Rogue (Real #4)(34)
In my peripherals, I just noticed that Derek sat at a table nearby, across from C.C.
“It is a date. You invited me to your friend’s wedding. That’s a date in my book.”
“I did not invite you. I said you could come . . .”
“And we both know how much we love me coming.”
She smiles wickedly, and it does nothing to calm my raging libido. I can tell she likes it when I’m bad. She likes bad boys.
Fuck, princess, you don’t know I’m the baddest of the bad, I think and then, another thought, Hell, I’m not a bad boy, I’m a bad man!
It brings me down a little to realize I’m no good for her.
“Come on, admit it,” I press her, reviving myself with the playful glint in her eye. “I came, I conquered—at least getting you out to dinner makes me feel like a conqueror—and I even survived your angry black-haired friend.”
“Pandora.” She laughs. “But she’s right asking about these, these are too much, more than I’m worth.”
She absently strokes the necklace on her throat, and I whisper, a warning, “Melanie.”
“Greyson . . .”
Hell, I can see the seeds of doubt her friend planted almost spinning in her little head. I keep my voice level, low even, but stern.
“Do whatever you want with the necklace. Just don’t return it to me.”
Swear to god, if I could only telepathically send this woman the damn message to do what any smart girl bent on survival would.
She may wait, but when the time dwindles, she’ll do it. I expect her to. Hell, when she’s spent enough time with me, she’ll be sick of me and anything of mine and she’ll dump it faster than she can say Greyson.
The thought makes my gut heat up in anger.
My hand edges higher up her thigh. This urge to touch her eats at me. I’m always gloved, but tonight my gloves are in one of my suit pockets and my hands are bare—and I can’t stop devouring the sensation of having her smooth skin under my fingers and palm.
She twirls her straw as if she wants something to do, but most important of all, she knows exactly where my hand is and makes no move to remove it. “My best friend, whose wedding you just saw . . . When we were young, I used to be Barbie and she was Skipper whenever we played. I always used to get Ken. It just seemed that she wasn’t interested in Ken, so I used to make sure he was all mine. She didn’t even want to fall in love. I wanted to be happy, carefree, and fall in love one day, and she wanted the Olympics. But she was the one who ended up falling in love, hard, you know? The real thing. The real man. I could not be happier, she could not deserve it more. But now you look at me like her husband looks at her . . .” She lifts her eyes to me and absently rubs a pink fingernail up her glass. “But you’re not my husband, you’re not in love with me. What do you want?” She holds my stare with hers. “Pandora’s right, you don’t give something like this to just anyone. Men give diamonds to women they need to buy, or hide.”
“And yet we’re in plain view. I’d never hide something as beautiful as you.”
She touches the rim of her glass with one fingertip, and I let my eyes drag up her lean, toned arm, down her body, my craving to have her growing fiercer and fiercer every second. “You look stunning in this dress, princess.”
Her cheeks flare. “Thank you. I almost thought I couldn’t wear it.”
“You look lovely. The way your hair curls at the tips. I can’t take my eyes off you and I can’t wait to take that dress off you.”
She drops her gaze to the table, biting on her smile.
I lean forward, testing my limits; pushing them. “We’ve been intimate. You’re wearing my necklace. I have my hand on your thigh. Your friends have drilled the crap out of me. Why so shy?” When she just lets go of that delicious smile, I curl my index finger under her chin and tip her head back. “You been thinking about me?”
“You mean dwelling on and pining over the guy who didn’t call?”
I cock a brow. “The man standing at the church, waiting for you to throw him a bone? That was me.”
“Oh wow, thanks for clearing that up!” The delicate sound of her laugh makes me stone hard.
I slide my hand higher on her thigh, pulling up the silk of her dress so I can touch more bare skin. I am about to kiss her when a familiar face enters the diner. My eyes slide over to him and I ease back when C.C. makes a brief hand gesture to let me know he’s on it.
Fuck me, I have no energy for any criminal bullshit tonight. I haven’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. The knife cut on my biceps aches like a bitch, and I’m running on pure adrenaline here. As I wait for C.C. to make a sign that it’s clear, Melanie picks at her salad, and the old familiar pattern of staying apart from the world settles over me.
“Thanks for coming to the wedding,” she says, softly.
“My pleasure,” I reply, low.
I can suddenly sense the distance between us like a ten-foot abyss, keeping me from making a connection.
“Why did you?”
My eyebrows fly up. “Why did I come?”
She nods, and I don’t know anything else except that I still crave a connection with her. Any sort of connection. I’m stroking my longest finger up the creamy inside of her thigh, all the while watching the newcomer leave in my peripherals. “I came for you, Melanie.”