“Delicious.” The word is no more than a whisper on my lips. I mean to elaborate, but standing before not one, but two, incredibly sexy men, my body wound tighter than a rubber band threatening to snap, I can’t seem to find the words.
“Good. Glad to hear it,” Riku replies thoughtfully. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Please.”
He disappears around the bar, leaving me to confront the one person I was told to stay away from.
“I was wondering when you’d quit eavesdropping and come join us.”
I snap my gaze to him and frown. “What? How did you . . . ?”
He laughs, tipping his head back to give me full view of his throat. Oh, how I would kill to rake my teeth against the fragile skin, the promise of puncture so thrilling that we both moan when the sharpness of my canines make contact.
“You know that feeling you get when danger is near? The hair stands up on the back of your arms. That niggling sensation that crawls up your spine. The silent alarm that goes off in your ears. That’s what I get when you’re close by. I smell danger.”
His words are like the sweetest poetry, his voice like syrup dripping from his lips. I don’t know what to make of it . . . don’t know what to say other than, “I know.”
“You know?” One corner of his mouth lifts. “You know you’re dangerous?”
“I know we’re dangerous together.”
“Yes. We are.” He nods before sipping the remnants of his brew. I eye it, questioning. Should an addict be drinking? He did say it wasn’t alcohol that was his main vice, and other than that one time after SNL, I had never seen him drink more than beer.
“Which is why this is a bad idea. We were a mistake.”
He looks at me then. Really stops to see me through those eyes made of black lava rock. Maybe he’s surprised. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he hates me enough that he’ll be able to walk away. I can’t say which reaction I was going for, but any would be better than this.
“A mistake, eh?” He’s suddenly too close to me, yet I don’t think he’s moved. I just know I feel overwhelmed by his presence, almost violated.
“You know what I mean, Ransom,” I whisper furiously, my eyes intently watching the doorway. “This isn’t right. What we did . . . It’s not fair. Not to Tuck, not to you, not to me. So can we try to forget about it? Please?”
“You want to forget about it? Just like that?” He looks amused. “Can you forget me?”
“I can try.”
He nods and places the empty beer bottle on the bar, just as Riku arrives from the back with a glass of something bubbly and pink. “Here we are,” he announces. “Been saving a bottle of this stuff especially for you.”
I plaster on a smile and accept it, and while I know it’s delicious, I can’t taste anything but regret and longing on my tongue.
“Well, I’m out,” Ransom states, dapping up his new friend. “Catch you later.” He looks at me momentarily and tips his head. “Heidi.”
“Ransom.” Then he turns around and disappears from view.
“Well . . . damn.”
“What?” I frown, looking at Riku over the rim of my glass.
“It’s just . . . if you were somebody else, I’d swear you two are in a lover’s quarrel. Must be your sparkling personality,” he jibes.
“Ha ha. Sparkling personality, my ass. Someone has to be the hard nose around here, when all you strong, strapping men are writing sonnets and getting mani-pedis.”
“Mani-pedis?” he feigns outrage. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know that I receive paraffin dips. Don’t get it twisted.”
We share a few laughs until a few guests begin to filter in from outside. I recognize a few CEOs, TV personalities, and even a big shot record label exec. Of course, my presence doesn’t evoke any warm fuzzies so I down the rest of my drink and bid Riku good night. When I return to my room, I find that Tucker is still knocked out, flat on his stomach, snoring softly. Half an hour—yeah right. Tuck hasn’t been able to go two rounds since his twenties. And it’s not that he isn’t in shape or the equipment is malfunctioning. We’re just usually too tired or too busy. Honestly, sex between us had become a weekly chore that we just wanted to “get over with” to release the pressure. And while it’s still good, it has become much like the rest of our life—predictable.
I figure I could sleep if I tried, so I slide between the sheets next to him. Out of habit, I check my phone, which I had left on the nightstand, set to Silent. To my surprise, there’s a message. I don’t even have to read the name to know who it is.
I could try too.
I tap out a quick reply, confused by his cryptic statement.
Try what?
To forget you.
Ok.
My heart sinks, but he can’t know that. It would only complicate things further, and make it that much harder to let go.
Is that what you want?
He’s asking me if I want him to forget me, as if he knows it’s ripping me up inside, turning muscle and organs into shreds of bloody despair. In a desperate plea, my traitorous heart is screaming No. No, Ransom, don’t forget me. But my head slices through like a hot knife to butter, silencing the weaker vessel.
That’s what I need.
Ok. I’ll try. But I can’t promise you anything.
Thank you.
I don’t know why I say that, but it seems appropriate.
So will you still be my publicist?
Of course.
So you’ll still be there for me when I need you to be?
That’s my job.
Your job, huh?
I roll my eyes but find myself smiling down at the screen.
Yes, Ransom.
I hope he can feel the playful exasperation in my words.
Good. Because I need you. Now.
I almost drop my phone, imagining his mouth saying those words to me, his lips whispering in my ear as he expresses this uncontrollable need for me.
I need to ask you something.
The text comes in before I can conjure up any more ridiculous scenarios.
Why?
Just come out to the hall. I’ll step out so you know where my room is.
I’m texting that it’s not a good idea, it’s inappropriate, it’s wrong, it’s late, yada yada yada, when another text comes in.
Come on, H. I heard you loud & clear. I won’t touch you, I swear. Just give me 5 min.
I look over at my husband, the sated man I love sleeping next to me with remnants of our love making a dried, flaky, white souvenir on his soft cock. I don’t feel him between my thighs anymore. It still aches, but not for him.
My fingers tremble over the touchpad of my phone. Five minutes with my client. Even Justice can’t deny that interaction is necessary.
Ok. Give me 2.
I shuffle to the bathroom and quickly run a brush through my hair and swish some mouthwash around to expel the stale taste of champagne. I’m in a flimsy, coral applique nightgown and nothing else. If I change, it’ll look like I’m expecting more than just a five-minute conversation, and I didn’t pack any sweats. I decide the matching robe will have to do, and even though I’m supposed to be keeping up the ruse that this is totally casual and even a bit inconvenient, I dab on a little sheer lip gloss and pinch my cheeks. I’m going to hell, but at least I won’t be alone.
I step into the hall barefoot and look down the hall. Lounging in the doorway of his room, wearing nothing but basketball shorts much like the ones he wore yesterday, stands Ransom Reed. His hair is sexily tousled as if he had been in bed while he was texting me, and it looks like his already tan skin has taken in some sun. He dips his head forward, training those dark, deceptive eyes on me, before tilting it to one side, signaling for me to come to him. I hesitate for a breath, and collect my senses. I promised Justice. I promised myself. I won’t throw away a solid marriage and a good man for some kid. He’s twenty-four . . . of course he’s hot and ready to go on command. At that age, he’s nothing more than a walking, talking hard-on.