Page 67 of Threaded Lies

“Do you need help with something? I can find someone to help—”

“No. I’m fine. I got turned around and went in the wrong door.”

“Okay. See you back out there, then.”

“Definitely.” I infuse fake cheerfulness into my tone.

I watch him walk back out the door I came in and the minute the door closes at his back, I yelp when my hand is grabbed and I’m pulled into a darkened alcove.

Holden’s hand is on my throat in that seductive, hand-necklace thing he does that makes me feel owned and wanted and desired all at the same time.

“Olly olly oxen free,” he murmurs—a reminder of our sexy game of hide-and-seek—seconds before his lips find mine in a searing kiss that demonstrates every single thing his hand on my throat does.

He knocks me breathless. The taste on his tongue. The demand in his lips. The groan deep in his throat.

When he breaks from the kiss, I try to lean forward and take more but his hand holds me hostage.

“I’m being extremely tolerant with this whole Chad’s hands are on you thing, but fuck if it’s not testing my patience.”

“I guess you’ll have to make sure I don’t remember what his kiss feels like.”

He growls and slants his mouth over mine again. My body arches off the wall, desperate to feel the length of him pressed against me.

“You’re goddamn right I will.”

Our chests are heaving. The pants of our breath are the only sound in the small space along with the clatter of dishes as he rubs his thumb over my bottom lip before stepping back.

“I’ll see you later?” I ask.

He grunts. “Can’t. Meetings. A dinner.”

“Plotting revenge, huh?” I tease.

His smile is a hesitant flicker before it spreads into a drop-dead grin. “Always.”

“Everything okay in here,” a male voice calls out, causing both of us to stiffen and still as feet shuffle down the hall.

“There was a yelp. Did you hear it?” another voice asks.

Holden dips down and presses a searing kiss to my lips before moving out into the hallway. “Sorry. That was me.” He raises his cell up. “Dropped my damn phone.”

“Mr. Knight,” one says at the same time the other says, “Sir,” both clearly in awe of the man walking toward them who is distracting them from seeing me.

“I have horrible luck cracking the screen,” Holden mutters, playing it off.

They make small talk as their voices grow faint while I sag against the wall behind me, reliving the kiss and his words.

Plotting revenge?

Always.

Lord have mercy for whoever he’s plotting against.

That’s one man I wouldn’t want out to get me.

Well, unless it was to twist in his sheets.

TWENTY-ONE