“We really are quite savvy at our candy-liquor pairings.”
“We are.” Charlotte sighs happily and scoots closer, almost like she’s going to cuddle with me. “You know, this might sound weird, but I’m glad I caught him screwing that woman. Buying a place with him would have been such a mistake. It was like someone was looking out for me, in a weird way. Does that sound crazy?”
“Not at all.”
“If I were with him—engaged to him and living with him—I wouldn’t be able to do this with you.”
At first I’m sure she means hanging out. But when I feel a brush of her hand against my leg, I wonder if she means something else.
I look down, and her palm is spread across my thigh. Interesting. I’m honestly not sure when that happened, or why I didn’t notice it before, but her hand is warm, and it feels good, and I suppose I’m getting used to her touching me. Maybe that’s why I didn’t realize she’s been touching me the last few minutes as we’ve been chatting. I’ve quickly grown accustomed to her hands on my body.
When the waitress strolls by, Charlotte calls her over, and orders a gin and tonic. By the time it arrives five minutes later, Charlotte’s hand is no longer resting on my thigh. It’s moving. She strokes little lines along my leg, and this isn’t just handsy anymore. This is something else entirely.
I’m caught off guard and completely unprepared for this side of Charlotte—the nighttime, after hours Charlotte, who is very much touching me like we are together, even though there’s no audience now.
“Spencer,” she says, and her voice is all floaty and happy, “I’m so glad we went into business together.”
Okay, that makes sense. She’s in one of those happy-go-lucky tipsy moods where she gushes about life being good. I can handle this. She takes a sip of her drink, sets down the glass, and shifts closer. As she moves nearer, so do her fingertips, as they migrate higher up my leg.
Whoa.
Was not expecting all this hand action, nor the subtle path she’s taking.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
Her fingers brush higher on the fabric of my pants. She’s getting friendlier. Much friendlier. Just how strong are these drinks?
“I was so miserable before we started it, and now I love what I do,” she says, and her hand on my thigh suddenly acquires a mind of its own. Or hormones of its own. Because it is on a one-way path to my dick. And it’s like someone cranked up the heat in the bar. “Do you know why else I’m glad I’m not with Bradley?”
“Why?” I ask carefully, as those nimble, eager fingers inch closer. I’m en fuego. My neck is hot. My hair might be up in flames. I could melt polar caps right about now.
“Because I’m having a great time playing pretend with you,” she says, and her right breast presses against my arm. She’s so soft, and I’m dying to know what her breasts feel like in my hands, how she’d respond to my fingers tracing circles across the sensitive flesh, the noises she’d make when I suck a nipple into my mouth.
How hard her nipples get from my lips.
There I go again.
Exactly where I shouldn’t be.
Her fingers are not inches, not centimeters, but now millimeters from the outline of my dick.
I know what to do, and at the same time, I don’t have a clue. My instincts tell me the moves to make, how to touch, how to kiss, how to fuck. But it’s like a page from the playbook is missing. A whole damn chapter even. Because this is Charlotte, and our situation is beyond bizarre. We’re friends and business partners. We’re fake lovers who aren’t fucking. Yesterday, we were sober and practicing kissing, and tonight we were performing for an audience.
Now all bets are off. It’s just us, and yet we’re still touching.
Neither one of us is operating at top-notch brainpower, though. I’m tipsy, but she’s highly buzzed. That’s got to be where all this persistent contact is coming from. It’s like the bar is trying to seduce us, to weave its spell on us. It’s dark, and everyone around us is touching, arms around waists, hands in pockets, lips on neck. Gin Joint is pulsing with dirty thoughts. It’s beating with the promise of midnight, and sex after dark.
My breath flees my chest when her fingers touch my hard-on. Her eyes light up, like she’s opening a gift, and that’s exactly how I want a woman to feel, but precisely how Charlotte should not fucking feel.
“Charlotte,” I say, my voice a harsh warning.
“Spencer,” she whispers, her lips pouty and sexy as she lingers on the last letter. When she does that, all I can see is her lips on my cock, her blonde hair spilling across my legs, her head bobbing up and down. It’s a glorious image, and a goddamn dangerous one.
The tempo shifts again when she simply rests her head on my shoulder, and returns her hands to her lap.
Like she turned off the light switch.
“I just like hanging out with you,” she says, her eyes fluttering, like she’s sleepy.
“I like it, too,” I rasp out. “And you’re tired.”
“I know. Long day. My pillow is calling out to me.”
Great. Fucking great. I’m turned on, and she’s sliding into the snooze zone. Her hands have settled down, her touchy-feely side has subsided, and I’m left with a massive fucking erection, and my best friend’s sexy-as-sin body snuggled by my side on a velvet couch.
Fifteen minutes later, we get in a cab. I give the driver Charlotte’s address, because I want to make sure my happy, tipsy, tired friend gets home safely. After the word “Lexington” leaves my mouth, I turn to look at her, and everything happens in a wild blur.