Page 92 of For the Plot
Reece:I just want to take care of you a little. You deserve that.
I believed him. Istillbelieve him. But right now, he’s shutting me out. And I don’t know what to do except what I always do… use humor as a shield, sarcasm as a lifeline.
Me:So… when do I get to ruin your bed?
I hover over send. Then I hit it before I can change my mind. No reply. I stare at the screen like that’ll change something. Like I can will a text into existence if I try hard enough. Nothing.
I finish the glass of wine, then pour another. And somewhere around the third sip, I stop spiraling. I snap out of it. Because if he’s not going to talk to me, if he’s going to act like I’m a secret to be hidden, then I’ll remind him what he’s trying to bury.
I’ll remind him ofexactlywhat he’s been pretending he doesn’t want all damn day.
I go to my closet and pull out the soft black trench coat. Then I reach for the new lingerie set I bought on a whim last week, lace and mesh, barely there, cut high on the hips. It hugs me in all the right places and makes me feel like a sex goddess.
I top it off with something I know every man has a weakness for—thigh-high boots. I add a touch of lipstick and perfume, and when I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t see a woman begging for answers. I see a woman about to blow up a man’s carefully controlled life.
I text him once more.
Me:Thought I’d swing by and say thanks. Don’t bother opening the door unless you’re ready for me.
I grab my coat and head for the elevator. Because I might not have answers. But I know how to make him talk. One way or another.
The elevator ride to Reece’s penthouse is too quiet. Each floor dings like a countdown. Each second is one breath closer to something I can’t take back. But I’m done waiting for him to make the first move. I’m done wondering what we are. Tonight, I’ll remind him what he’s been trying so hard to ignore.
I knock once. Then I wait, heart galloping. The door opens.
He’s standing there in dark slacks and a black t-shirt that clings to his chest. Barefoot. His hair is slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. His eyes land on mine, and for a moment, all the tension in his face evaporates.
I take this second to reach for the belt, pulling it undone so that the coat slowly falls open, revealing what’s underneath.
His eyes darken. “Skye…”
I don’t let him finish. I reach for him, fisting his shirt in both hands, and crush my mouth to his. He stumbles back a step but catches me fast, one hand gripping my ass, the other curling behind my neck as I kiss him like I’ve lost my mind. Because maybe I have.
“Let me thank you properly,” I whisper, parting the coat just enough to press my bare chest against him.
His groan is low and guttural. “You’re not playing fair.”
“I’m not playing at all.”
I drop to my knees. His hands fist at his sides like he’s at war with himself. But I win the second I look up at him, eyes wide, mouth parted in a smirk. He grabs me, hauls me back to my feet, and slams the door shut behind me. Then he’s on me, mouth hungry, hands roaming like he’s seconds from snapping.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasps.
“Then tell me to leave.”
I tug his belt loose and unzip his fly. He doesn’t stop me. Because he doesn’t want to. He pulls the coat from my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. His hands grip my hips, thumbs dragging over the edges of the lace.
“Fuck, Skye. Look at you.”
I straddle him as he collapses onto the couch. Our mouths crash together again, frantic and unforgiving. My thighs tighten around his hips as I grind against the hard press of him.
“You missed me,” I whisper against his lips.
His answer is a growl. “I never fucking stop.”
I’m halfway to unbuttoning his shirt when the door clicks, then opens.
“Dad?” The voice punches through the haze like an air horn in a cathedral.
