CHAPTER 21

"I bet you're a man who takes charge, really makes a woman beg for her own pleasure."

He clears his throat, but I can't look up from my glass to gauge his reaction. I shouldn't be saying any of this shit to my best friend's ex-husband, but I can't seem to stop myself either. Ignoring the arousal throbbing down south with each filthy word, I continue.

"Lots of hair-pulling and choking." I hum my approval. "Taking what you want from their bodies."

"Wow." He slaps his glass down on the table and stands suddenly. "I think you've had enough to drink. Let's head back up."

A thousand different scenarios race through my head in the flash of a second. What will happen up in the suite? Will we make a mistake? Will I even have the courage to try? Am I building him up in my alcohol-ridden brain to be hotter than he actually is? Would Dona forgive me if we crossed a line?

As I stand and follow him out of the bar, I come to the full understanding that nothing will happen once we're locked safely away in the suite. Even drunk, Dean is too reserved, too closed off to ever let anything happen between the two of us. From his silence at the table, I know he isn't interested.

Why should he be? We've been more enemies than friends for the last seventeen years, and our recent reconnection was born from necessity rather than any desire from either one of us. Once this is over, we'll both go back to our separate corners of the world and will probably never see or hear from each other again.

I blame both the alcohol and the movement of the elevator for leaning closer to him as we begin to ascend.

He, on the other hand, is like a statue standing in the corner waiting for his chance to get away from me. Once the elevator stops on our floor, I don't waste a second getting away from him, but he's instantly at my back to insert the room card into the electronic reader.

"Crap," I mutter when my heel catches on the threshold when he shoves the suite door open. He could just let me tumble forward. It's not like I'm going to remember much of tonight in the morning anyway. He probably thinks a goose egg on my forehead will make his job easier by keeping me locked away in the room since I'm too vain to go out in public with such an injury. What he doesn't know is I'm an expert with makeup and could probably lose an ear and still feel confident enough to walk out of here with a ponytail swinging.

"Easy," he says, gripping me with an arm around my waist instead of letting me rocket forward and get hurt.

"Such a gentleman."

He scoffs at this because it's something I'd probably never direct at him if I were sober, even if he saved me from smacking the floor with my face.

"Let's get you to bed."

"Umm," I slur. "Yes, please."

Jesus! Does my brain to mouth connection just completely sever while drinking around this man?

Instead of telling me to kick bricks, he just groans deep in his chest, probably ready to be clear of me since I'm so annoying to him.

The walk to the bedroom seems extra long and filled with distractions and enough obstacles to have my legs not wanting to work properly. I fully expect him to shove me in the direction of the bed and vanish, but he crouches low, one hand on my calf, the other working the straps on my heels loose.

I curl over him, trying to convince myself that I'm only doing it to maintain my balance, but he smells amazing, and the warmth his body is emitting is too much to resist.

"Lift," he says with a quick tap to my right foot once he tosses my left heel away.

When he stands again, we're nearly nose to nose. I read this as interest because the man is much taller than I am and if he were standing to his full height, I'd be pressing my face against his chest.

"Looks like you have magical fingers." In my head the words come out buttery soft and filled with enough innuendo a guy even ten years younger than him could hear the suggestion in it.

He must not be very quick on the uptake because he backs away and frowns at me.

Ignoring yet another rejection, I lean in closer with my fingers tangled in his shirt.

"I've been wondering all night what your mouth tastes like," I whisper, lifting my chin and letting my eyes flutter closed.

His hand caresses the side of my face, but he never closes the distance. When I look up at him, he's looking away, his strong jaw clenched tight.

"Get some sleep, Anna."

And then he's gone, the bedroom door snapping closed behind him. I flop down in the bed, certain I'm going to have a mile-long list of regrets when I wake up in the morning.

******

I'm not used to waking up and feeling less than my best. I normally eat clean and take care of myself. It's a requirement for the work I do. I have to be on my game all the time, ready to take on the world at the drop of a hat, but I blame both the whiskey and Anna for opening my eyes to the sun blazing into the suite and wanting to do nothing more than roll over and go back to sleep.

I don't, simply because I can't. There's a laundry list of things that need to be done, and the first is getting out of this fucking suite before the temptation sleeping in the other room wakes up.

I've been wondering all night what your mouth tastes like.

Fuck my life.

How I managed to back away without giving in or agreeing that I'd been suffering with the same question for much longer than we'd been drinking last night is beyond me.

I'm going insane. That has to be the reason. There's no other explanation for the way my body reacts around her. I must be in desperate need of a long vacation, a way to recharge and regain control of my damn life.