Addicted After All (Addicted #3)(49)

“Lil,” Lo breathes in warning. I’ve scooted back up into his crotch. It’s not my fault. The way they are staring at each other—this is eye f*cking if I ever saw it.

A second later, they attack each other with carnal desire, the kind that you search for in good porn. I squeeze my eyes shut at my perverted thought. This is bad.

When I open them, their kiss is front and center, spotlighted, but no one else seems to be watching. There is serious tongue. Tongue that is done right. His hand envelops her face as he deepens the kiss, and she breaks from him, just to let out a pleasured cry.

Holy shit.

This is so physical and explosive that it really does deserve a fireworks show.

The other couples are talking and flirting, and Lo suddenly stands. “Follow me,” he whispers in my ear.

“I’m okay,” I tell him quickly, whipping my head away from the PDA. Do not watch, Lily. I try to bury any gross, guilty shameful feelings. They do not exist, I chant over and over.

Lo’s brows rise and he says, “I know.” He smiles to show me that he’s being honest.

I believe him.

“Follow me, love,” he repeats.

I throb in good-bad places. Yes. I rise to my feet like a dream. He has a head start, exiting the little couch area and onto the dance floor. He walks backwards, beating his head to the music with very good rhythm. It’s a song that you salsa to, one that is full of fire, smooth vocals, and a melodic beat.

Lo’s dark gray crew-neck fits him snuggly, an arrowhead necklace against his chest: a present I gave him for his twenty-first birthday some time ago. I can see the lines of his abs tightening beneath his shirt, especially as he begins to move his body to the song. Girls record him with fangirling giggles, their cellphones directed at my best friend. But his gaze is solely planted on me.

When we were younger, Lo was the one who taught me how to dance.

He’s always been able to move like no one is watching, like no one can harm him in this brief expanse of time.

In his last year of college, before he was expelled, he refused to dance with me. Every single time. He sat at the bar and said dance by yourself when I asked.

It didn’t always used to be like that.

So seeing him, right now, dancing in the middle of the club, with no alcohol in his clutch—it possesses me in ways that I can’t express. It’s like my soul is alive. Like I’ve woken up from a long, long sleep.

I slowly walk towards him, and he holds out his hand, waiting for me to near and take it.

I do.

And he draws me swiftly to his chest, my breath escaping. His hips begin to move with mine, so sensually that a heat builds across my skin.

I flourish beneath his intoxicating eyes, drinking him in completely.

He twirls me, and I hit his chest again, my feet following his in a steady pace. It’s our bodies, melded together, that stirs every part of me.

I’m not letting go.

After a few minutes, the song dies down, and we ease to a slower sway. I want to hear his answer, even if it doesn’t make much sense now that we’re moving to the music. I grow the courage to ask anyway, “Will you dance with me?” For some reason, I still fear that rejection, the familiar response that always comes.

He cups my round face, his fingers lost in my hair, and his lips curve. Very softly, he says, “Yes, love. I’ll dance with you.”





{ 18 }

LOREN HALE



“Husbands can’t choose wives, boyfriends can’t choose girlfriends and vice versa.” Poppy sets out the parameters of the game as she sips a rum and Fizz. After claiming the leather couches by the wall, we decided to pay for VIP bottle service for Poppy, Daisy, Connor, and Sam. Anything is better than dealing with the shit bartender. Even playing truth or dare, which usually ends with someone throwing a fit.

Lily sits on my lap, her skin coated in a sheen of sweat from dancing earlier. It was a really good time. I missed it more than I realized.

I hold her to my chest, satisfied with the fact that we can’t disappear and ditch our friends and family. This, right here, feels close to perfect.

Sam cautiously glances at all the locals who snap pictures of us, some even film us from their bar stools. “Can we play this game some other time?” he asks us. “I really don’t want to have to call Fizzle’s publicists in the morning to clean up whatever happens tonight.”

He’s the head marketing guy or whatever at Fizzle. “Sammy,” I say with the tilt of my head, “I get that being a chaperone is so deep within your pores that no facial strips can remove it, but we’re not ten.”

Connor rephrases, “We’re all used to being filmed. Some more intimately than others.” His voice is conversational, not bitter. I’d be causing hell if sex tapes of Lily and me were circulating through porn sites. I get that Connor has taken the publicity to his advantage, but this type of invasion of privacy has to be eating at Rose. It’s been over a year since the first tape was released, and last I heard, there are now five online.

At his comment, Rose tenses and crosses her arms. “No one is allowed to mention the sex tapes until I can have a glass of wine.” Her head whips to her husband. “That includes you.”

“I was making a point,” Connor says casually.

“Make it when I’m not in the room,” she retorts.