Chapter 16 In the Backseat
Lawrence's hand is already between my thighs, his fingers pushing my damp lace underwear aside. Trembling with anticipation, I lift my hips toward him as the pad of his finger touches my entrance, when suddenly, his phone vibrates against the leather seat.
We both freeze, glancing at it like a bomb just went off.
I cup Lawrence's face, turning him back to me, and kissing him harder to drown out the interruption.
Ignore it. Please ignore it.
My mind pleads.
The damn phone rings again, seeming even sharper this time. More insistent, and Lawrence pulls back with a low curse.
"I'm sorry," he mutters. "This could be important. I have to take it."
Nodding mutely, I slide off his lap to sit on the other side of the car, suddenly feeling cold despite the heat still roaring between my legs.
My dress falls back into place like nothing happened, but everything feels wrong.
I'm shaking from arousal, and the whiplash of being seconds away from his fingers inside me and now… this.
Lawrence answers with a curt, professional "Yes?" and puts the phone to his ear.
I watch the transformation happen before me.
The lazy, aroused heat in his green eyes cools degree by degree until only that sharp, predatory focus remains.
The Ice Dragon is back.
His shoulders tense, and the hand that was gripping my thigh now clenches into a fist on his own leg.
I already know that whatever filthy, perfect moment we were having is dead.
He listens for less than a minute before replying in a flat, controlled tone.
"Thank you, Christopher."
Another wave of emotion that's very similar to worry passes his face before the call ends.
The silence that follows is suffocating.
I shift uncomfortably on the seat, smoothing my dress as if it'll fix the ache still throbbing between my thighs. "Hey…" I say softly, reaching out, to touch his arm. "What's wrong?"
He stiffens under my fingers, but doesn't look at me.
"Nothing."
The words are polite but distant.
He's closing the door we'd opened moments ago, in my face.
"Oh," I whisper, pulling my hand back. "Okay."
The man beside me is a stranger again. This painful truth stings as the drive to my apartment continues in tense silence.
Elias's voice crackles through the intercom, breaking the awkward silence.
"We've arrived, sir."
"Thank you, Elias," Lawrence replies.
Silence falls again, until I choose to break it this time around.
"So you're just not going to say anything?" I stare at him in disbelief. "After all that?"
His jaw works, and he still won't meet my eyes.
"You should go inside, Miss Thorn. It's late"
The formal address feels like an insult.
Hot, bitter anger surges up my chest.
"You're unbelievable," I snap, my voice shaking with fury and humiliation.
I push the door open and step out, slamming it so hard the whole car rocks.
As I storm toward my building, I don't look back.
My hands are trembling so badly that it takes three tries to fish my keys from my purse.
The Maybach is still parked on the street, and I know Lawrence is watching, waiting for me to disappear inside before he leaves.
Finally, the key slides home, and I shove the door open, stomping inside. Then I let it slam shut behind me.
Only then do I hear the low purr of the engine as the car pulls away.
Leaning against the closed door, my chest still heaving from the anger and arousal, I let out a frustrated scream.
I hate him.
I hate him so much.
I hate how much I wanted him back in the car.
I hate how much I still want him.
Lawrence Moore, the man who's made my life hell, who critiques my every breath, and I was ready to have sex with him on the leather seats.
I press my fingers to my lips remembering the way he kissed me… so raw and hot and nothing like the cold bastard I've known for weeks.
There's an dull ache between my legs that refuses to stop.
So this is what he does. Lights a match and walks away.
I wonder why I'm surprised.
Or is there something bigger going on, some crisis that yanked him back to reality?
I mean, I get he's Lawrence freaking Moore; his life is probably a constant barrage of billion-dollar emergencies. But why shut me out? We were finally real for once.
I laugh bitterly because reality has set in.
The reality that tonight was a glitch, a heated argument exploding into something neither of us planned.
Tomorrow, he'll probably act like it never happened. And I will too.
But deep down, I know I don't regret any of it—the kiss, the fire that burned between us.
I get to my feet, kicking off the heels that are now killing me, and head for the shower.
I'll need some hot water to temporarily wash away the events of the night, even though I already know it won't scrub him from my mind.
Lawrence Moore is under my skin now, and God help me, I'm not sure I want him out.
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LAWRENCE
I don't usually curse, but… fuck.
What the hell was I thinking?
Telling her those things… confessing about how she's been driving me insane, was one thing. Kissing her was another.
Touching her, feeling how wet she was for me, was crossing a line I've spent weeks pretending didn't exist.
Highly unprofessional, Lawrence. Highly.
I can't trust myself around Scarlett anymore. Especially not in close proximity or when she looks at me the way she did tonight.
There was no single trace of the dislike or tiredness she usually wears in the office.
No, she didn't look at me like I was the monster or her boss.
She looked at me like I was a man she wanted.
The memory of her breath stuttering when my fingers finally brushed her entrance slams into me again.
I press my palms against my eyes and lean back against the seat, shifting to adjust the painful pressure still straining against my trousers.
I'm still hard and aching.
If Christopher hadn't called, I would have given in completely.
I would have fucked her in the backseat of this vehicle.
I was that close. That feral. That far gone.
Come to think of it… I'm almost thankful for the interruption.
Almost.
Because if I'd taken her tonight, if I'd let myself cross that final line, there would have been no coming back for me or for her.
One taste of her and I'd have wanted more. Every day. Every night. Until nothing else mattered.
I exhale hard through my nose and try to ignore the mild scent of Scarlett's perfume still lingering in the air.
Christopher's call was about my mother.
She wandered again. Luckily, they found her on time in the garden, calling for my late father.
It's yet another reminder that the woman who raised me is slipping away, piece by piece, and I'm three thousand miles away, chasing a ghost hacker and falling for my secretary.
How messed up is that?
One would think that my mind would be consumed by more important things—the latest development concerning my mother, which is still burning a hole through my chest—as the Maybach glides toward my penthouse in silence.
But it isn't.
All I can think, over and over, is what Scarlett will sound like when I finally have her underneath me.
Will she scream my name?
Or will she whisper it?