Page 15 of The Love Destroyers

“Is that the pickup line you use when you go to the grad school bars in New York City?”

I shake my head, amused by her, but also bone-deep tired. “What’re you doing out here?”

She came to find me. I know it. She knows it. My dick sure as hell knows it. She’s been sneaking glances at me all night, tormenting me by continually hiking up that dress to flash me the garter belt holding upmyflask. She’s a temptress, a tease, and she’s made it very clear that she enjoys tormenting me. Making me hard for her.

Maybe it’s time to do something about that. Sure, we’ll have to run into each other at family events, but who cares?

She doesn’t say anything, just watches me, her bottom lip trembling slightly. It looks soft and pretty, maybe the softest part of her, and I want to grip it in my teeth.

Inside the house, I can hear the faintest echo of the D.J. screaming, “Who’s ready for the countdown?”

“Did you come out here to be kissed, Emma?” I ask, my eyes glued to hers.

“Maybe. It is a New Year’s tradition.”

Fuck it. I throw the flute of champagne, watching her eyes widen as she sees it bounce off a patch of snow, and to my surprise she repeats the gesture with hers.

Laughter escapes her as she says, “I was hoping they would shatter.”

“I’ll step on them if that’s what does it for you.”

She laughs harder, her head tipped back, the line of her neck tempting me to bite it.

A split second later, I’m backing her into the wall of her mother’s house, and her laughter trails off.

Inside, I can hear the D.J. scream “Nine, eight, seven…”

Emma’s eyes are heavy-lidded as she watches me, and I wrap my hand around her chin so I can get a better look at her. Her lips are parted, and she’s breathing heavily. Her eyes are dilated. I’m almost certainly going to regret this at some point, but right now I feel nothing but the need to kiss her. She tips her head up for me, and something inside of me that was slack goes taut.

So I lean in, and as the D.J. counts down to one, I claim her smart, pretty mouth. She opens for me like a good girl. She tastes like my whiskey, and her tongue moves with mine in a way that instantly makes me feral. I back her farther into the wall, reaching down to hike up her bridesmaid’s dress. Her legs feel cold, which I don’t like, and smooth, which I very much do. I move my hand up over her perfectly rounded thighs, my fingers skimming the lacy garter—and in one quick, unplanned motion, I grab the flask and yank it away. She gasps into my mouth and then sinks her teeth into my bottom lip so hard it hurts.

I pull back, laughing, and stick the flask into my back pocket before raising my palms to her in anI come in peacegesture. “So, you bite.”

“You’re an asshole,” she says, her words breathy, but she doesn’t reach for the flask. Pity.

“You’re the one who’s been flaunting your theft all evening. Are you going to take it back? Because I wouldn’t mind having your hands all over my ass.” It’s a game we’ve been playing, and I don’t mind admitting I’d like more of it.

“Is this your way of saying Happy New Year?” she asks, and as I take her in—back to the wall, my jacket splayed over her, her lips a darker shade because I’ve been sucking on them.

“Yeah, I guess so. Did you like it?”

I know she did. I see it in her eyes and in the pulse point on her neck, hammering hard for me. Damn. This woman is something else.

“You taste like an ashtray.”

I laugh, not the least bit surprised she’s giving me shit. “Sure,” I say. “And you taste like a bar, but you didn’t hear me complaining.”

I’ve surprised a wicked smile out of her, and I’m tempted to lean in again and see what this one tastes like. But she angles her head and asks me, “You know who Nicole is?” The change of subject is so unexpected it gives my dick whiplash.

“Uh, yeah.”

Nicole is Claire’s half-sister.

She and her husband are private investigators, so I’ve been careful to keep my distance. They’re part of the reason why I’ve stayed away from Asheville after both Dec and Rosie made the move.

“Well, she knows what your real last name is,” Emma says in a gush, watching me. “O’Malley. She knows a lot about you. I get the sense that she’s been watching you.”

I swear under my breath as a cold breeze sinks its teeth into the back of my neck. The shirt I’m wearing is probably more expensive than anything else in my wardrobe, given Anthony bought the suits for all the groomsmen, but it’s not thick enough to stand up against a late January night. “You know this how?”

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