She’sreal. Untamed in a way Chloe never was. Chloe was a brandished feed. Rorie’s the live stream. She’s not trying to be watched—she justis. And that makes her impossible to look away from.
I track the way she lifts her hair off the back of her neck, exposing the slope of her shoulders, the edge of that black satin dress slipping just slightly lower with the movement. My cock stirs to life like it’s got its own set of eyes.
God help me.
It’s been days since Chloe detonated my life. Since I realized I was just a footnote in my own relationship. I should be dead inside. But standing here, watching Rorie, my body clearly didn’t get the memo.
Don’t mistake me.
I don’t want a relationship.
I don’t want intimacy.
But I want her.
And maybe it’s the altitude, or the residual bourbon still moonwalking through my bloodstream, but I need air.
With the soft click of loosening silk, I slide my tie free and slip it into my pocket. My fingers move to the top buttons of my dress shirt, undo two, just enough to breathe. I roll the sleeves up my forearms, one then the other, exposing skin and tendon and just enough muscle to draw attention if someone should perhaps be looking.
She’s looking.
Her eyes glance at my throat, down my chest, all the way to my forearms, and back again in that easy way that makes it feel accidental.
But it’s not.
I catch it.
And so does she.
Because when our eyes meet, there’s nothing accidental about the tension blooming between us.
I lift one brow. Just a fraction.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile. “Okay, Rhodes.” Her voice breaks through the fog in my head. “What’s the plan? You got me over here. What do you want?”
A loaded question if I’ve ever heard one.
“Just a drink,” I lie. “And a conversation.”
The truth:
I want your legs draped over my shoulders while I learn every one of your sounds.
I want your moans stitched into my skin.
I want your thighs trembling, your hands clutching at me like I’m the only thing anchoring you to this fucking earth.
I want to see if you unravel as beautifully as I think you do.
And I want to split you open with my cock while I watch your mind go blank and my name spills from your lips.
But I can’t tell heranyof that.
So, I sip my drink instead, lean back, casual as hell, like my dick isn’t straining against my zipper.
She arches a brow. “Well… start conversing.”
I wave a server over, order her a water—because someone’s got to keep this civil—and a refill of my bourbon. When the server returns, Rorie raises the water to her lips. She sips slow, and I watch her throat work. And this is the first time in my life that hydration looks like foreplay.
