Page 41 of Worth the Risk

It’s true, but who says I want to go talk to her? It’s so much easier to be mad at her than to admit she’s played me well. If I keep my distance, then I can’t get myself in trouble . . .. But, goddamn, how good trouble sounds right now.

“Fuck it.” I reach across the table and steal Grady’s shot sitting there. I don’t back down from his stare as I down it, welcome the burn, and know that it won’t be the only thing that burns tonight.

When I slam the empty glass back down, he finally protests as I grab his hundred-dollar bill and shove it into my pocket. I wave him off and then make my way across the bar.

I’ve already spoken to almost everyone, shaken their hands, had a laugh with them over how ludicrous it is that we are celebrating a guy being decent when it should be the norm. I’ve explained how this whole situation was blown out of proportion and that there was no weapon, but no one seems to listen. I’ve played down the damn contest, which everyone but me seems to care about me winning.

A few people stop me, say hi, ask about my parents, who opted to stay home and hang with Luke, but my eyes are on Sidney. And Vince—or rather, Vince’s hands and how they are continually touching a woman I have no claim on.

A woman I want no claim on.

Then why do I fucking care?

But by the time I reach her, my blood boils with irrationality spurred on by too much alcohol.

“Can I have a moment?” I ask as I walk up to her and grab her elbow, pushing her down the darkened hallway.

“What is your problem?” She hisses as she fights me every step of the way.

We get looks. I get looks. I don’t care because all I keep seeing is Vince’s hands on her arm. His eyes on her tits. His bullshit game I can spot a mile away.

I find the closest door down the hallway leading to the bathrooms, and it opens. I push her through it, barely noticing that it’s an office of sorts before the door is shut, her back is up against it, and my mouth is covering hers.

Take.

Goddammit. That’s my only thought as I fit my lips to hers and take out my anger on her mouth with tongue and teeth and every fucking lick and nip in between.

“What—”

“I’m so pissed at you.”

It’s all I say. It’s the only chance I give her to come up for air before my lips are back on hers. Before my tongue wars with hers. Before my body admits it would beg, borrow, and steal in order to taste every other part of her.

Groan.

I swallow the tiny sound she makes in our kiss as my hands hold her neck still and my lips wage an all-out assault. She hesitates—just a split second—before she reacts. Before her body bows into me, and her mouth argues back.

Fist.

Her hand in my shirt. Her other hand at the back of my neck as our bodies meet—pressed knee to chest. Her perfume in my nose. Her hair tickling my cheeks. The feel of her tits against my chest.

Give.

I can’t get enough.

I’m mad at her.

I want her.

I don’t want to want her.

Christ, do I want her.

“Gray.” A murmured protest.

I tear my lips from hers, shove off the door I have her pressed against, and stride to the other side of the room.

“You are . . . you just . . .” It’s as if I can barely breathe. Christ, I’m mad at you.”