Page 52 of It Happened on a Sunday
The thought of them finally invades the haze of pleasure that Sly has cocooned me in, and I think about pulling back. But his hand on my back is too comforting, his lips too soft as he nips at me again—my upper lip this time—and holds the kiss there, drawing out the heat, the intensity between us just a little bit longer.
In that moment, that little pocket of existence between time and space and photographers and reality, I realize I want more.
I want everything.
“Hold that pose!” someone yells from the throng of paparazzi, dragging the both of us back down to earth.
Sly stiffens like a hot poker just went somewhere very unpleasant, and he whispers “Fuck” against my lips. And then, so reluctantly that every second is an agony of unfulfilledeverything, he pulls away.
I do whimper then, a tiny sound of protest, and he stops just long enough to caress my cheek with his fingers and murmur, “I’ve got you, corazón.”
He shifts to face the crowd even as he keeps my front pressed to his side with a powerful arm around my waist. It’s like he knows that for once, I can’t face them. My poker face has abandoned me, as has my brazen, “I’m the big bad wolf” act, and all I can do is stand there and let Sly shelter me as he says, “I think that should answer most of your questions. Now excuse us. We’re going to head inside because…I’m suddenly ravenous.”
That draws my startled eyes up to his, but in that moment he’s too busy staring down a coterie of shocked reporters to meet my gaze. That doesn’t stop him from tightening his arm around me and stroking my waist in a way that sends electricity coursing through my body.
And then, as paparazzi, reporters, and fans alike regain their voices as one, he spins us around and walks us straight past a very amused-looking Marco and through the open front door of the Willow.
Chapter 23
Sly
My hands are trembling as I escort Sloane into the restaurant. But I figure that’s okay when she just laid a kiss on me that knocked off a whole hell of a lot more than just my socks.
Not to mention the way she’s currently looking up at me, her big, brown eyes filled with a potent mix of confusion and desire. So much desire that it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to say to hell with the press, pick her up, and carry her back to my hotel room.
But doing that will hurt her a lot more than it will hurt me, so I shove the impulse down. “Let’s go eat, corazón,” I tell her, making sure to keep an arm wrapped around her waist as I steer her through the dining room to our table.
She seems to recover by the time I pull her chair out, and I’ve got to say, I’m impressed by her ability to bounce back. I’m still reeling, my whole body on fire for this woman who has gone from a want to a need in the space of a single kiss.
As I settle into the chair across from her, I search her face for some sign of what she’s feeling and, more importantly, what she’s thinking. I’ve already figured out that Sloane’s head rules everything about her.
But if I’d gone through even half of what she has, I’d be leery, too. “You weren’t kidding,” she says as her gaze meets mine across the table.
She’s got her usual smile in place, the one that has a lot more to do with hiding than it does any genuine amusement. I’ve seen her use it time after time in photos, videos, onstage, and in interviews. It’s one more piece of armor that keeps us fromseeing the woman behind the Black Widow mask.
I understand why she’s wearing it right now, in the middle of what feels like an actual fishbowl, but that doesn’t stop me from hating it. From wishing it didn’t have to be like this. Of all the candid videos and interviews I’ve watched in the last two weeks, I’ve only seen Sloane’s real smile a handful of times. Most of them years old, before Jarrod and some even before Hayden.
The only recent one is the pic she took with my abuela. In those selfies and the few minutes that came before them, she had an entirely different look on her face. One that invited my abuela in instead of keeping her out with a grin that’s the equivalent of a no trespassing sign.
I’m determined to see that relaxed smile and the real Sloane again, though I sure as shit know it won’t be here or now.
“Weren’t kidding about what?” I ask as she fiddles with the glass of sparkling water I pour for her.
“It’s hard to miss us at this table.”
I laugh at that, because even with her guard up, she’s like a supernova. Her beauty and charisma are inescapable, pulling everyone around her straight into her gravitational field.
“You’re pretty hard to miss anywhere, especially looking like that.”
She glances down at her formfitting black slip dress, one strap of which is hanging “casually” off her shoulder. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”
I smile despite myself. “I rest my case.”
“You don’t look too bad yourself, you know.”
I glance down at my own clothes. “Your team said to wear ‘jeans and an unaffiliated T-shirt,’ but still…I feel underdressed.”
She snorts. “I think you cleaned up all right.”
