Page 109 of The Trade

“If it’s such a bad idea, then why is your hand on my chest?” I throw back at her. Each thud of my heart against her fingertips amplifies the raw, aching need coursing through me.

“Your hand’s on my cheek!”

“Because I don’t think this is a bad idea.” I move another breath closer. “I think it’s a great idea. I’ve been dying to kiss you ever since I saw you walk into this bar.”

The second the words tumble out, her fingers clutch at my shirt, dragging my lips down to hers. The world shifts and narrows until there’s only her—her taste, her touch, her scent consuming me whole. She kisses me with a kind of desperation that shatters my last shred of restraint.

My hand cups the back of her neck, and the other roams freely along her side. As I grip her hip and pull her against me, it feels as though I’ve finally come home. But then, she pulls away slightly, her breath heavy.

“We’re not getting back together, you know?” she whispers.

My stomach drops, but I carry on kissing her anyway. If this is the last moment we’ll have together, then I might as well take advantage of it.

Her arms are around my neck, my thigh wedged between her legs as I press her into the wall. The world outside this darkened hallway fades into a mere hum, the presence of others an afterthought against the draw of her body moving with mine.

My hands venture from her waist to her hips, and even though we’re in a semi-public space, our actions border on indecent.

“Tell me this doesn’t mean anything,” she murmurs against my lips.

I respond by shifting my hands up, my palms coming to rest on the swell of her ass. A gasp slips from her as she instinctively wraps one leg around my thigh, her body rocking against me in sweet desperation. As I sneak my hand underneath her skirt, a soft sigh escapes her.

I break from the kiss, moving along her jaw, her cheek, until I reach the spot just below her earlobe. I let myself get lost in her, tracing my lips along her throat and marking her with my desire until she’s whimpering beneath me.

“West, tell me,” she manages to gasp.

“Lie to you?” I choke out, my voice ragged. “I promised I wouldn’t do that again.”

She goes still beneath me, eyes wide. She disentangles herself, the cool air suddenly stark against the heat of her body. “This was a mistake.”

“Was it?” I challenge, a part of me unable to accept her denial. “It didn’t feel like a mistake to me.”

“Well, it was.”

“Because of Garrett?”

She flinches, a visible sign of her discomfort. “No.”

I study her, my gaze tracing her body language—the deflated posture, the guarded look in her eyes, the reluctance in her voice. “There was never anything between you two, was there?”

“No,” she finally admits, the word slipping out like a quiet sigh, her fingers nervously tugging her clothes back into place. “There wasn’t.”

“You just let me think there was,” I say, the weight of my accusation hanging heavily between us. “For weeks.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You’re right. You don’t,” I say, a heavy mixture of relief and indignation swirling in my gut. “But it’s nice to know you haven’t moved on.”

“I ...whatever.”

I draw in a deep breath, readying myself for the inevitable heartache. “Tell me the truth . . . do you still want space from me? Because space is the last thing I want when it comes to you.”

A heavy silence follows, the seconds stretching into a lifetime. “I’m not ready to forgive you, West.”

“Fuck, I really wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“What—your name?”

Her indifference punctures me. “You know, you’re killing me tonight.”

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