We move through the hangar deck, from one end to the other, but Margie is nowhere to be seen. At the very end of the hall, stairs to the right lead up to the flight deck or down to the bathrooms. Jack leads us down, the pulse at my wrist hammering like a tell-tale heart between our palms. The stairwell opens to a small alcove, painted black, with three doors leading to unisex bathrooms. There’s a curtained closet to our right that appears to function as storage for additional chairs.
No Margie.
You weren’t looking for Margie. You want Jack Craig.
Jack turns to me and says, “Maybe she left.”
“Hmm.”
He sees something in my face that has his eyes darkening and his hand tightening on mine. He tugs me closer.
I lift my chin, our eyes lock. My bottom lip feels heavy. I wet it with my tongue.
His lids twitch; he’s registered the invite. He leans in.
Oh fuck yes, kiss me, you menace.
“Your move, 5A.” His breath is warm against my ear, his cheek a sensuous, rough slide against my soft one. Goose bumps erupt along my arms. His face is so close. I can smell the whiskey on his breath, the fresh sandalwood-and-pine-spiced scent of his skin. Why did I think he smelled like car air freshener? There’s an electric current between us, licking and looping. I can’t think. I’m pure instinct. Ravenous.
I take his face in my hands and pull him down to me, open-mouthed, tongue seeking.
He moans deep in his throat and yanks me close, his teeth biting my lip gently, his tongue dipping in and out, tangling with mine. We’re dueling, vying for dominance. His hand grabs my silk-clad ass, and the other wraps more tightly around my back. He lifts. I feel my red dress ride up, feel his hot hand on the back of my thigh, holding me against him.
He maneuvers us behind the curtain into the storage area and presses me against the wall without once removing his lips from mine. My hands are in his hair, then dig into his shoulders. He nips at my lobe and eases me down off his thigh until I’m standing, clinging to him.
“You are so fucking hot.” His mouth is now on my neck, sucking, biting, kissing. “Sometimes I think you were put in my life to torture me.” His head knocks a few errant wooden hangers on a coat rack, and he swears. I laugh, then gasp when he growls, running the hand that isn’t on my ass over my throat, skimming slowly, turning my face.
He drops his head to my neck, running the wet underside of his bottom lip up my throat until he reaches my ear. And then he hooks his finger under the crimson spaghetti strap of my dress and leans back, staring at me with heavily lidded eyes, asking permission. I give a barely-there nod, and he tugs the strap down slowly. His breathing is as ragged as mine. The fabric hugging my chest goes slack on one side, held up by my pearled nipple.
Things never last. Even the Vaughns barely made it work. What’s the point of trying? You might be living next door to him for a long time. What are you doing?
He pulls at the other strap, dragging it down my shoulder. He lowers his mouth to the neckline.
Milk keeps longer than guys around you.My mother’s words echo in my ear. They’re a bucket of ice water. I push off him and turn my back, sorting myself out.
“What’s wrong?”
I sip the heated air in the coat check and turn, trying to control the riotous prison break of upset within.
“This isn’t right. I don’t evenlikeyou. I’m not interested in you,” I say.I don’t mean it, I want to shout when I see his expression.
Jack, with his hair disheveled from my ministrations and his hard-on unavoidably evident, looks like he’s been smacked in the face with a bat. He recovers quickly. “No kidding? I mean, I apologize if I read your tongue down my throat the wrong way.”
“I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”
He laughs. It’s not a kind sound. “This isn’t what ‘normal neighbors’ do in your book? Too bad.” He crosses his arms. “For the record, though, I don’t like you much, either.”
I turn and push through the curtain, needing to get away before I cry.
Jack follows in a rush, his brows drawn together.
At that moment, Margie and La emerge from one of the bathrooms, arms around each other’s waists, looking a bit disheveled themselves. Margie and I take in each other’s appearance in shock, and the next thing I know I’m on my back, my dignity has fled, and my ankle is on fire.
“Her heel. Oh no,” La cries.
“Pen! Are you okay?” Margie rushes over, helping me sit up. I see my strappy shoe, heel wedged in a grate. Fucking warships and heels don’t mix. Mortification and pain fight for supremacy within me, but the former is the best medicine.
“I’m fine,” I say, shifting. “Just tweaked my ankle.”
