, keeping my voice low enough for the noise of the club to swallow it, and guide her by the elbow back toward the stairs.
She snatches her arm away immediately and starts walking ahead of me, chin up, shoulders back — but instead of heading to our table, she veers toward the ladies' room.
As if I won't follow her in there.
Which is exactly what I do.
"What the hell?" She spins around the moment the door swings shut behind me, two women at the mirror doing a double take and deciding very quickly to finish up and leave. "You cannot be in here, Bennet. What is your problem?"
She crosses her arms over her chest, which does things to the neckline of that dress that I am choosing not to acknowledge.
"You're my problem. What were you doing letting that man put his hands on you?"
"That's your problem?" Her eyes go wide. "Wow. You can fuck completely off with that."
She moves to walk past me, and I step into her path, backing her gently but firmly against the wall. Not touching her. Just close enough that she has nowhere to go.
"Why were you letting him touch you?"
Stand down. Abort mission. What are you doing?
The blush starts at her chest, creeps up her neck, and floods her cheeks. Her breathing has shifted. Her nipples are visible against the silk of her dress, and I am having an extremely difficult time locating the part of my brain responsible for rational thought.
"I know him from Houston." Her voice is even despite the blush, which is impressive and irritating in equal measure. "His name is James. He's here on vacation with his husband. He's gay, Bennet. I wasn't flirting. I wouldn't blow the story like that and cause you or me more problems."
Right.
The story.
The fake girlfriend story that I agreed to and apparently forgot entirely the moment I saw another man's hand on her hip.
I step back and put distance between us. The air comes back into the room, and I become aware that we have an audience — three women who have been watching this entire interaction like dinner theater.
"I'll meet you at the table," I say, and walk out before I do something else that I can't explain.
The door swings shut behind me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
***
"Oh my GOD, I love this song!" Blaire grabs the railing and starts whipping her hair back and forth, watching the dance floor below with the unguarded enthusiasm of someone who has stopped performing for anyone.
I've done a decent job of keeping my distance since the bathroom incident a couple of hours ago. Decent being relative. I've been nursing the same glass of whiskey for the better part of an hour, watching her from the edge of the VIP couch like a man trying to talk himself off a ledge.
Blaire is on her third or fourth Long Island and just as many shots, and the professional composure she walked in with has been progressively replaced.
"I can't remember the last time I drank this much." She abandons the railing and drops down beside me instead of on her side of the couch. Again. "I feel so loosey goosey."
I have scooted to the absolute edge of the cushion. Every time she stands up, she comes back a little closer, like the couch is shrinking by degrees and neither of us is acknowledging it.
"Loosey goosey," I repeat.
"Loose." She nods seriously. "Like a goose."
I look at her. She looks back at me with clear-eyed earnestness, extremely committed to her point.
I nod and take another sip of my drink.
"You wanna know something?" she asks.
"No."
"I've never had whiskey before." She says it anyway, and then I watch in slow motion as she sticks two fingers into my glass and puts them in her mouth and sucks them dry. Her eyes never leave mine.
"Let's uh—" I shift in my seat and run through every unsexy thought I own. "Let's call it a night."
"Nooo. Please, Bennet. One more hour?" She presses her hands together.
Are you fucking kidding me right now?
She squeezes in closer and her breast presses against my arm, the distinctive feel of her hard nipple right there against my bicep like the universe has a personal vendetta against me. Her perfume hits next, which yet again has my head swimming with thoughts I have no business entertaining.
"I'll be a good girl. I'll be such a good girl."
Then her hand lands on my thigh, and I feel the immediate, traitorous response of my cock pressing against the fabric of my pants.
Absolutely not. We are not doing this.
"One more hour," I hear myself say.
Traitor. Absolute fucking traitor.
She leans over and kisses my jaw. "Thanks, Bennet. I'm having a really nice time."
Because you're three sheets to the wind and torturing me as a direct result.
"Sure."
"Can I get you two anything else?" The waiter pauses at our table.
"I'm good, thanks." I hold up my glass.
"Yes! I want something fruity. Ooh — a margarita. A peach margarita!" Blaire bounces in her seat like the decision is the best one she's ever made.
"I gotcha." The waiter types in the order and heads toward the stairs.
"You're such an amazing kisser, Bennet. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"No."
"Also, a man of very few words unless you're angry." She tilts her head. "Should I poke the bear? Maybe you'll have more to say." Then she starts poking me. My chest, my stomach, my arms, inside my ear.
"Stop it." I swat her hand away.
She giggles. Actually giggles.
I don't need this side of her. The one that reminds me of who I once thought she was — warm and unguarded and completely without pretense. The goofy girl from the library who put stars and hearts in the margins of her notes.
I need her to stay the villain. She is making that very difficult.
We both notice the camera flash at the same time — a lens pointed in our direction from across the room. The paparazzi presence has doubled in the last twenty minutes since three members of the K-pop group AURIX arrived and the whole energy of the club shifted.
"Time to work," Blaire says, throwing my exact words back at me with a smile that knows exactly what it's doing.
Then she climbs onto my lap and straddles my hips, lowering herself down, and every coherent thought I have exits my body simultaneously.
"Mmm." She tilts her head, looking down at me with those eyes. "Am I looking fuckable yet, Mr. Sullivan?"
Then she crashes her mouth to mine before I can say a single word.
This is my karma. I used those words to diminish her, and now she's weaponized them back at me, and I am completely, thoroughly, by the balls.
She's writhing against me now, grinding against the hard length in my pants with a focused determination that is making me simultaneously furious and out of my mind. My hands find her waist and grip before my brain has approved the decision, pulling her down harder against me.
The deep groan she lets out nearly stops my heart.
"Fuck, Blaire." I breathe it against her mouth.
"Think about the headlines in the morning." Her lips brush mine as she speaks, teasing. "If I come right here in this club on your lap, Bennet." She rolls her hips again. "Would that make me a good girl? I bet I'd be very good at that."
She takes my bottom lip between her teeth and bites down hard, then sucks it into her mouth, and I feel it from my spine to my toes.
I am going to combust.
I look over her shoulder. Multiple lenses angled in our direction, red lights blinking.
"You're so hard, Bennet." She breathes against my jaw. "I guess I am fuckable after all."
She starts grinding harder. Faster. The friction sends electricity shooting from the back of my neck all the way to my curled toes, and my hands move to her thighs, gripping hard.
"Yes — oh god. Oh god—" She bites down on her lower lip, her eyes squeeze shut, and she moans, her body trembling right on the edge.
My skin tingles with awareness, and my legs start to go numb as my climax tugs on my spine. I’m going to come in my pants and have photographic evidence of it.
Fluorescent lights.
Laughter.
Rain.
"Stop." I grab her hips and hold them still. She looks down at me, flushed and breathing hard, smirking in a way that should make me angry, and does, and also does something else entirely.
I lift Blaire to her feet and hold her by the shoulders, keeping her steady until I'm sure her legs are going to cooperate.
"You good?"
She sways for a moment, then nods slowly. "I think so."
I lead her through the club without another word, one hand at her back, navigating through the crowd and out the doors into the night air. I open the car door and wait while she gets in, making sure she's settled before I lean down to the driver.
"Get her home and safely into her apartment." I keep my voice level. "Not to the lobby. Her apartment." I hold his gaze. "If anything happens to her between here and that door, you'll never walk again."
"Yes, of course, Mr. Sullivan."
I close the door.
Through the window I catch Blaire's expression — somewhere between surprise and hatred that I don't want to look at too closely.
I watch the car pull away from the curb and disappear into the city.
Fucking Blaire Alexander.