3. Thoughts of her were starting to distract him at work.
4. He hadn’t masturbated this much since he was a kid, and he was worried his balls might permanently shrivel up like walnuts.
He was just working on number five when Chloe reappeared, ruining everything. He’d thought the robe was bad, but now . . . now, she wore a dress the color of gold-edged moonlight, the fabric stretching tight over roller-coaster curves that deserved their own hazard warning. That outfit cupped every inch of her the way his hands wanted to. Her cleavage was so deep she might as well just throw in the towel and go topless. He consoled himself with the fact that the dress was longer than the robe, until she moved and a thigh-high slit made itself known. Fuck.
Her face wasn’t any easier to look at. Her eyes yanked him in like twin black holes and her lush lips shone with some kind of makeup. Her hair was different, pulled back in a thick, fancy braid he didn’t know the name of, one he’d like to wrap around his fist while he kissed her pretty mouth.
He was fucked. He was absolutely fucked.
She came to stand in front of him, clutching a little gold bag. “Is this appropriate?”
Appropriate? He cleared his throat. Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck up. “Well. It doesn’t have buttons, but it’ll do.”
She laughed and hit him on the shoulder with her bag. He wondered absently if he’d survive the night.
Chapter Twelve
Walking toward the entrance of a nightclub was like leaping back in time. Except, in her teens and early twenties, Chloe had never felt the cold, whereas right now she was shivering her barely supported tits off.
The night was made of layered shadows and flashing, neon lights, rain an icy threat in the air that kissed her overheated skin, freezing her nervousness dead. She was too busy regretting her skimpy outfit to question if she should be here at all. That, she supposed, was a solid silver lining.
Red was in front of her, his big body a wind barrier she shamelessly huddled behind. He was holding her hand, tugging her along like a boat, and she knew he did it so they wouldn’t get separated in the busy dark—only, she couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d held her hand. Her heart pounded now just as fast as it had then. He’d been so tender, to touch her like that as he pulled her apart with his kiss. She still couldn’t decide what it meant. Her logical brain said, It means he likes you, obviously!
And maybe—probably—he did. But it couldn’t be that simple, or that lovely. Things never were, for Chloe.
Their first stop of the night had the cheapest drinks, which, Red had explained in the taxi, was strategic. She’d tried to point out that expensive drinks wouldn’t bother her, but he’d muttered something about posh money wasters and told her to get into the spirit of the thing. So here they were, heading toward a slightly shady-looking club with a small field of cigarette butts littering the pavement in front of it. There was a sign the color of her glasses above the door that read bluebell. Bluebell’s pounding music took every other nightclub’s pounding music by the throat and squeezed. The closer they got, the more she wondered if she ought to have brought some earplugs.
Red nodded at the massive, black-coated bouncers, dragged her through the doors, and then they were inside. Everything was dark, flashing, and sweaty. She didn’t like it.
No—that wasn’t right. She simply wasn’t used to it, or drunk enough to enjoy it yet. Of course, a little voice in her head muttered that the hangover she would incur from drinking enough alcohol to make this place palatable would also leave her bed bound for a week. She squashed that voice. It was a party pooper and it belonged to the old, boring Chloe, not the Chloe who rescued cats.
Wait. She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Smudge.
Red somehow carved out a space for them at the bar. She found herself caged between his chest and the sticky surface, his hands braced on either side of her body. He bent his head to her ear, and the feel of his breath against the side of her throat made everything between her legs tingle. She pressed her thighs together while he shouted over the music, “What do you want?”
Good thing she’d already decided on this, or her poor, scrambled brain wouldn’t have been able to produce an answer. “Cherry Sourz.” It used to be her favorite.
Apparently, Red didn’t approve, because he snorted, the puff of air hot against her skin. Still, he caught the bartender’s attention, and before she knew it, three vivid pink shots were lined up in front of her, along with a glass of something dark. She was supposed to be paying for everything tonight—that had been her intention, anyway—but Red had handed over a note before she got the chance. She tilted her head back to glare up at him. He winked at her and picked up his glass. Coke and something, she thought, or maybe just Coke.
Then he brought it to his lips, and she caught the sharp scent as his throat bobbed with each long swallow. Coke and something, definitely. As definite as the slick arousal growing between her legs.
It really had been too long, if the heat of his body and the sight of him swallowing were enough to make her jittery like this. She faced front and grabbed a shot. It went down easy, but she found herself making a face. It was sweeter than she remembered. And, speaking of memories—this had been a lot more fun when she’d shared a row of shots with her girlfriends, drinking one after the other, shrieking foolishly afterward like they’d done something shockingly wild. But Beth wasn’t here, Sarah wasn’t here, Catie wasn’t here, none of them were here, and this wasn’t ten years ago. She bit her lip and downed the next shot.
Then she felt Red’s hot breath against her skin again, smelled sharp alcohol as he spoke. “You okay, Button?”
She held up the last shot of cherry Sourz and shouted, “Will you drink this?”
“You don’t want it?” He narrowed his eyes.
Awkwardly, she told him, “I want you to have it.”
He nodded as if that made a lick of sense, took the shot, and downed it. She took his glass in turn and had a taste, pretending it didn’t thrill her that they were now sharing a glass. He’d ordered rum and Coke. She licked his drink off her lips and tried not to enjoy it too much.
“Hey.” He took the glass back, his free hand running down her arm in an action he probably meant to be soothing. It set her on fire. “Slow down,” he said. “Give yourself a second.”
She bristled, all—okay, most—of her arousal forgotten. She was seconds away from a scathing comment on men who thought they could tell women what to drink when he leaned down and spoke again.