Page 21 of The Last Kind of Kiss
I catch her before she leaves, needing to know the name of this angel that’s been sent down from heaven to guide me. “Wait, I didn’t get your name!”
“Calista,” she tells me, pulling the door open. She looks back at me over her shoulder, blasting me with so much confidence that I can feel it whet my malicious appetite, which is no longer satiated by the crumbling granola pinched between my fingernails.
“Lila,” I say back.
“Well,Lila, I hope I’m hearing about this assclown’s name when he’s headlining the tabloids for fumbling America’s next top model.”
The minuteI leave that bathroom, I march across the dance floor, spot Glifford mingling with a group of people, and tap him on the shoulder before I can stop myself. He whips around to face me, brandishing a half-cocked grin that actually makes butterflies erupt in my belly—more so from giddy anticipation than attraction.
“Do you want to dance?” I ask, walking my fingers up the length of his arm, making sure toreallyplay it up for the cameras…and for Bristol’s wandering gaze. When Glifford’s eyes lower to a half-mast—scaling the revealing dips and accentuated curves of my body—desire from his waxing flame lights my own fuse, scorching so close to bone that I practically burn alive.
“Fuck yeah,” he says.
I immediately drag him to the center of the ballroom just in time for the music to pick up in pace, now trumpeting a sultry, lyric-less soundtrack that gives me the perfect opportunity to heat things up. I guide Glifford’s hands to my waist and press my back flush against his front, giving me a clear view of Bristol staring at me from across the room. There’s a raven-haired girl talking his ear off, but his eyes never leave my face, and adon’t-even-think-about-itlook flares in those unnervingly dark irises.
Oh, I’ll think about it alright. In fact, I’ll do it because I have nothing left to lose.
With each catchy beat, I roll my body accordingly, grinding my ass against Glifford’s crotch. His grip on my hips tightens—fingers rucking the fabric of my dress—and his flimsily contained cock digs into the split of my cheeks. He notches his nose into my neck, his lips one dangerous pucker away from making contact with my skin, and the adrenaline rush from this very bad decision stirs an unruly pulse between my thighs.
Bristol’s furious. He’s shooting laser beams out of his eyes, steam’s hissing from his ears, and the cut of his jaw is clenched so tightly I can clock the tension from thirty feet away. Thatstupidly gorgeous girl is too close to his body for my liking, and Bristol and I deadlock gazes with one another, both clearly unhappy with the situation but too stubborn to do anything about it.
Glifford’s all over me, running his hand over my stomach, then dragging his fingers upwards over my skin until he gets to my generous underboob. I know I should beleakingfrom his touch, but the only hands I can think about right now are the ones on another fucking girl.
Bristol’s muscular upper body strains against the confines of his suit, and the smallest modicum of fear awakens in my stomach, sending a direct line of distress to the very hub of my heart. I’m staring down a predator twice my size, and I have nowhere to run.
Bristol’s hand rests on the girl’s hip, but he doesn’t move it. He upholds his gentleman act, keeping her at a safe distance rather than playing with the matches that I carelessly chuck to the gasoline-drenched ground. Glifford, on the other hand, doesn’t have a gentlemanly bone in his body while he ravishes me in front of the press, probably validating some unsubstantiated rumors about being my boyfriend. I throw my head back, push my chest out, and feel my nipples pebble from the tightrope of tension between me and Bristol. Every jealous look, every unrestrained, compacted coil of muscle—it all adds to the arousal seeping into the narrow gusset of my thong.
I know it’s wrong using poor, innocent Glifford like this, but I can’t stop. My cunt tightens around the phantom fullness of Bristol’s dick, almost instinctively, as if I can still remember the exact way he felt when he was pounding into me. His eight inches of punishing thickness, bruising my cervix with every thrust, so deep inside me that I could feel him in my stomach.
Fuck. Ineedto feel that again.
Sweat dampens my forehead and forms a thin layer over myheaving breasts, and a gasp crackles in my throat, my pussy gushing even more shameful liquid into my underwear. I hate that Bristol turns me on. I hate that justthinkingabout him gets me off.
His arm candy has yet to release him from her claws, and she’s too occupied with draping herself across his body, unknowingly given me a perfect peephole of Bristol’s groin—which is so incredibly erect it looks painful. I doubt he’s relishing this as much as I am, but he’s definitely enjoying the show.
I thought for sure he would’ve folded by now, but as always, Bristol just loves to blindside me. And I don’t need to initiate Operation Make Bristol Beg because Glifford’s one step ahead when his hand inches closer to my cleavage.
He’s barely brushing second base when Bristol makes it over to us within seconds, disrupting the ambience of the ballroom with a shout that rumbles the goddamn floor.
“I’d remove your hand right now if you don’t want me to break every one of your fucking fingers,” he growls, bleached knuckles curling and uncurling at his sides. Although he’s not a violent guy, I’ve seen him throw a few well-formed punches on the ice—enough to split lips and knock out teeth. An outburst like that willdefinitelyruin the night.
Glifford jumps back from me, removing his hands in an instant, blathering out a wholehearted apology. I pick up on a few choice words like “didn’t know she was yours” and “no hard feelings,” and I roll my eyes so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if they got stuck in my head. The clamorous volume of our altercation has amassed some scandalous whispers already, and I’m not about to let this testosterone bomb detonate and take me with it.
I grab Bristol’s arm and forcefully drag him toward the exit, leaving behind a ring of shocked and disgusted faces. Amongthem being my agent, Venetia, who dons a look of disapproval which compromises my job’s security.
The second we abandon the building, he rips free from my grasp. The air’s so cold that goose bumps pepper my arms, and realization pops the sex-blurred bubble of my subconscious, leaving me with the painfully raw consequences of my actions. The ribbons of moonlight shaping the edges of his face do nothing to temper his wrath, and our close proximity allows me a glimpse of something I never would’ve caught from across the ballroom—it lifts his tough-guy veil and reveals a hurt that can only stem from the deepest parts of his heart.
His breath is clipped, fogging into the air in wisps of white. “What the fuck, Lila?”
I…I don’t know what to say. Did I take it too far? I never meant to cause a scene. And I wish I could say I never meant to hurt him, but that’s all I’ve been trying to do since I landed this job. The job! Ugh. I’m blowing it before the campaign has even started. Kitty’s Catwalk still has time to replace me if they choose. I’m not untouchable.
Maybe theyshouldreplace me. I’m clearly not ready to be a professional model. I’m not even ready to have a grownup conversation with my ex-situationship.
The rumble of an engine loudens as a car turns into the lip of the parking lot and pulls up next to us. It’s a dark BMW with black-tinted windows, and Bristol opens the door for me before saying, “Just go home.”
He got me an Uber?
I don’t want to go. I want to salvage the night and spend it dancing withhiminstead, but I’ve done enough damage. I did what I set out to do, and now I’m lying in the bed I made. So, for once, I don’t argue with him. I climb into the back seat, watch as he shuts the door, and stare at the ripple of his disproportionate reflection through the window.
