Lovegame(53)

I try not to wince at her choice of words and how unwittingly close to the truth they are. “Do you want to sleep some more? You must be exhausted.”

“Exhausted isn’t quite how I’d phrase it.” Her grin is wicked as she walks her fingers further up my thigh. “In fact, I should go soon. I’m throwing a party tonight.”

“A party?”

“For my mother’s birthday. Want to come?”

I should say no, should use tonight to put some distance between us. But I’ll never get a better chance to talk to Melanie Romero, and after what I saw at her house two days ago, I really want to speak with her.

Guilt slinks through me, but I push it back down. Talking to her mother won’t be going behind Veronica’s back, I assure myself. If I do it right, it might even be a way to keep from pushing Veronica any harder than I already have. And while I know I need to tell her about the book, now doesn’t exactly seem like a good time. Not when she’s still in my bed and not when she’s covered in bruises that I put on her.

“Sure, I’ll come.” I capture her hand before it gets any higher, sandwiching it between both of mine. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m pretty sure you’ll hate every minute of it,” she says with an eye roll. “God knows I will.”

“Why do it then?”

She snorts. “You obviously don’t know my mother. If I didn’t throw her a fiftieth birthday party, I would never hear the end of it.”

There’s a lot that intrigues me about that statement, but as I flip through my mental Rolodex of facts, one thing stands out more than any other. “Wait. Your mom’s only fifty?”

“It’s her seventh fiftieth birthday party.”

“Ahhhh, that makes so much more sense.” I grin. “Hollywood, man.”

“You have no idea.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” It’s too good an opening to pass up, no matter that my conscience is screaming at me. “So why don’t you tell me?”

Her look turns questioning. “What do you mean?”

“It couldn’t have been all glitz and glamour growing up in that huge house, the daughter of two Hollywood legends, no matter how the magazines portrayed it.”

She cocks a brow. “Someone’s done his homework.”

“It’s my job.”

“Oh, right. Your job.” She pulls her hand from my grip, tries to smooth back her gorgeous riot of hair. “Is that what last night was? You just doing your job?”

She keeps it light, but I make a living reading between the lines and I can hear the vulnerability she’s working so damn hard to hide. And this time I’m pretty sure it’s not an act.

Fuck. I can’t believe how badly I’ve screwed this whole thing up. “I’d say that most of last night was as far from me doing my job as it could get.”

Her eyes meet mine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” She looks like she wants to say something else, but in the end, she doesn’t. She just shakes her head and continues, “So the party starts at eight. It’s black tie, of course. My mother wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I didn’t bring a tux.”

“A suit will do.” She looks me over with a sensual grin. “Especially on you. Oh, it’s at my house. You still have the address, right?”

“Your house? The one we were at two days ago or…?”

“Yes. My house.” There’s a world of emphasis in that statement but before I can follow up on it—we both know she doesn’t live in that mausoleum—she’s kissing me, her mouth warm and soft and tasting of cranberries.

I sink into the kiss—into her—before I can stop myself. She tastes so good, feels so good, and my hands lift to tangle in her hair even as my dick hardens and my breathing grows ragged. I should stop this, I will stop this, I tell myself. Just a few more seconds. Just—

She moves like lightning, closing the distance between us and swinging her leg over mine so that she’s straddling me. Then her hands are cupping my face, her breasts squeezed against my chest, her * pressed right up against my dick. It would be so easy to slip inside her right now, so easy to forget everything I did to her last night and to just take what she’s offering. To just take her, and to hell with everything that came before…or will come after.

But then my hands go to her hips and she winces. It’s a slight movement, barely noticeable, but it reminds me of the bruises I put on her. The bruises she’s going to be wearing for days because of me.

My dick grows harder at the knowledge that I’ve branded her, even temporarily. But the rest of me recoils at the thought. The last thing I should be—the last thing I want to be—is turned on by the marks 0n her skin. Not when it’s evidence that I hurt her. And that I liked it.

The thought rips through me and I lift her off my lap, almost throw her onto the bed beside me. Then I’m up and all but running for the refrigerator. “I know you said you have to be going,” I babble as I yank the fridge door open. “But can I feed you first? I’ve got a couple apples in here and a poppy seed muffin. Or I can run down to Starbucks while you’re in the shower. Get you a cup of coffee?”