Blake’s attention, however, is lingering on Jane—specifically, on the way the green silk hugs her hips.
I step closer, my hand sliding to the small of her back. Proprietary. Unmistakable.
His eyes flick to mine. I hold his gaze until he looks away.
Good.
“Easy, tiger, lose the scowl.” she murmurs, a slow smile playing on her lips. “We’re selling a committed partnership, remember? Me and my secretly fabulous boyfriend.”
“Blake was looking at you,” I say, my voice tight.
“He looks at everything in a skirt,” she dismisses, but a faint blush creeps up her neck. “Ignore him. Focus on the win. Veronica Vance is officially neutralized. Your mother’s matchmaking campaign is in shambles. We should celebrate.”
The way she says ‘celebrate’ sends a bolt of heat straight to my groin.
The ballroom, the crowd, Blake… it all fades. All I see is her. The bold red of her lips. The challenge in her eyes. The fierce, loyal chaos that just dismantled my mother’s plans to protect me.
I drain my champagne in one go. The bubbles burn pleasantly. “Casita. Now.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Thought you’d never ask.”
The walk back is a blur of heat and anticipation. We don’t speak. The tension crackles between us, thick and electric. I fumble with the key card. The door clicks open. We step inside. The lock engages behind us with a final, heavy thud.
Silence. The air in the casita is cool, scented faintly with the coconut oil from Jane’s skin and the sandalwood cologne she stole. Moonlight streams through the open terrace doors, painting silver streaks on the tile floor.
Jane turns to face me, leaning back against the door. Her eyes are huge in the dim light, dark pools reflecting the hunger I know is blazing in mine. The playful saboteur is gone. In her place is the woman who moaned my name against the counter. Who trusted me with her body. Her first time.
“So,” she whispers. “Celebration.”
It’s not a question. It’s an invitation. A challenge.
The carefully constructed control I’ve maintained– the discipline, the distance, the rigid compartmentalization—shatters once again. It doesn’t crack or crumble. It explodes.
My hands find her waist, hauling her against me. My mouth crashes down on hers.
It’s not gentle. Not patient. It’s claiming. Devouring.
A release of everything I’ve been holding back—the possessiveness, the protectiveness, the sheer, overwhelmingwant.
She meets me with equal ferocity. Her arms lock around my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. Her mouth opens under mine, welcoming the invasion. Our tongues clash, hot and desperate.
The taste of champagne and Jane is intoxicating.
I turn her around and walk her backwards, never breaking the kiss, until her back hits the cool wall beside the door. My hands slide down, gripping her ass, lifting her.
She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively, the silk of her cocktail dress riding up. The feel of her bare thighs against my hips, the heat of her core pressed against my straining erection, is pure torture.
“West,” she gasps against my lips.
“Tell me to stop,” I growl, my mouth trailing down her jaw, to the frantic pulse at her throat. I bite down gently, then soothe the spot with my tongue. She shudders, her hips grinding against me.
“Don’t stop,” she breathes. “Please. Don’t stop.”
That’s all the permission I need. I lower her down. My hands slide under her dress, pushing the silk up around her waist.
My fingers find the edge of her lace panties. I hook my fingers into the lace and pull. The fabric tears.
She gasps. "Did you just—"
