Page 85 of When the Smoke Clears

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Eleven years earlier . . .

“I’m a terrible dancer,” I said as we slow danced to Lady Antebellum’s “Just a Kiss.”

“We’re swaying. It’s barely dancing. You’re a fine swayer.” She lied because I was handsome, or so I suspected.

My hands lowered a few inches until they were palming her perfect ass as I buried my face in her neck. “Can we go now?” My words carried an embarrassing desperation. It was the best and most torturous week of my life. The sex gods were punishing me for all the one-night stands. All the times I didn’t call someone back despite promising to.

The “lost” phone numbers.

Forgetting someone’s name the morning after and having to call her “you.”

The tears.

The nasty texts.

I was a player with no regrets.

Until . . . Everleigh Reichart.

She was the girl I never knew I needed. Smart and sexy. Fun and addictive. Everything she said mesmerized me. Everything she did kept me coming back for more. I lost sleep thinking about her. And when she grinned while biting her lower lip, cheeks turning red, I nearly fell to my knees. I wasn’t a beggar, but I would have rolled onto my back like a dog, pleading for her to rub my belly or tell me I was such a “good boy.”

I was pussy-whipped minus the pussy, in other words, a miracle.

“Should we say goodbye?” she asked.

“Nah.” I kissed her bare shoulder. “They’re too drunk to remember.”

She laughed, and I wanted to see what other sounds I could pull from her that night. Taking her hand, I led her to the exit, and we grabbed a cab to her apartment.

Did I care the cabdriver was watching us in the rearview mirror as I kissed her with one of my hands behind her head and the other snaking up her dress? Hell no.

Did I care he could hear her gasp when my fingers slid into her panties? Nope.

Did he know she was seventeen? That question popped into my head more than once over the following weeks and months.

Fucking hindsight . . .

Everything we did was so very wrong.

When we arrived at our destination, I paid the driver and led her toward the building.

“My legs won’t work,” she said.

I laughed, taking that as a compliment as she handed me the card to open the door. A couple joined us on the elevator, so we behaved as she stood in front of me, leaning most of her weight against me.

“Will!” she squealed when I scooped her up as soon as we stepped off the elevator.

The second we closed her apartment door, I set her on her feet and kissed her while pulling at my tie and then unbuttoning my shirt.

No video games.

No food poisoning.

No parties.

This was happening.