6. Whiskey, Betrayal, and Revenge

The hotel room was ridiculously fancy. We’re talking gold-threaded curtains, silk sheets, and pillows so fluffy they could probably file taxes as dependents. Somewhere in the chaos of landing, catching a ride, and being buzzed off overpriced cocktails, I’d managed to follow Elian into this temple of overpriced elegance.

Now, here I was, back pressed against a very expensive-looking door, staring at a man who casually tossed his sweater onto an armchair, only to reveal a black T-shirt that clung to his torso like it was scared of heights.

How did I get here? 

Oh yeah. Whiskey. Betrayal. The undeniable urge to spite my ex and his community-sharing… assets.

“You don’t have to do this, Maeve.” Elian’s voice was soft, but that goddamn smirk told me he was hoping I’d do exactly this.

My responsible brain screamed at me to leave. To be sensible. To not let a man with the bone structure of a Marvel villain and a voice like melted chocolate ruin what little dignity I had left.

But my body?

Oh, my body was already drafting a resignation letter and handing it in with a flourish.

So, instead of leaving, I took a step closer.

And then another.

And, oh look, I was practically pressed against him now. My hand landed on his chest, and for one wild moment, I marveled at how stupidly firm he was. Like, sir, relax. Being built like a Greek statue wasn’t on the packing list for this trip.

“Elian,” I said, my voice a little breathless and a lot whiskey-soaked, “I’m not that kind of girl who sleeps around with strangers.”

His breath was hot against my already flushed skin. “I wish I could corrupt you.”

“But…”

“But?”

“Please make me forget…”

“Your wish is my command, Maeve.”

And then it happened.

His mouth crashed into mine with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for midnight snacks. One second I was standing upright, and the next I was being dipped backward like we were in the finale of Dancing with the Stars.

Somewhere in the chaos, my coat fell to the floor. Then my dress followed. Then his stupid tight T-shirt. We were basically leaving a breadcrumb trail of questionable decisions on the path to the Ridiculously Plush Bed of Sin.

“Are these sheets silk?” I muttered between frantic kisses.

“Probably.”

“Cool, cool. Just wanted to know what level of poor I’m going to feel when I wake up tomorrow.”

He laughed against my skin, and dear God, that laugh. If lust was a sound, it was whatever just rumbled out of Elian’s chest.

Before I could crack another joke, his hands slid down my waist, and there went my ability to form coherent thoughts.

Look, was this a great decision? Absolutely not.

Was I thinking about my ex and his grossly overshared dick right now? Nope.

Right now, it was just me, Elian, and the incredibly questionable choices I’d explain to my imaginary therapist next week.

And honestly?

All that I cared about was that we were alone, half-dressed, and his mouth was on my skin.

Elian reached around, his fingers already working at the clasp of my bra with an infuriating level of skill.

“Show-off,” I muttered against his lips as the bra snapped loose.

“You’re welcome,” he purred, palms already covering my bare skin like he was a man starved. His chin resting against my sternum as his sharp blue eyes locked onto mine. “You’re incredible, Maeve.”

The sincerity in his voice kicked me straight in the chest, stealing any smart remark I might have had lined up. Instead, I cupped his face, my thumb brushing over his cheek.

He took his time then, his hands sliding over my thighs, waist, and stomach, as if memorizing every curve. When his thumbs grazed over my nipples, I sucked in a sharp breath.

“Perfect,” he murmured, watching my reaction.

“Perfect, huh?” I replied, my voice a little breathier than I intended.

“Flawless,” he corrected, smirking faintly.

Before I could fire back, his teasing touch on my nipple turned into a pinch. My mouth fell open a little as my breathing hitched. His fingers tweaked me more roughly, and a faint whimper echoed in the back of my throat.

He leaned forward, his blue eyes never leaving me, and flicked his tongue over my nipple. He pulled back an inch, still smiling like he planned to tease me forever, but then he took me into his mouth and sucked so hard I had to clench my teeth.

I watched him hungrily, my body thrummed as he shifted his attention to my other breast for repeat actions.

Once satisfied playing with them, Elian’s fingers brushed over my ankle, ghosted up my calf, and then, yep, they were definitely traveling north. His sharp blue eyes stayed locked on mine, and there was intent in them. Intent of the ‘you’re not walking straight tomorrow’ variety.

His mouth paused at my knee, lips hovering just long enough to make me wonder if knees were secretly erogenous zones.

Spoiler: At this moment, absolutely.

Elian’s fingers trailed behind his mouth, and every nerve ending in my body started sending out frantic little signals like, ‘Alert! Alert! Sexy man incoming!’

When his tongue flicked out and stroked over my skin, I sucked in a sharp breath that was absolutely not graceful. Nope. It was the sound of someone barely holding it together. His gaze dipped to my chest, which was rising and falling like I’d just run a marathon. Then his eyes came back up to mine, and there was something wicked and knowing in them.

He tilted forward, his shoulders somehow broad enough to feel like they were everywhere between my legs. And then he started kissing his way up the inside of my thigh. Like he was on a leisurely afternoon stroll and not currently rendering me a helpless puddle.

The higher Elian’s mouth climbed, the more my body betrayed me. I was trying to play it cool, trying to channel my inner femme fatale, but all I managed was biting my lip and making a noise that was suspiciously close to a whimper.

He tore my panties like it was paper. Leaving me bare for his piercing blue eyes to see.

Yet, he stopped. Right at the top of my thigh.

His head turned, his gaze settling on exactly where I wanted him to be. I swear I could hear my soul leave my body in protest. And embarrassment.

Okay, this was it. I was about to beg. Full-on pleading in a Jane Austen novel kind of begging.

But instead of diving in like a gentleman, he leaned back on his hunches and looked at me. Looked at me like he was deciding whether or not to have dessert.

I clenched the silk sheet in my hand, trying to keep my breathing somewhat normal. “Why are you stopping?”