“I hope so. Maybe you and I can get together soon. I’d love to help you with the plans for Ollie’s birthday party next month.”
Ignoring the fact that hearing her call him that thoroughly irked me, I lifted an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware I was making the plans for his birthday party,” I said as I stepped out the way of a tall man headed to the bar.
When she smiled, the sheepishness she was trying to convey reminded me of a client I had briefly in the past—a man who was absolutely charming in public but calculating and almost cruel behind closed doors. I tilted my head, examining her.
“Margaret said she was going to mention it to you next week,” she clarified.
“Then I’m sure we’ll be talking again soon. I’m sure you have some fantastic ideas.” I didn’t know if it was jealousy, like Oliver had mentioned a few minutes ago, but nothing about Finley sat well with me. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Lifting the hem of my costume, I headed toward my table, scanning the massive ballroom for Oliver. Each step seemed like slow motion, my heart slowly shrinking when I couldn’t find him beneath the dim lighting.
As the DJ’s voice came over the microphone to announce Margaret would be saying a few words after the next two songs, I felt a powerful body brush against mine. I felt his hands on my hips, but his movements were so smooth and discreet that nobody seemed to realize we were touching.
“I thought you left,” I whispered.
Oliver’s breath tickled my ear, and I could feel every pulse point on my body going into a frenzy at once. “Dance with me.”
Gasping for air, I watched as he moved around me and walked casually out a side door. My eyes darted around to make sure nobody saw us. Then I followed the path he’d taken, stepping out into a narrow staircase.
“Oliver?”
But he didn’t answer. All I could hear was “Seven Devils” and my own heart. With each step, it seemed to throb louder, harder.
“Oliver?” I whispered when I reached a door at the top of the stairs. It was slightly ajar, and I pulled it open to see that it was a private balcony. I glanced around, taking in the sparse furnishings—a black loveseat with a tiny table beside it. His empty Scotch glass and the Phantom of the Opera mask sat on that table.
At last, I looked at him.
He was leaning against the railing with his back to me. Giving the party going on below one final look, he jerked the curtain closed. “Lock that,” he ordered.
A dance my ass, I thought.
But I turned around, my hands trembling as I twisted the tiny lock on the doorknob. Over the sound of Florence Welch’s haunting lyrics, I heard his footsteps closing the space between us. A moment later, I felt his hands on me, one on my hip and the other resting over my collarbone. His thumb stroked my throat, and his lips skimmed my ear.
“You just don’t quit, do you?” I demanded, fighting a moan as my back arched and I molded against him. “Is this it then? That one night? What happened to making it last?”
His fingers trailed from my collarbone until he firmly cupped one of my breasts, evoking a gasp from the back of my throat. “This,” he rasped in my ear, “this is an appetizer. This is me reiterating just how bad I want you.” His firm chest nudged me forward, and I splayed my hands out on the door in front of me.
“Oliver—” I whispered over the music playing downstairs. Drenched with the promise of vengeance, the song was so fitting for this moment, it made my head spin. It was a reminder that I should walk away and pretend I never came up here. A reminder that I had so much to do, and Oliver—beautiful, confident, oblivious Oliver—was a liability if it came down to laying flames to his mother’s kingdom.
“I—”
“I want you, Lizzie.” His fingers moved from my hips, giving my ass a rough squeeze, and the desire building at the base of my spine expanded, overwhelming me. “Everywhere and every way.”
I breathed in deeply, squeezing my eyes closed and trying to find my voice. He’d stolen it right out of my body.
His lips touched my neck, and I felt his tongue flicking against my skin. “I want to taste that beautiful body of yours,” he said. Turning me around, he pushed me against the door. The wind left my body, leaving me dizzy and breathless, gasping for air. He pinned my wrists on either side of me and stared down at me with starving eyes. Painstakingly slow, he eased forward until his thick erection was cuddled up to my aching core, and my sex automatically clenched.
“But first—” he started, and I shook my head, cutting him off in gasping anticipation.
“You play so fucking dirty, Oliver.” Beneath his grip, I fisted my hands. “So dirty it hurts.” Even saying it out loud just seemed to make the dampness forming between my thighs so much more intense.
A wicked smile tugged at his mouth. “First,” he continued, “I’m going to remind you why you want all that to happen.”
“And what would—”
But then, his lips came down hard on mine, obliterating what I was about to say next.
Chapter 11
Oliver’s mouth seized mine, issuing a seductive challenge that I wasn’t about to back down from. I leaned into him, breathed him in, tasting the flavor of vodka intermingling with scotch as our tongues moved together. He released one of my wrists, immediately cupping my neck. Electricity hummed through my fingers, through every part of my body rubbing his, but I managed to bring my trembling hand to the lapel on the left side of his jacket.
His fingertips snagged a few stray strands of my hair when he tilted my head further back, and a low moan escaped my throat. He made a noise like he was about to say something, but then he released an impatient groan and deepened the kiss, his tongue driving me half-crazy with desire as it tormented my mouth.
My body wanted him. My body wanted to feel the weight of his pressed against it, the slick of his sweat mixing with mine.
Loosening his grip on my other wrist, he trailed his palm down the exposed skin of my back to settle on the curve of my ass, and I grabbed his other lapel. I wanted to rip the designer jacket off of him, to hear the fabric rending beneath my grasp, to see my costume on his floor tomorrow morning.
I wanted him.
He drew my back away from the door, his lips never breaking their sensual hold over mine. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered that the song had changed to Puscifer’s toe-curling “Rev 22-20,” but I didn’t realize his intentions until our bodies grinded together.
Dancing.
Dear God. He was dancing with me. Dancing and kissing me and taking away all my good sense.
When the chorus started, he tore our mouths apart, and though my lids were still closed, I could feel his blue eyes penetrating me. “I have to leave once this song finishes.”
What? Opening my eyes slowly, I stared up at him, noticing the strained expression on his face. “You’re leaving,” I repeated sluggishly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he growled, sounding tortured. “I came here tonight to tell you in person that I’ll be in New York on business for the next week. I’m flying out in a few hours.”
“So you came here to get me all turned on, just to tell me you were leaving?” The frustration in my voice was palpable, and I swallowed hard. “That’s so messed up.”
“Almost as fucked up as you avoiding my calls for the last two days,” he countered, causing me to release my hold on his jacket and step away from him. I was angry enough to hit him—or drag him onto that loveseat with me—and I didn’t trust myself enough to be within breathing distance. “Come here, Lizzie,” he ordered.
I shook my head. “Your mother is giving a speech in a couple minutes, and I’m sure she’ll be freaking—”
“Come here.” He jerked me against his body, shushing my words with his mouth as his hands resumed their spot on my back and neck. I loved and hated the way he could kiss me speechless, and when he pulled away, all I could do was trace my tongue over my lips. He’d left me that affected.