Chloe follows him, the heels she’s wearing flexing her calves as she looks out across the club. She says something too quiet for me to hear over the music, but Cooper laughs, and then so does she.
A waiter arrives with another telltale purple mask and sets four drinks on the table. I pass him a few bills. It’s as much to ensure they’ll be fast to bring new drinks as it is because it’s expected with my name.
Cooper has one arm around Chloe’s shoulders as they step away from the edge and reach for a shot glass.
“Hey, Coop,” Chloe says, holding her shot glass. “Truth or dare.”
He groans. “Dare.”
“At the bar downstairs, you have to order a slippery nipple.”
Vanessa straight cackles. Chloe works to keep a straight face, but as Cooper slowly shakes his head, she breaks, her lips curving into a wide smile that her lipstick accentuates.
“Let’s go!” Vanessa says, tipping her head back and pouring down the shot in one quick drink.
We follow Cooper to the bar, and like promised, a bartender moves over to us instantly. “What can I get you?”
Cooper glances at Chloe and shakes his head. “Two slippery nipples.”
The bartender pauses, but then Chloe giggles, and his attention shifts to her. The obscure drink order is all but forgotten, as he’s clearly distracted for a full minute as he takes her in. He finally turns behind him, constructing the two drinks that he sets on the bar.
Cooper slides one of them to Chloe. “Drink up.”
“But it’s your nipple,” she says, shaking her head. The guy off to her side hears the particular word, his gaze dropping to her chest. “His nipple, not mine,” she tells the stranger, who looks at Coop.
Vanessa giggles. “Drink, and let’s go!” she says.
Cooper shakes his head, pushing one of the drinks toward her again. She accepts it this time, and the two toast. Her smile is impossibly bigger as she chews the maraschino cherry at the bottom of her glass.
“How are you feeling?” Vanessa asks the pair of lightweights.
“Warm,” Chloe admits, fanning herself.
“Well, let’s get you hot.” Vanessa grabs her hand, and the two lead us out toward the dance floor where steam billows into the air and the lights flash, adding to the anonymity. The DJ spins a new song, and the girls stop, arms raised as they dance together, attracting the attention of a group of guys who begin to move closer but stop when Cooper moves into a possessive stance between the girls and the interested party. Vanessa moves toward him, dancing against him.
Chloe grins and begins dancing with another guy who approaches her. She closes her eyes as the music seems to take over her body. It’s hypnotic and addictive in a way that makes something dark and aggressive bloom in my chest.
A waitress weaves through the crowds. I catch her attention by raising my hand, her gaze landing on my bracelet.
It only takes her a few minutes to return with the shots I ordered. I down two of them and carry the third to Chloe.
She looks at me, a thin cloud of confusion in her eyes before she accepts, placing those red lips to the glass and swallowing it down.
I wrap my fingers around her waist, pulling her against me, and lower my mouth to her ear. “Tonight, we call a truce.”
She pulls back, tipping her chin to one side as her eyes narrow with question. “Do we need a truce?”
“You don’t like me much,” I point out.
She says something, but I can’t hear her over the noise. I grip her hip a little tighter, dropping my ear closer to her mouth. “I don’t know you,” she repeats.
“I’m an arse.”
She laughs. “That part, I know.”
“Don’t forget it.”
“How do you propose a truce with that caveat?”
I flash her a smile that promises promiscuity, but instead of leaning into me, she backs away, shaking her head as she looks at me.
She stops a few feet away, dancing with a guy who moves in beat with her, her hips rolling with his like she’s just offered me the next round of truth or dare.
I should turn around and spend the night surrounded in booze and hot skin that would be guaranteed to end with meaningless pleasure.
I should be going up to the VIP section and focusing on the meeting from this morning and what was relayed to me—and more importantly, what wasn’t.
I should be erasing these thoughts and the image of Chloe fucking Robinson, and the way I want to decipher the silent glances she tucks away when she looks at me.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow, I’ll care about the fucking rules.
I close the distance between us, my intention clear as I make eye contact with the guy she’s dancing with, who reads my thin veil of patience and takes the hint to move.
I slide my hand over her waist and down her hip, trailing across the lace fabric. She watches me, a dozen questions and objections clear in her gaze as I move closer. The tempo is fast, but the beat is slow, carrying her body to move against mine.
It’s then I realize the orange scent is from her hair, and the floral scent is her skin as I slide against her.
We move like we know each other, know each other in intimate ways that dictate how our bodies move together with hunger. And when she turns, pressing her arse and back against me, I run my hand over her body and up through her breasts, across her sweat-dampened skin and along her neck, holding her there, feeling her breaths and the race of her heart.
It’s fucking intoxicating.
She turns again, eyes dilated, hands balanced on my waist, and my thoughts are lost in a deep ravine between yesterday morning and tonight. I consider what it would feel like to kiss her properly. What she would taste like and if it would make it easier or harder to finish the rest of
