Chapter 110
Serena
I lifted my chin, refusing to let him see how his proximity was unraveling me. "Well, it's unconventional, I'll grant you that. But yes—that's exactly what this is. Nothing more. No feelings involved."
His laugh was low and dangerous, the kind that made my stomach flip. The car had slowed considerably, the streets outside growing emptier, darker. Streetlights cast amber pools across the pavement at long intervals, and the buildings here were older, quieter. We'd left the bright chaos of Midtown behind. Out here, the city felt like it was holding its breath.
But inside this car, the air was burning.
His eyes drifted toward the windshield, though every few seconds they slid back to meet mine—brief, searing glances that felt like they were peeling back layers I didn't even know I had.
"Nothing more," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "So you showed up tonight—risked being recognized, spent thousands on a disguise, dragged my driver into your scheme—all because of some excessive territorial instinct over a potential hookup?"
He turned to face me fully then, and the intensity in his gaze made my breath catch. "Not because you actually have feelings for me?"
The question hung in the air like a trap. My throat went dry. The way he was looking at me—like he could see straight through every lie I'd told myself tonight—made me want to squirm in my seat.
"Of course," I said quickly, lifting my chin in what I hoped looked like confidence rather than defensive panic. "That's exactly what I said. No feelings. Just... you know. Standards. For potential sexual partners."
God, I sounded insane even to my own ears.
Lance's eyes darkened, something dangerous flickering in their depths. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles going white, and the muscle in his jaw jumped. The air in the car grew heavier, charged with a tension I couldn't name. He looked like a man barely holding onto his control, and I had the sudden, visceral certainty that I'd pushed him too far, that he was about to tell me to get out, to stop playing these games, to—
"Fine," he said softly. "Since you have your own standards for potential sexual partners, it seems I have no choice but to accept them. Unconditionally."
My brain flatlined. Accept? Unconditionally? Triumph and terror hit simultaneously, followed by confusion so thick I couldn't breathe. This wasn't the script—he was supposed to argue, not just—
The car rolled to a complete stop.
"But if I'm going to honor this arrangement of yours," Lance continued, his voice taking on that register that made my nerve endings stand at attention, "this potential one-night stand where I'm apparently forbidden from seeing other women—"
My breath caught. The hypothetical hung between us like a lit match near gasoline.
"—then I'd have certain needs of my own." He shifted in his seat, angling toward me. "Wouldn't I?"
"What—" My voice came out hoarse. I swallowed and tried again. "What needs?"
His smile was slow, predatory. "Oh, there are quite a few."
Then his hand moved.
It settled on my waist with shocking heat, even through the fabric of my borrowed clothes. His fingers splayed wide, thumb resting just below my ribs, pinky grazing the waistband of these ridiculous low-rise jeans. The touch was possessive, claiming, and my entire body went rigid with the effort of not arching into it.
"First," Lance murmured, his fingers beginning a slow, torturous exploration along my side, "I'd need to see what's under these clothes. Properly see it. The way I almost did that first night in the bathtub, before you ran."
Oh God.
His thumb traced the curve of my waist, following the dip inward, then the flare of my hip. The movement was unhurried, methodical, like he was mapping territory he intended to conquer. My skin felt molten beneath his touch despite the layers between us.
"I'd need to satisfy my curiosity about your body," he continued, his voice a dark velvet thing that wrapped around my spine. "Every curve. Every line. The way you're put together."
I should stop this. Should pull away, make some cutting remark, reclaim control of the situation. Instead, my body betrayed me completely—muscles loosening, breath quickening, a sound dangerously close to a whimper building in my throat.
His hand drifted lower.
When his palm curved over my hip and slid back to cup my ass through the denim, my brain short-circuited. The touch was bold, unapologetic, and the casual confidence of it made heat pool low in my belly.
"Then," Lance said, his fingers flexing slightly, testing the give of flesh beneath his hand, "I'd need to touch you. Learn the weight of you in my palms. The texture of your skin. How your body responds when I—"
A sound escaped me. High, breathless, completely mortifying.
But instead of retreating in embarrassment, my traitorous hands shot up and locked behind his neck, pulling him closer. The movement was instinctive, desperate, and the realization of what I'd done hit me like cold water. Here I was, clinging to him like some needy—
"But right now," Lance's face moved closer, his breath ghosting across my lips, "what I want most—"
"What?" The word came out barely above a whisper, my entire body strung tight with anticipation.
His eyes dropped to my mouth. "Is to taste you."
Then he kissed me.
His lips claimed mine with a hunger that stole whatever breath I had left, one hand still curved possessively around my hip while the other came up to cradle the back of my head. The kiss wasn't gentle or exploratory—it was consuming, demanding, a statement of intent that made my toes curl in these ridiculous platform boots.
Another sound tore from my throat, something between a gasp and a moan, but I was beyond caring about dignity. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, my mouth opening under his like I'd been waiting my whole life for exactly this. His tongue swept against mine and I arched into him, desperate to eliminate every centimeter of space between us.
The center console dug into my ribs. I didn't care. My leg hooked over his thigh, trying to climb into his lap despite the physical impossibility, and Lance made a low sound of approval that vibrated through my chest. His hand on my hip tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, and the slight edge of pain only made me press closer.
This was insane. We were in a car on a public street, and I was coming apart like he'd found some switch inside me and flipped it to maximum.
His teeth caught my lower lip, tugging gently before his tongue soothed the sting. I whimpered—actually whimpered—and felt his smile against my mouth. Then he angled his head and deepened the kiss further, and rational thought became impossible. There was only the taste of him, the heat of him, the way his hand was sliding up under my leather jacket to find bare skin where my crop top had ridden up—
A flash of light exploded through the windshield.
I jerked back with a gasp, blinking against the sudden brightness.
"Someone's taking pictures!"