Page 85 of Caught Up In You

“You’re welcome. I like you, Wyatt. You seem like a tough, no-nonsense bitch, but because he’s my best friend, I’m obligated to say that if you hurt him, I have plenty of ways to take you down and make it look like an accident, okay?”

She winks as she says it, which takes the edge off the menace, and we both laugh. But I know that Francie isalsoa tough, no-nonsense bitch and that the warning has teeth.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go schmooze the boomer executives my future in-laws insisted on inviting to this shindig. And just a little pro tip from me to you? When Owen needs a break from peopling, you can usually find him hiding in a bathroom somewhere. Bad news for you is that this place has, like, forty-five of them. But I’d start back there.” She points down a small hallway that’s mostly full of cater waiters passing in and out of the swinging door to the kitchen.

I wander the first floor, peeking into bathrooms, all the while working up my courage to ask Owen some questions. About third year. About the panic attack. About why he feels the need to hide this stuff behind that brittle smile. He doesn’t need to hide from me. This wasn’t supposed to be a relationship, what we have, but it’s obvious that it’s become one when we weren’t looking. And if we’re going to have a relationship, I’d like him to trust me enough to tell me the truth. To show me the whole unvarnished mess of him.

I look in three bathrooms before I find him in a little powder room tucked back by the sunroom. The door is shut, but I take a swing and knock.

“Occupied,” he calls through the door.

“Zip up, because I’m coming in,” I reply.

The door swings open immediately, because Owen isn’t actuallyusingthe bathroom, just sitting on the toilet lid doing aNew York Timescrossword puzzle.

“You know, we can just leave. You don’t need to haunt these people’s very ugly bathroom,” I say, eyeing the sad-looking French peasants herding sheep on the toile wallpaper.

He laughs, arranging his perfect Owen smile on his face, and it’s all I can do not to tell him to cut the shit. I don’t need the perfect happy Owen. I just needOwen, cracks and all. But the man looks like he’s trying so fucking hard to hold on to his sanity, and to take that away from him would probably only wound him further.

“Or we can talk,” I say. I glance over my shoulder and see that we’re alone in this tiny, tucked-away hall.

I brace for him to blow me off, to say we need to get back to the party, to pretend.

But he surprises me by standing up and wrapping his hand around my wrist, giving me a tug. I tumble into the tiny bathroom with him, landing flush against his chest. He reachespast me, his hand brushing my hip, and pulls the door shut, flipping the lock.

“I have a better idea,” he says, and that fake smile suddenly becomes something a whole hell of a lot sexier.

“A bathroom quickie? With all these eighteenth-century peasants watching us?” I nod at the wallpaper.

“Then I better do some of my best work,” he says. He ducks his chin and starts peppering the underside of my jaw with soft kisses and swipes of his tongue. Then he spins me around, placing my hands on the marble countertop. I catch sight of him in the mirror, his eyes dark and full of hunger.

“I’ve been wanting to flip this frilly little dress up since the moment I saw it,” he growls into my ear, dragging the gauzy fabric through his fingers.

I wanted to talk, but it’s clear Owen doesn’t want that. He wants this, and isn’t this what I promised him? Wasn’t this our agreement? No strings? No relationship?

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I reply, my voice husky with need. Because even amidst my hesitations, I still want him more than should be legal. Does the DEA know about the potent affects of Owen McBride? Do they know what it feels like to want him? Because feeling his hands coast over my hips, gliding down between my thighs and fisting my lace panties so tightly I’m half worried he’ll rip them, half desperate for him to…it feels dangerous.

“I want to destroy these,” he says, giving the lace a tug. “I want you to walk out of this fancy-ass party wet and bare and defiled.”

“What’s stopping you?” I ask, eyebrow arched.

His only response is to jerk his hand and the tear the lace. He raises the fabric to his face and inhales, then shoves it in his pocket, never taking his eyes off mine in the mirror. And I’m riveted to his gaze like I’m under a spell, like he’s pulling mystrings. When he kicks at my heels, I widen my stance. When he presses down between my shoulder blades, I lower myself onto my elbows, tossing my hair back so I don’t lose sight of him.

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, dropping it onto the marble countertop.

“Open it,” he says, and like I’m in a trance, I flip it open. It’s clear to me now that this is what Owen needs: a sense of control. It may not be honesty and conversation, confession and absolution, but it’s something only I can give him.

“Find the condom,” he says.

“You brought a condom to this party?”

Owen leans down, licking the shell of my ear, before he growls, “Wyatt, do you not understand that Ialwayswant you? Everywhere? That you’remine?”

The words send a wave of heat through my body, and I pull the condom from between some twenty-dollar bills and hold it up to him. I’m breathing hard, my eyelids heavy as the desire for this man overtakes me.

It takes him seconds to sheath himself, and with his eyes still on me, he fists his cock and enters me in one hard, fast thrust.

I drop my head into my hands to stifle my moan.

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