Sam looks indecisive.
Bryce slobbers near my ear. “We should go dancing, baby.”
If he says “baby” one more time, I will scream. “Sure,” I say, knowing not to argue with the inebriated. “Let’s go.”
At last he allows me to drag him from the bar. Completely intent on getting Bryce out of there, I’m surprised when I find Sam is on the sidewalk next to us. “Go back inside, Sam,” I snap as Bryce leans on me and murmurs incoherent babble that definitely involves saying “baby” repeatedly.
With a remorseful expression, Sam says, “Let me help you find a cab at least.”
It takes Sam ten minutes to hail a cab. The entire time, Bryce slobbers on me and tries to grind on me as if dancing. After we get him into the backseat of the cab, Sam holds the door open. “You sure you don’t want me to come along and help?”
“I’m sure,” I say heatedly, tugging the door out of his grasp. “You’ve ‘helped’ enough already.”
His expression turns contrite.
I resist giving him the finger.
Finally, the cab takes off, so I don’t have to see his guilt-stricken face any longer.
Chapter 21
You’re sho seshey in these pantsh, baby,” Bryce says, running his hands up my thighs and over my butt. He slobbers on the skin below my ear. “I want you sho mush.”
Drunk off his ass, he’s like a wasted, slurring Energizer Bunny who won’t fucking run down. He mauled me in the taxi and groped me during the never-ending hike across the lobby and the ride up in the elevator. Getting him to stay focused enough to walk was a chore. Of course, as soon as we get into the room he goes in for the kill. But his drunken seduction ain’t happening.
I rub my palms over his chest. “Why don’t you lie down?”
Swaying, he grips my hips. “You too?”
“Yeah, give me a minute to slip into something sexier.” Using my hands on his chest, I push him toward the bed. The back of his legs hit the end of the bed and he falls onto it with a plop.
With heavy-lidded eyes, he grins at me and grabs my butt again. “More seshy than these pantsh?”
“Way more,” I say, stepping out of his embrace and pushing him back. I unbutton his dress khakis and his lopsided grin grows, causing me to tear them off with an irritated tug.
He keeps grinning. Almost drools.
Going to the side of the bed, I tug his arm. “Lay on the pillows. You’ll be more comfortable while you wait for me.”
“Wait for you,” he says dreamily, scooting toward the headboard.
Once his blond head hits the pillow, I say, “I’ll be a minute.”
He looks up at me. “Thish ish going be sho good.”
I resist the urge to smother him with a pillow and just about run to the bathroom. Inside, I take my time washing the makeup from my face and applying moisturizer. I even decide to file my nails, then paint them.
Blowing on my fingertips, I exit the bathroom and can’t help but smile. As planned, Bryce is passed out on the bed in his boxers and shirt. After waving my hands around to dry my nails for a few minutes, I rummage in my suitcase, looking for a tank and sleep shorts.
The tank in my hand drops to the floor when a knock sounds at the door. I glance at Bryce but he keeps snoring. Another knock, louder this time, has me rushing to unhook the chain. If whoever is out there wakes up Bryce, there will be hell to pay. I open it a crack to see Sam standing in the hallway.
“I need to talk to you,” he says loudly.
“Go away!” I hiss and shut the door.
He knocks again.
I crack the door open again. “Go away, Sam!” I vehemently whisper.
His brows lower. “Not until I talk to you,” he says, louder than before.
About to blow up, I step into the hallway and quietly shut the door behind me, knowing my card key is in my back pocket.
Sam blinks at me, then smiles wide. “You’re still dressed.”
Ignoring whatever that is supposed to mean, I snap, “What is so damn important that you need to talk to me at three in the morning?”
The door across from us cracks open and a woman hisses, “Can you shut the hell up? We’re trying to sleep.”
The door slams shut. Tapping my foot, I gesture to the closed door and give an irritated shrug that says, See?
With a sigh, Sam grabs my arm and drags me to the end of the hall and through the door into the fire escape stairwell. He stands there holding my arm and staring at me.
I tug my arm out of his grasp. “Okay, spill it, because I’ve got about this”—my extended index finger and thumb signal the length of a centimeter in front of his nose—“much patience left.”
He shuffles his feet, looking sort of nervous. “I’m sorry your boyfriend got wasted.”
Our voices echo in the stairwell.
I cross my arms and give him a level look. “You’re admitting to having something to do with it?”
He nods sideways, as if not wanting to admit it.
“So what was the purpose of outdrinking him?”
Leaning on the rail, he glances down the stairs, refusing to meet my gaze, as a sheepish smirk overtakes his face.
“All right,” I say, reaching for the door. “Thanks for the apology. I can totally see why it couldn’t wait until morning.”
Suddenly, he grabs me, pushes me against the door. His hands grip my upper arms and I feel an unwelcome rush of heat as his hard, muscled torso presses against me. “The thought of you two alone—the thought of you two fucking, especially after waking up in your bed this morning . . .” Not finishing his thought, he draws in a deep breath. “It was either beat his ass or get him drunk.”
For several long moments, I can only stare at him. Then something in me snaps. “Really? You’re jealous?” His jaw tightens as I continue. “Why would you be jealous?” I ask, my tone incredulous, my heart thumping.
His grip on my arms intensifies. “I can’t stand the thought of him touching you, much less the two of you having sex.”
His words cause a rush of anger. Instead of admitting he may have feelings for me, he’s skirting the issue to focus on jealousy. “We’re hardly friends, you and me,” I snarl. “Who I sleep with, much less what I do with my boyfriend, is none of your business.”
“Friends?” he repeats, ignoring my anger. He leans down, and one of his hands releases my arm and begins sliding up to my shoulder. His heated gaze, more than his touch, pins me to the door. “We’re friends, Peyton. I care about you. You seem to care about me.”
“You’re drunk,” I whisper with a tremble, evidently affected by his lips hovering near mine, by the soft stroke of his hand skimming up my neck that freezes me in his grasp, and by the intensity of his stare.
“No. Yet I’m not entirely sober,” he says as his hand comes to my jaw. His fingers brush the tender skin behind my ear. His lips come nearer. “But as far as being ‘hardly friends’ . . . maybe you’re right. I don’t want to fuck my friends.”
I gasp and he drinks in the breath with his mouth. His lips move over mine gently as both of his hands cup my jaw. His tongue is a soft caress that lures me into the kiss and arouses a passion that drains my thoughts.
Giving in, I slide my hands up his shoulders as my tongue twists with his.
The slow, intoxicating kiss steals both my breath and my mind. I’m immersed in the sensations of his full lips, the soft glide of his tongue, the gentle stroke of his fingers along my neck. I inhale the clean scent of him. The dizzying press of his growing need on my stomach. The desperate longing his mouth and touch convey.
When Sam pulls back to look down at me with a smoky half-lidded look, my hands grip his neck, my fingers dig into his skin, and I try to bring his mouth back to mine.