Manhattan wasn’t made for the weak.
The winter months will tell you so. If not, the residents will.
It’s the only reason why when Heath offers me a ride home, I take it. Because Stubborn Spice doesn’t need another warning label printed on her forehead right now.
Not on a day like today.
I’m too close to becoming a jaded shell of my former self, and at this rate, I’ll need to paint a smile on my face for the office, my already hard head becoming even more frigid as the calendar slides into desolate, dreary December.
This used to be my favorite season. Christmas.
The tourist-filled streets outside Heath’s town car’s tinted window seem peaceful somehow—a quiet chaos, and as I watch a fresh wave of snow flurries pave the city streets, I feel a sense of longing, a tiny mourning for the memory of the woman I used to be.
A woman I haven’t been in a long time.
I close my eyes, inhaling as the city passes by—block by block. Heath’s call to his personal car service inside the closing bar only reminded me of the river between us, the gaping rift.
Heirs to rich grandfathers’ fortunes didn’t pair with low-level lawyers, no matter how successful the lawyers seemed.
The Sparrows are a family worthy of Manhattan royalty. Or so the SparrowHead building reminded me every time I stepped inside.
Even sitting inside his rented leather palace sitting on four wheels, I feel small inside the summoned town car, dread pulling my gaze to the safer choice of the driver instead of the New York City prince beside me, the anointed future king of the Sparrow family castle. The peaceful car ride rocks me into a silent state, and with the cheap tequila still running through my system, I let the liquor lift me off into memories I’d almost forgotten. Memories I wish I could.
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until a caress across my face shocks me back awake, my eyes shooting open only to find themselves staring into a pair of dark walnut ones, the lashes surrounding them surprisingly thick and full.
The dark brown brows give him away immediately. I straighten.
Heath.
He pulls back from me, sliding farther along the seat, his brows furrowed. He drops his hand.
“Fuck, I thought you’d slipped into a coma for a second,” he exhales. “You fell asleep. Granted… I’d have done so myself, if this tequila wasn’t carving a hole into my stomach. I’m starving,” he declares.
I finally fully open my eyes. I nod slowly. “Me too.” I glance out the window, taking note of the white blanket now starting to cover the street. “Where are we?”
Heath levels me with a stare. “Your place.”
I sit straighter, staring out the slightly frosted window, my body filled with a sudden awareness. My eyes meet the staircase in front of my building, my heart beat picking up pace.
“How do you know where I live?” I ask.
Heath never stops looking at me. “I found your address in your wallet.”
I scoff. “Thanks for the privacy.”
“When have you ever known me to respect anyone’s?” He grins, his eyes growing lively. “I only looked at the driver’s license, if that helps.”
My tense body deflates. “It does, actually. Thank you.”
His face reveals nothing, his stare suddenly blank. “You’re welcome. I’d like to go on record to say I know nothing about the condom stashed in the side pocket of your purse. Or the Brazilian wax appointment written on the back of your business card.” His stare burns into mine. “I decided to stop searching when I found the license, of course, but Mr. Tequila had other plans. And he won the wager between the two of us.”
“What wager was that?” I glower. “That you’re a raging dick?”
“Close,” he utters, unblinkingly. “The wager that I can’t keep my hands off anything that has to do with you. That I’m struggling like hell to do it right now. And I gotta tell you, Keats…” He hesitates, the car growing hot under his steady stare, the backseat shrinking around us. He raises the partition that separates from the driver, making the space feel small. His voice is a soft rasp. “It’s been too long since we’ve talked—Hell, touched…” He trails off, his stare sinking to my lips. “And I’m too drunk to pretend I don’t want to.”
His thumb follows the line of his eyes. Directly to my lips.
With one hand, he traces the line of my lipstick-painted mouth, circling its small curves. His fingers take a detailed tour along with his heated gaze.
I want to tell him to take his hands off me. To let me out of the car. To let me go.
But my Missus Tequila is just as stubborn as his Mister, and she surprises me by pressing a kiss to the edge of Heath’s stroking thumb, letting the skin slip slowly between her lips—skin which she sucks lightly—lovingly, her touch just as tender as his own.
The touch turns hungry—ravenous. Heath lowers his hand to my jaw, cupping my face with one palm. He stares into my eyes, asking permission, and when I say nothing, he lowers his face to mine, planting his mouth where his hand just lay… and kisses me hard enough to see stars.
I take the deep breath I didn’t know I needed.
One. Two.
Chapter Eighteen
HEATH
I kiss her.
I reach for her, needing to feel all her fucking warmth. With a push of my fears to the side, I replace them with a lust that only Violet can ignite, letting my body show all the need I’ve bottled up.
I bite down a groan.
Violet echoes the noise, with a tiny whimper of her own, a frustrated sound that echoes exactly what I feel.
“Heath,” she mutters as I shower her lush mouth with kisses. “What are we doing?”
My mouth roams lower.
“Exactly what I’ve wanted to do since the last time I’ve tasted you,” I speak under her jaw. “And exactly what we both need.”
I decide that I want to push her over the edge, and my hand lowers between us, cupping one perfect tit. Her formerly dormant hands come alive. My fingers brush higher and higher under her shirt, cupping her bare breasts underneath her silk-laced bra, my thumbs encircling the sensitive nubs that now stand at attention. Tracing a trail with my mouth from her red-colored lips to her collarbone, I reverse direction, sliding my tongue up her long neck until my lips hover above her own.
I speak the words between my kisses, my teeth nipping at her lower lip. I inhale her whimpering sigh.
“Everything about you pushes my buttons, Violet. I’m teetering on the edge of my control. I don’t need another shove.”
She exhales soundly. “I’m—I’m not pushing anything.”
“You are.”
My voice tightens with emotion, turning into gravel. I grind the words out.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to poke and prod a sleeping bear? That someday, you’re going to catch its wrath?” I pause. “I guess not, huh? Because you keep placing yourself in the path of destruction. You push me to a precipice. You drive me to the edge with everything you do. You make me react. And when I do, I don’t know how to find neutral—whether or not to retaliate or apologize—punish you or pleasure you. Maybe it’s a little bit of both…”