Tight
Page 3
“They weren’t that hard-earned,” I grumbled, heaving to my feet, suddenly aware of the height at which my yep-definitely-too-old-to-wear-this minidress had risen. I worked it back down, looking up a moment too early and catching his eyes on my legs. My hands froze, his eyes catching my own. He should have brushed it off, looked away, but instead he held my gaze and grinned, a slow, sexy smile that grabbed ahold of my arousal lever and pushed that baby all the way up. Damn. This man and his fuzzy slippers, his bad boy smile and roaring confidence ... I didn’t belong anywhere within miles of him. My blistered feet and I were way too vulnerable for the train wreck to which we were headed. Because I knew what would happen when we got through the long walk to my room. All he would have to do is tilt his head, grin that naughty smile, and my ass would tumble over itself in a haste to do anything and everything he wanted.
I reached up and accepted his outstretched hand. He smiled down at me, our heights thrown off by my lack of heels. Oops, my shoes. I crouched, scooping up my heels, my eyes suddenly friendly to their sparkling straps, their impossible heights that I was naïve to think I could handle. I gripped his hand and shuffled forward, the soft pat of the slippers quiet on the tile floor.
“Feel free to lean on me,” he said, looking down on me with a smile. “And if you need to be carried...”
“I’ll be fine.” I grinned. “Promise.”
He tugged gently, and we moved, through the shops, my hand foreign in another hand, and I released his arm and gripped his bicep instead, marveling at the strength, fighting the urge to squeeze and test the hard muscle.
“Are you here alone?”
I glanced over, our hands separated eight paces back, when the contact had become awkward. “No. There are six of us. Bachelorette party.”
I might have been mistaken, but I felt as if he stumbled slightly, a hitch in his step. “Yours?”
The three martinis from dinner made that question much more humorous than it should’ve been, and I giggled. “Me? No.”
“A boyfriend?” We arrived in the lobby, and he reached out, placing a firm hand on my arm, making sure I made the journey down the short bank of steps without incident.
I shook my head. “No.” I looked over. “Is there a Mrs. Brett?”
He chewed on his bottom lip as he met my eyes, the first bit of indecision that I’d seen on his face. And damn, it was a hot look. He should rock indecision more often. The bite of white teeth combined with a tight jaw, rough stubble paired with intense eyes. “I wouldn’t be escorting you if I was attached.”
I looked away from his face, breaking the connection before I tackled him to the ground and had my Southern way with him. We reached the elevators and stopped, his finger pressing the button.
Silence. Awkward silence. I shifted in the slippers, trying to look anywhere but in his general direction. I should be better at this. I was thirty-two for God’s sake, not a fifteen-year-old girl with her date to the prom. “Are you here on business?”
He grinned, his head shaking, his hand gesturing for me to go ahead when the elevator doors opened. “No. I’m with a few friends. Blowing off some steam.”
I pressed the button for the eighth floor, leaning back against the wall, putting as much distance between us as possible. He took my lead, settling against the opposite wall, his stance relaxed, the lines of his dress shirt falling perfectly over dark jeans. I raised my eyebrows, my mouth curving into a smile. “Blowing off some steam?”
Our conversation was interrupted, a hand shooting in and catching the closing doors, the action stalling and then reversing their close. Three men stepped on. Not really men. What appeared to be twenty-year-old boys, the smell of alcohol pressing into the car with them, their glassy eyes and curses preceding their entry. I saw Brett’s eyes darken, the space between us suddenly full.
“What floor?” I asked when the doors closed and their attention hadn’t moved, no button pressed, the elevator already starting an ascent.
Mistake. Their eyes moved as one, locking on me, and the man closest to me stumbled, moving into my comfort zone. “What floor are you going to?” he slurred, the question causing encouraging laughter from his friends, one who cast a quick look in Brett’s direction.
“Leave her alone.” The tightness in Brett’s voice surprised me, and I looked up to his face, caught off guard by the hard line of his jaw, the heat in his stare, his eyes on the men and not on mine. I wanted to reassure him, not that we were friendly enough that I would assume his protection. But it seemed—from the stiffness of his body, his push off the wall and onto the balls of his feet, the iron in his tone—that he was ready to fight, to defend, to do all the unnecessary things that this bevy of boys was not looking for.
The doors slid open, and I squeezed through the men, their steps slow to move, Brett’s arm knocking them back, grumbled curses following the action, a cowardly shout of rebellion sent out right as the doors closed. We stood in the empty landing.
“Are you okay?” His eyes were dark, face tight. I glanced down and saw his fists clenched.
I laughed, pressed a light hand on his chest. “I’m fine. They were drunk. It would have been fine.”
He gripped my forearms, walked me three steps backward, until I was against the wall, and he was close enough to kiss, his face tilted down to me. “Don’t assume that. Never assume that.”
Then he closed the gap, his fingers tightening on my arms, squeezing so there was almost pain, his mouth possessive and rough at first contact but melting instantly, his hands loosening, running up my forearms until they reached my shoulders, then past that to cup my face. A sound came from me, something between a sigh and a moan, and he caught it on his tongue, our mouths molding into a fire of hot debate, the fight of our tongues one that turned into a dance of seduction—him pushing, me pulling, the press of his body getting tighter and tighter to mine, until I was on my toes, and the weight of him pressed me against the wall.
I reached up and accepted his outstretched hand. He smiled down at me, our heights thrown off by my lack of heels. Oops, my shoes. I crouched, scooping up my heels, my eyes suddenly friendly to their sparkling straps, their impossible heights that I was naïve to think I could handle. I gripped his hand and shuffled forward, the soft pat of the slippers quiet on the tile floor.
“Feel free to lean on me,” he said, looking down on me with a smile. “And if you need to be carried...”
“I’ll be fine.” I grinned. “Promise.”
He tugged gently, and we moved, through the shops, my hand foreign in another hand, and I released his arm and gripped his bicep instead, marveling at the strength, fighting the urge to squeeze and test the hard muscle.
“Are you here alone?”
I glanced over, our hands separated eight paces back, when the contact had become awkward. “No. There are six of us. Bachelorette party.”
I might have been mistaken, but I felt as if he stumbled slightly, a hitch in his step. “Yours?”
The three martinis from dinner made that question much more humorous than it should’ve been, and I giggled. “Me? No.”
“A boyfriend?” We arrived in the lobby, and he reached out, placing a firm hand on my arm, making sure I made the journey down the short bank of steps without incident.
I shook my head. “No.” I looked over. “Is there a Mrs. Brett?”
He chewed on his bottom lip as he met my eyes, the first bit of indecision that I’d seen on his face. And damn, it was a hot look. He should rock indecision more often. The bite of white teeth combined with a tight jaw, rough stubble paired with intense eyes. “I wouldn’t be escorting you if I was attached.”
I looked away from his face, breaking the connection before I tackled him to the ground and had my Southern way with him. We reached the elevators and stopped, his finger pressing the button.
Silence. Awkward silence. I shifted in the slippers, trying to look anywhere but in his general direction. I should be better at this. I was thirty-two for God’s sake, not a fifteen-year-old girl with her date to the prom. “Are you here on business?”
He grinned, his head shaking, his hand gesturing for me to go ahead when the elevator doors opened. “No. I’m with a few friends. Blowing off some steam.”
I pressed the button for the eighth floor, leaning back against the wall, putting as much distance between us as possible. He took my lead, settling against the opposite wall, his stance relaxed, the lines of his dress shirt falling perfectly over dark jeans. I raised my eyebrows, my mouth curving into a smile. “Blowing off some steam?”
Our conversation was interrupted, a hand shooting in and catching the closing doors, the action stalling and then reversing their close. Three men stepped on. Not really men. What appeared to be twenty-year-old boys, the smell of alcohol pressing into the car with them, their glassy eyes and curses preceding their entry. I saw Brett’s eyes darken, the space between us suddenly full.
“What floor?” I asked when the doors closed and their attention hadn’t moved, no button pressed, the elevator already starting an ascent.
Mistake. Their eyes moved as one, locking on me, and the man closest to me stumbled, moving into my comfort zone. “What floor are you going to?” he slurred, the question causing encouraging laughter from his friends, one who cast a quick look in Brett’s direction.
“Leave her alone.” The tightness in Brett’s voice surprised me, and I looked up to his face, caught off guard by the hard line of his jaw, the heat in his stare, his eyes on the men and not on mine. I wanted to reassure him, not that we were friendly enough that I would assume his protection. But it seemed—from the stiffness of his body, his push off the wall and onto the balls of his feet, the iron in his tone—that he was ready to fight, to defend, to do all the unnecessary things that this bevy of boys was not looking for.
The doors slid open, and I squeezed through the men, their steps slow to move, Brett’s arm knocking them back, grumbled curses following the action, a cowardly shout of rebellion sent out right as the doors closed. We stood in the empty landing.
“Are you okay?” His eyes were dark, face tight. I glanced down and saw his fists clenched.
I laughed, pressed a light hand on his chest. “I’m fine. They were drunk. It would have been fine.”
He gripped my forearms, walked me three steps backward, until I was against the wall, and he was close enough to kiss, his face tilted down to me. “Don’t assume that. Never assume that.”
Then he closed the gap, his fingers tightening on my arms, squeezing so there was almost pain, his mouth possessive and rough at first contact but melting instantly, his hands loosening, running up my forearms until they reached my shoulders, then past that to cup my face. A sound came from me, something between a sigh and a moan, and he caught it on his tongue, our mouths molding into a fire of hot debate, the fight of our tongues one that turned into a dance of seduction—him pushing, me pulling, the press of his body getting tighter and tighter to mine, until I was on my toes, and the weight of him pressed me against the wall.
