His blue eyes move between mine, his expression grows somber fast, and a knot forms in my throat, threatening to close it if I don’t find space to breathe. I try to pull free of his grasp, but he holds me tightly and my stomach caves.
“Stop,” he demands, his voice is low, strained yet strong.
“Stop what?”
He glares. “Fighting me.”
I scoff, angling my upper half as far back as he allows, which isn’t far.
That’s rich coming from him.
“You lied today.” He gauges me. “Tell me you did.”
“This is ridiculous.” I try to get free again, and his hold on me tightens.
He rubs my skin, massaging my muscles beneath the water. Waiting.
I glare, setting my drink down. “I didn’t lie.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t—”
“I said stop,” he snaps.
My stomach begins to turn, and I look away, but his hand lifts, gripping on to my chin and bringing it back so I’m looking at him.
My eyes meet his and my tongue presses against the roof of my mouth, my teeth clamping together to the point of pain. My breathing picks up and something outside of myself takes over. Rather than shoving off his chest, as I should do, my hands decide to glide along it, and while his pecs flex beneath my touch, he doesn’t push me away as I wish he would.
He’s like a mannequin, flawlessly shaped and cut, intended to draw maximum attraction, to create envy and desire with every sharp, refined angle. He’s soft and warm, has abs without flexing and his biceps fill the sleeves of his shirts to a T.
But his face...
My hands pause at the center of his chest, my fingers spanning out and pressing into his smooth skin.
His face is not one to grace the cover of a magazine; he’s too harshly handsome. Sharp, darkened angles and tortured eyes.
He’s more the unexpected stranger who lives in the deepest parts of your mind, only to appear in your dreams. The guy who vanishes when your fantasy-killing alarm clock rips you awake and you try to fall asleep again for a few extra minutes, just in case he comes back. But he doesn’t.
Because as dreams go, the guy within them is a figment of your imagination.
He’s raw but not real.
In reach, but untouchable.
Not even if you’re touching him now?
My eyes, reluctantly, pull from his chest, meeting his magnetic blues.
Something aches low in my abdomen, high in my chest, deep in my conscience.
“You’re human. You do want.” His palms wrap around my outer thighs. “And you do need.” He squeezes and whispers, “I’ve felt your need... just like you feel mine now.”
He lifts his hips, pressing them against me beneath the water and I swallow, staring. He’s hard beneath me.
The spa light illuminates half of his face while shadowing the other, making him appear dark and dangerous.
Like a bad decision.
Like trouble.
“Jameson,” he rasps, a note of desperation adding weight to my name, weight that wears within me.
He brings me closer, his lips now an inch from mine, and I hold my breath as his fingers glide into my hair, tightening.
I don’t know what he’s doing, but I like it and the sound that slips from me is proof.
He growls, and I swear he’s ready to take whatever he might want, but then his eyes squeeze shut, his muscles tensing.
He spins us, now hovering over me, the veins in his neck strained and angry, and then he’s leaping from the water.
He stomps away, but his friends are there, waiting, blocking his escape. One of each of their shoulders press into one of his, his chest facing away while theirs face me.
Talk about fighting something...
Beretta whispers something, and Ransom’s chin falls to his chest.
Slowly, he glances over his shoulder, and suddenly, all eyes are on me.
There’s a plea there, written along the three faces before me, but my headspace is fucked up and far from what’s necessary for my own good, so even if I know what they want from me... I don’t give it.
I climb from the hot tub, but instead of walking forward, I turn my back to them, head for my room, and quickly pull myself together. Throwing myself into my car, I pretend I don’t care if they’re still standing where I left them.
I head for the club for that last call I promised the girls, but I only make it five feet inside the door before I stop in my tracks.
Looking around, I note the enjoyment everyone seems to be reveling in.
They laugh and joke, drink and dance and why does none of it look appealing?
It should be, right? This is my world. I should like the things they like; do the things they do. Want the things they want.
My leg bounces where I stand and I try to find that sense of ease, the giddiness I’m witnessing, but it simply isn’t there.
Was it ever?
Annoyed with myself, I spin on my heels to leave, but jolt when I come face-to-face with Amy.
She tips her head, pulling her drink to her lips as her bloodshot eyes trace over every inch of me. She takes a small sip from her glass, her fingers coming up to cover her lips. “Leaving so soon, are we?”
“Hey, Amy?”
She straightens, a smirk playing at her pink lips. “Yes?”
“Fuck off.” I shove past her, thanking the bouncer at the door when he opens the rope for me to pass.
I step into the cooler air, taking a deep breath that does nothing to settle my mind.
I get to the curb, two spaces from where I parked and stop.
Leaning against my car with his head angled toward the curb and arms crossed over his chest is Ransom.
My heels click with another step forward and his head lifts, his eyes catching mine.
He pushes to his full height and I keep walking until the tips of my heels meet the toes of his sneakers.
Our eyes and bodies are aligned, and his hand lifts, pulling my hair from the high pony I put it in, in a rush.
It falls around my shoulders and his fingers bury into it.
His forehead falls to mine, and I close my eyes to get away from the strangled look in his.
He says nothing, but stands there, hanging on to me, and I don’t know why I let him. A hand meets mine, and I open my eyes to find Beretta.
He nudges my palm open, pulling my keys from my grip.
He nods, unlocks it, and Ransom leads me into the back seat as Beretta slips behind the wheel.
The top rolls back as a second engine roars and I turn my head to find Arsen has pulled up beside us.
He winks and slowly rolls forward.
Beretta pulls out behind him and off we go.
I don’t know what the hell is happening or why I go with their every move, but I do.
And I can’t bring myself to regret it.
At least... not yet.
Sequins and Satin and Diamond Studs, oh my.
Literally, the chaises are covered, the garment racks overflowing, and the seamstresses are working on overdrive to keep their smiles on their faces when, really, they’re wondering if they can get away with letting a pin slip and call it an accident.
“What about this one, can it be taken in, extended at the hem and the back twisted rather than crossed? Maybe even dyed a shade darker?” Amy holds a gown to her front, shifting from side to side.
“So basically, can the dress you’re holding be completely redesigned to create an entirely new one?” Jules snaps, swapping out the purple disaster in her hand for another.