“Good call. Nothing is going up my ass, buddy.”
“Why? It’s a fun time. And this is small. You wouldn’t even feel it. Which is a shame, really. Did you know a prostate orgasm?—”
“Mal, can you school me on our prostates another day? I’m already late and need to get there.”
“Oh, yeah, sure! But I’m gonna hold you to it! You haven’t lived until you’ve had one! You’ll erupt like Mount Vesuvius!”
“Aaand with that visual, I’m out, boys! Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone!”
The drivethere is one filled with nervous energy. I wish like hell I had taken my bike, but it would have wrecked the suit. There’s nothing more calming and settling than being on my bike on a night like tonight. I can’t wait to get Bristol on theback of it. Talk about adventure. One trip up the Washington coast on the back of my bike will have her feeling freer than she ever has in her life.
Lights illuminate the building hosting tonight’s gala, rows of cars lined up for the valet. Feeling way the hell out of place, I park in the back instead of using the valet, wanting to be able to access my truck if I need it and not have to wait for some clown to go get it for me. Fuck that.
“Here goes nothing,” I say to myself as I adjust my tie and step out of my truck. The line to get in goes quickly as a woman dressed in a floor-length evening gown checks people in. When it’s my turn, she gives me an appreciative glance, doing her best to get my attention. I ignore her advances, uninterested in anyone but my beautiful woman currently inside with the wrong man.
The entrance opens up to a lobby with large ballroom doors left open for people to funnel in through. The air is thick with the smell of perfume, cigars, and money. Crystal chandeliers spill light across the marble floor in shimmering pools so bright it feels as if the room itself is gilded. It’s blinding. My dress shoes click softly, drowned out by the music of a live string quartet playing something delicate off to the side, and voices. So many fucking voices.
It’s a scene straight out ofThe Great Gatsby. Everywhere I look, there are people draped in expensive fabrics, diamonds winking from wrists and throats, and champagne flutes tilted in manicured hands. This is a far stretch from the backyard barbecues, sunset fire pits, and clubhouse parties I’m used to.
I do my best to blend in, weaving through clusters of meaningless conversations. I can feel the money in the room and know Idon’t fucking belong here. But I’m not here for them, or myself, I’m here for her. And when my eyes finally land on her, dressed in a gorgeous deep-red floor-length ball gown, the neckline wide, straps tight on the edge of her shoulders, breasts practically spilling out of the top, I nearly fall to my knees. I’ve never seen a more beautiful, stunning woman in all my life.Goddamn,that dress on her.
She’s standing alone, not on the arm of the man who forced her to be here, looking uncomfortable, and like she’d rather be anywhere but here. I watch her for moments, just admiring her, my eyes tracing over every perfect feature of her face, when a man walks up to her. Bristol’s posture changes immediately, her back becoming more rigid, her hands twisting together at her waist. Her body language is giving off loud signs that she’s uncomfortable, and I fucking hate it.
This must be the fiancé.
His arm wraps around her waist, pulling her into his space a little too roughly, as he whispers something in her ear. Jealousy and anger start to flow through my veins in equal measure as he touches her so comfortably.
I watch them, pretending I’m not unraveling thread by thread as his hand slips down to the top of her ass. Bristol jumps at the contact rather than sinking into it, almost as if it’s not wanted. That thought alone twists somewhere deep in my gut, mixing tightly with the heavy dose of jealousy. She should never be uncomfortable,ever. How is this asshole so out of touch with her that he can’t see it, feel it?
The prick touches her waist like he has any right to. He doesn’t. And it takes everything in me not to march right over there andbreak every bone that dared touch her. That place, right there, that’s wheremyfucking hand belongs.
I know everything that is important. The sound of her laugh, the rhythm of her breath when she’s calm, how it changes when she’s happy, or nervous, or feeling turned-on. I know the way she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s holding back a smile. Just like I know, right now, she would rather be stuck outside in a storm than inside here with these people. I knowher. He doesn’t. He can’t.
And yet he’s the one touching her, he’s the one leaning in and kissing her cheek. The bastard looks at her as if she’s something he’s owed, claimed for himself, rather than worked hard for, earned. No one is worthy enough to feel Bristol’s love, not even me, but especially not this pompous tool. I hate the fucking smug ease in his posture as he holds her like a trophy, like he truly believes he can keep her simply because she hasn’t walked away.
Yet.
My chest and jaw tighten to the point of aching as I swallow down the jealousy and rage. Then I get my opening as he walks away from her. Lifting my chin and straightening my shoulders, I walk over to the string quartet, requesting them to play a song for me. Then I make my way over to the woman shining bright like a damn beacon. I’m a ship lost at sea, and she’s my path home.
“Care to dance?” I ask as I come up behind her. My fingers itch to trail down her bare arms, but I don’t touch her, just bask in her shocked beauty as she turns to face me.
“Rhys . . . whh-what are you doing here?” she gasps, a smile filling her entire face like the sun coming out after a rainy day.Fuck, she makes everything better. I hold out my hand in request, waiting for her to accept. The moment her soft fingers reach mine, I swear fireworks explode, everything around us disappearing.
I lead us to the dance floor as the music starts, finding a spot that offers us just enough privacy, but among the crowd enough to hopefully buy us some time. Grasping her hand in mine, I rest my other hand lightly on her back, because even the smallest touch feels like a privilege I’m borrowing. I gently guide her into my space, and I love how willingly she comes.
She rests her free hand on my chest, looking up at me with so much bottled-up emotion, it’s overwhelming to try to understand what’s going through that pretty little head of hers. This is the closest we’ve been since the day in the storage closet, and holding her in my arms feels so right. Like the world itself exhales, every bit of jealousy and rage melting away.
I don’t want to ever lose this. I don’t want to give her back to someone she shouldn’t be with. Someone who doesn’t put her first, who doesn’t love her the way I do.
“Watching him touch you like your heart doesn’t already belong to me is the worst torture I’ve ever experienced.”
“Rhys, you can’t talk like that.”
“But it’s true. You feel it just as strongly as I do. I’m trying to be a good man, Bristol, but every second I’m away from you, every moment I know you’re with him and not me . . . it’s a pain I’ve never experienced before.”
The tears are instant, glittering in the sparkling overhead lights like diamonds, and I have a moment where I wonder ifshe actually will stay with him. Pain laces the pleasure of her in my arms.
“This song, it’s the one you were humming to Harvey . . .”
