“No.” The truth sat between us like an unwelcome visitor, lingering too long as we wondered how it had even gotten there. He rubbed at the back of his neck before returning the palm to his pocket. “The building next door.”
“What about it?”
“I stayed there once. Delilah and I ate at the restaurant on the roof. Outdoors. No ceiling. Shitty fucking food, but I felt high enough in the sky to touch Dad, far enough from Eastridge to breathe, and close enough to the ground to convince myself it was reality. It’s the only time I ever wanted to do this. Run Prescott Hotels, instead of burning it to the ground. I’m buying the building next to it and constructing a skyscraper that’s taller, better, closer to the moon.”
I tipped my head back and eyed the ceiling, wishing we stood outside. “How was the sky?”
“What do you mean?”
Muttering a magic word, I sloped my head back to him. “Were there stars?”
“It’s the city…”
“What does that mean? Yes or no?”
“No, there weren’t stars.”
“A starless night,” I whispered, enchanted, unaware that I’d edged myself against him.
It happened so fast.
Our lips crashed together, our teeth clanging.
It wasn’t a nice kiss, because he didn’t deserve a nice kiss. No matter how much the world thought of him, no matter the savior Eastridge and the press considered him to be, no matter how much everyone at Prescott Hotels or the soup kitchen raved about him, he didn’t deserve nice.
Not from me.
Never from me.
He kissed me like the villain he was. Rough and unrelenting. I pulled at his body, skin, neck. Anything I could get my hands on. Sliding my tongue into his mouth, we warred with each stroke.
His hands met my waist and lifted me easily. I wrapped my legs around his back, groaning when he placed me onto the countertop and ground against me. Whatever skin I could reach, I stole, touching it like it was mine. Pretending it was mine.
And by the end, we were panting, and his shirt had a tear down the side, and mine laid somewhere across the room without him ever actually pulling it off.
“Lagom,” I whispered, resting my forehead to his, chasing my breaths.
He tasted like something permanent. Something that would be etched on my lips long after we parted.
And it felt wrong.
The kiss felt wrong.
Not because he was my boss.
Not because he was cruel.
Not because everyone would hate us for it.
Not because his brother was my best friend.
Not because I used to think I was in love with Reed.
But because nothing—and I mean fucking nothing—should have felt this good.
And anything that did?
Had to be wrong.
Nash breathed against my lips, still parted as he exchanged breaths with me. “What’s lagom?”
My hands fell to his chest, thrilled by his heart’s tempo. It matched mine. “Not too little. Not too much. Just right.”
I didn’t believe in perfect, but I believed in lagom.
It meant right, but not necessarily perfect.
And in a world filled with devious lies, it was a truth I latched onto.
Nash dipped his fingers beneath the hem of my jeans, brushing his thumb against the crease of my thigh and sex. “Why not say perfect?”
I shook my head, appalled by the idea. “Perfection is unattainable. It’s stained by the suffering required to chase it. Perfect is something you think with your head. Lagom is something you feel with your heart.”
His fingers ran a path along my underwear, knuckles brushing so much skin.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked and moved back, but his grip tightened on my waist, shifting me closer for a moment before he released me.
“I thought of a word.” He mouthed it like I do, looking a little ridiculous and endearing for once. “Is that what it’s like?”
“Like a cure?”
Nash’s eyes took in the space between us. “No.”
He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t want him to. Not if he’d ruin magic words for me. He wielded the power, and I was too protective of words to risk it.
“What’s the word?” I asked.
Desperation didn’t suit me, but I needed to know.
Nash brushed a thumb across my cheek and slammed his lips against mine. He kissed me like I was nuclear and he needed to destroy me to save himself. His tongue slipped past my lips, stroking mine. I gripped his shirt, and he gripped my hair, running his hands through it in a way that had me begging to pant cafuné.
It ended too soon, before I could even appreciate that it’d begun. Disappointment slithered inside me, expanding at our distance.
“It’s late,” he said, pulling away from me. “Security in the plaza makes their rounds in an hour.”
My shirt had been torn down the middle like a vest, so I wore it backward and used Nash’s suit jacket to cover my exposed spine. He managed to look dangerous with the mussed hair and ripped shirt, whereas I resembled a kid playing dress-up.
We walked to the hotel in silence, stopping at the entrance. I opened my mouth when I realized he’d never told me the word, but I shoved my curiosity down my throat and replaced it with my own magic words.
Nyctophilia.
Basorexia.
Ibrat.
Nash eyed my lips, watching them form and pocket the words.
“I’m driving you home.” He nodded in the direction of the parking garage. That would go horribly when he realized I didn’t have a home. “Before you waste our time arguing, it’s non-negotiable. It’s late, dark, and cold enough that I see your nipples every time we pass a streetlamp. I know you don’t have a death wish, so your stubbornness will only come off as stupidity.”
Ignoring all but his first sentence, I backed away, inch by inch. “I’m good.” My shoulder lifted. “Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do, Nash,” I taunted, a little pissed that he never told me the word.
“Emery.”
“Stop saying my name like it’s a demand.”
“Emery.”
My eyes dipped to the penance tattoo I wanted to taste. I allowed myself two seconds to study it, turned, and walked away.
I pivoted when I remembered how persistent he could be. Better to let him scheme where I could see him. He already had his phone pulled out when he glanced up at me, like he’d known I would return.
Dick.
He'd already opened the Uber app. “Where do you live?”
Shit. Shit. Shit. What do I do?
I kept my mouth shut and held my hand out. As soon as his phone touched my fingers, I moved the dot on the app to a random residential neighborhood close by. Giving him my back, I leaned against the hotel, tapped my fingers on the glass, and stared at the sky.
I’m starting to think Nash isn’t the villain, Starless Sky. Maybe you are.
Nash held out his palm. “My phone.”
Oh.
I glanced down at it, my eyes pausing on the Eastridge United app before I returned it to him. Of course, he had the app. He owned it. But did he have a pen pal? He didn’t seem like the type.
Then again, if I used it for phone sex, maybe he did, too.
That, I could see him doing.
Jealousy coiled around my throat. I pulled at the collar of my tee, forgetting the huge rip as I flashed Nash with some serious skin.