Page 135 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Oh yeah?” I follow her, interested despite myself. “What did she—”
I break off as Sloane props her foot on the dressing chair the interior designer insisted I needed and that I’ve never touched in the whole time I’ve lived here. Then she oh-so-slowly zips up one of the black leather thigh-high boots she was wearing the night we met.
“Fuck the party. You, me, and those boots should head straight to bed.”
“I knew you’d approve,” she replies as she switches legs. And I definitely owe my interior designer an apology because I’ve never seenanythinglike Sloane Walker with her foot on my chair zipping up a second, buttery-soft leather boot.
“I really do.”
I wait until she’s finished putting the boots on—don’t want her to lose her balance—then I grab her hand and whirl her around until her back is pressed against the nearest wall.
“Sly!” But she’s holding on to me, pulling me closer, her body arching against mine as I reach under her tight skirt and take hold of the straps on the lace panties she just put on. Thank God for thigh-high stockings.
“Okay?” I ask. But she’s already curling her fingers in my hair and pulling me closer.
“Yes,” she breathes. Then, “The car will be here in fifteen minutes.”
“As if I need that long,” I tell her right before I drop to my knees in front of her.
Turns out it only takes five, so I use the next five to do it all over again. Only when her standing leg gives out do I pull back.
Sloane reaches out, cupping my cheek in her hand as she runs her thumb over my wet lips. “For a golden boy, you can be a very, very bad man.”
“Good thing that’s the way you like me,” I say, nipping at her fingers before I grab an extra pair of panties and help her wriggle them up her hips.
Then I stand and look her over from head to toe—which really isn’t the best idea when I’m trying to get my body under control.
“What do you think?” she asks, still a little breathless from our pregame. “Am I presentable?”
“You’re gorgeous,” I answer. “As always. But there’s definitely something missing.”
Her eyes go wide. “Excuse me?” The shakiness in her voice is definitely gone, replaced with more than a tinge of insult.
“Don’t worry—we can fix it,” I tell her as I head into the bathroom to wash up.
She follows me, her eyes narrowed and dangerous as she stares me down in the bathroom mirror. “Fix it? Maybe if you hadn’tjust pawed me—”
Now it’s my turn to look offended. “I think you mean got you off. And with yourvery enthusiastic participation,” I add with a raise of my brows. “Twice, if I’m not mistaken. But no, that’s not the problem.”
“So what exactly is the problem, then?” Her hands are on her hips now, and she looks just a little bit riled up—which is fun, but it means it’s probably time to put an end to the game.
I reach into the pocket of my dress pants and pull out a flat box, which I hold out to her. “You’re missing these.”
Her eyes go wide. “What—what’s in there?”
“Why don’t you open it and find out?”
She reaches for it hesitantly, then pulls her hand back like she’s afraid the present will disappear if she touches it. Watching her second-guess herself breaks my heart in a way I wasn’t expecting. She’s not hesitating because she doesn’t want it. She’s hesitating because no one has ever made her feel like she’s worth it.
“Do you want me to open it for you?” I ask.
“No.” She licks her lips, sets her shoulders. “I can do it.”
This time she reaches for the box with the same determination she shows when she strides across the stage in the middle of a show—like she dares anyone to get in her way.
Chapter 59
Sloane
