The Fortunate Ones
Page 35

“Brooke?”
“Hmm?”
He leans closer when I don’t look up. “I like that dress,” he says with a whisper against the shell of my ear.
I glance down at my lap and nibble on my bottom lip.
His thumb continues to skim back and forth across my knee, lingering for a moment in the hollow before claiming the bare skin an inch higher up my leg. I like that he can’t keep his hands off me. I put thought into my dress, picking the exact silhouette that would make me feel most confident. My hair and makeup are weapons, temporarily forgotten after sitting alone at the restaurant for so long. Now, I remember why I needed them in the first place; I can’t keep up with James unarmed.
My fingers ache to reach out and touch his raven-black suit. I want to feel his muscles tighten beneath the soft fabric. Instead, I fist my hands on my lap. James chuckles and turns to accept the drink from the bartender, taking his hands with him. My skin tingles from the ghost of his touch, but I use the moment to regain some ground.
“How was the conference?” I ask, proud that my voice doesn’t shake.
He stands and reaches into his wallet for his cash. He only arrived five minutes ago, but apparently he’s too anxious to sit at the bar for long. He downs some of his drink and flags down the bartender to pay his tab.
“James?”
He ignores me, tugging a few bills out of his wallet and sliding them across the bar. His hand grips my upper arm and when he turns to walk away, I swivel on my barstool, forced to follow after him or fall flat on my face. His hold on me isn’t painful, but there’s also not much room for negotiation. He leads us out of the bar and toward the hotel’s elevators.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment as people turn and watch us.
“What’s wrong? James?”
My heels clap against the marble floor as we beeline through the lobby. The doors of the elevator are already open, waiting for us. We step inside and he presses the number for our floor. The doors whoosh closed, we start ascending, and then he turns to me. My pulse jumps.
“I missed you today,” he says, his heated gaze lingering on my body.
I step back, and he follows.
He looks like he’s cornering his prey.
“Apparently not enough to make it to dinner,” I point out icily.
“I called the restaurant and told them I’d be late. Didn’t they tell you?”
I cross my arms and glance away.
“Brooke.” He steps closer and gently lifts my chin, forcing me to look back at him. “Fight with me tomorrow.”
I narrow my eyes, angry with him for shelving this discussion so casually. To him, it doesn’t matter that I sat in that restaurant alone, looking like a fool for nearly two hours. He’s brushing off my anger, stepping closer and forcing his way past my defenses.
“I think I’d like to talk about it now.”
I catch the beginning of a smirk just before he leans in to kiss my cheek.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything you’d rather be doing right now?”
He uncrosses my arms and brings them up over his shoulders then steps closer, towering over me. My arms tighten around his neck, but still, I turn away, keeping my mouth from him. His breath hits my neck and he pulls me taut against his hard body, growing more impatient with every moment I try to resist.
“Brooke,” he whispers huskily.
My eyes flutter closed as he bends and presses a kiss to my cheek, my chin, then lower, tipping my head back so he can reach the smooth recess at the nape of my neck. I shiver and he groans, obviously aware of what his touch is doing to me.
Torn between wanting to submit to my desire or hold my ground, I turn toward him, and his mouth crashes down on mine without warning. He kisses me mercilessly even as I struggle against him. My hands fight their way between us and I try to shove him off, but his ironclad embrace is too strong for me to break. I know I won’t be able to outmaneuver him, so I resist in a simpler fashion by holding completely still. He can force me against him, but I don’t have to respond, and I don’t have to kiss him back.
My rebellion makes him even more annoyed. His grip bites into my hip and his mouth moves over mine relentlessly. All the while, I ignore the sparks of desire stemming from his touch. I tell myself I would be reacting this way if any man kissed me like this, not just James. His kiss turns punishing, and I respond by digging my nails into his suit, hoping to break skin.
We’re ascending so quickly. I know any moment the elevator will ding and announce that we’ve arrived, but something changes in that short time. His touch turns from brutal to sensuous. His lips move over mine with tenderness. His hand drifts down my back in a slow caress, easing me closer until our bodies are flush. He’s rock hard and unyielding. I moan against him and fist my hands into his suit pockets.
The elevator dings and the doors whip open.
I break our kiss and inhale sharply, trying to fill my lungs like a madwoman. James wastes no time hauling me out of the elevator. It’s a few feet to the door. He swipes the key and we push inside, halfway through before our mouths collide. He opens his lips against mine and his tongue sweeps into my mouth. My purse is tossed across the room and his jacket follows. I tear at the buttons on his shirt and he reaches around to fumble with the zipper on my dress.
Our passion is fueled by our impatience. The last button springs free and I drag my hands up his toned chest and past his shoulders, taking the fabric with me. It slides down his arms and onto the floor, leaving his toned upper body completely bare. I feel my slip dress starting to slide down my body, but I’m too preoccupied with him, with his powerful, tan shoulders and arms on full display to stop it. I watch the muscles flex and coil as he yanks the garment the remainder of the way off. My strapless bra is already slipping down, halfway concealing my chest. I think he’s going to tug it off like he did with my dress, but instead he hauls me up against him and walks us into the suite’s living room. I’m a feather in his arms, and then I’m falling through the air, caught suddenly by the couch. He stands over me, his large frame bathed in bright neon light from the Vegas strip. A swath of dark blue darts across his face, and when our eyes meet, it gives him an animalistic glow.
I try to adjust myself to sit up straight on the couch, but before I can, James bends down and grips my thighs. With a hard tug, he drags me to the edge. I prop myself up on my elbows and watch as he steps closer.
His eyes drag down my body. It’s a suggestive perusal, as intimate as if his fingertips were following the same trail. I usually don’t care what people think of me, but I’m desperate to know his thoughts as he bends down onto his knees and pushes my legs apart so he can fit between them. His eyes are hooded, his touch searing. He drags his fingertips across my thighs and my stomach quivers. Then he grips them and inches them just a little…bit…farther…apart until the backs of my thighs hit the couch. Apparently pleased with my position, he skims his fingers higher across my stomach, and then up and over my bra. There’s no rush as he follows the line of the material, dragging his finger pad over each cup. My toes curl. With slow precision, he works the material down, and then my chest is bared for him.
I fight the urge to squirm, instead lying perfectly still as his hungry gaze moves over me.
“Brooke,” he groans. Then, as if he just can’t help himself, he bends low and takes one of my breasts in his mouth. His tongue drags across my nipple and I cry out, arching my back to give him better access. He stays there just a moment, teasing me before he stands back to his full height.
He unbuckles his belt with deft hands. I reach up to replace his fingers with mine and slide it out in one smooth tug. The metal belt buckle hits the ground with an audible clunk, highlighting how little sound there is in the hotel suite, nothing but our breaths coming hot and fast. The tension ratchets up another notch as we meet each other’s gaze. I can only imagine what he sees in my light eyes—everything, no doubt, every ounce of desire surging through me. I blink and cut off the connection, turning instead to the zipper of his suit pants. I tug it down and he pushes the material low before stepping out of them, exposing his long, muscular legs. He obviously spends hours in the gym lifting weights or running or doing some other form of torture that produces results like this. I’m very appreciative, and my sly smirk says so.