To prevent silence, I string the conversation along by reiterating the fact that Carter’s had too much to drink and doesn’t know what he’s saying.
But there are only a finite number of ways to tell someone that they’re drunk. The silence eventually finds us, and when it does, we’re dangerously close.
Even though I haven’t had as much to drink as Carter, the booze I’ve drank tonight has still found a way to loosen up a few screws.
But maybe I needed to neck a few drinks to see things differently. I suspect that behind Carter’s hard faces, and the unbothered stoic glances, is a man whoisbothered.
When you wear a mask yourself, it’s easy to spot others out of the crowd.
I feel the silence thickening, becoming something else.
Something charged with an inconvenient emotion that needs to fuck off before things get too out of hand. Again.
Carter isn’t helping. He lifts his hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear like we’re together. Like this is a normal thing to do.
I try to ignore the intense shiver that travels down my spine.
But then I realize that I don’t want to try and ignore it. It’s easier to sink into someone’s touch, especially when it feels so familiar.
Everything is backward. I don’t know Carter Trescott.
All I know is that he used to wear designer suits and now he doesn’t. I don’t know his life story, what he’s thinking, and I certainly don’t know his intentions.
But his hand in mine feels so right.
I don’t get the urge to move away like I often do when I’m out on the Strip.
I let contentment take over…
Until it transitions into something more heart-throbbing.
More urgent.
I pull away, but it seems like Carter was prepared for me to react like this. He tightens his hold on me and brings me closer, using his other hand to curlanotherpiece of hair behind my ear.
“Let us take care of you,” he says.
Two other bodies appear behind me, hands reaching out to snake around my waist and hips.
The guilty feelings are overshadowed by another feeling hundreds of times more powerful. Sighing into the bikers’ touch, I let their strong hands roam my body.
I let go. Maybe a little too much. I collapse into the bar and let them catch me.
Don’t get it twisted, I’m no damsel in distress, but I’m happy to fulfill that role in the bedroom. Because it feels good to be controlled for a change.
I let go before with them, but this time it feels different. Everything is slower.
“When was the last time you properly let go, darling?” Skipper murmurs in my ear.
The answer to that question is last night.
But I think I can let go even more.
They lift me up and carry me out of the main room to a quieter place that’s less crowded. As soon as I feel my back hit a mattress, I’m already making a start on shedding my clothes. Fuck the designer outfit that cost more than three months of rent—I want it off.
Retail shopping is fun, but it doesn’t even scratch the surface of my satisfaction.
Carter helps remove my shirt and slides my unclasped bra out from under me. He pins me to the bed and runs his palms up and down my chest.
