“I’m twenty-nine and have had three long-term girlfriends, starting my sophomore year in college.” His eyes slid up to my hair and then down to mine. “So please, don’t try to hand me that shit. I know exactly how long it took you to do your hair like that and I know why you did it.”
“You’re taking a great number of things for granted,” I huffed.
He stared at me.
And then…
Well then…
He muttered, “Fuck it,” both his hands rose to cup my head just above the base of my neck, his head came down, and he was kissing me.
I held out longer this time.
At least three whole seconds.
I would later clutch tight to that to salvage my pride.
But after those three seconds, the lure of what we’d experienced before, and the possibility of having it again were too much to bear.
I opened my mouth, Judge slid his tongue inside, and, sadly, there were no other words for it.
Without a cold night and a recent fight and a roomful of people to hold us back, we went at each other.
Desperately.
It would have been humiliating if it wasn’t so damned hot.
The doorbell rang.
Judge tore his mouth from mine and growled, “Jesus Christ.”
I was plastered to him, an arm curled tight around his neck, the fingers of my other hand sifted into his soft hair.
He had a hand fisted in the upswept hair above my nape, his other arm wrapped around me, holding me close even though he didn’t have to because I was arched into him.
And we were both breathing like we’d run a sprint.
“You wanna try to convince me you’re not into me after that?” he demanded.
I feared this was beyond even my profuse abilities to lie.
I pressed my lips together again, feeling the phantom of his still there, along with tingles and swelling, and mutely shook my head.
The doorbell rang again as Judge said, “Good. You at one with my plan?”
I kept my lips as they were, widened my eyes, and nodded my head.
“Good,” he grunted. “You want me to get the door while you fix your hair?”
I felt my bun had come loose.
Thus, another nod from me.
“Christ, you’re so fucking cute, being around you is goddamn torture,” he grumbled.
“You could—” I started.
He took his hand from my hair and wagged a long, attractive finger in my face.
“Don’t finish that,” he warned.
I pressed my lips together again.
He watched, grunted unintelligibly this time, bent and touched his lips to my forehead and then let me go.
“We’ll start the cocktails if it takes you another half an hour to get back to a style that’s gonna fuck with my head all night,” he threw over his shoulder as he rounded the wall on his way to the hall.
I glared at said wall after he disappeared.
But he had long legs. It would take him no time at all to get to the front door.
So I darted out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my vanity to fix my hair.
And it took an extra five minutes, but I absolutely did the needed repairs so it would fuck with Judge’s head.
All night.
Chapter 11
The Ride
Judge
The next morning, at ten-thirty, not long after Judge pressed her doorbell, Chloe opened her front door.
He nearly howled with laughter.
Regardless of the copious beverages she’d consumed the night before, she was completely tricked out.
Cream jeans. Slouchy white button-up that was not buttoned very far up, a tangle of gold chains and pendants in her cleavage. Hair down and blown straight. Leopard print pumps.
And massive sunglasses on her nose.
Yes, wearing them inside.
But they did not hide the shitty look she wore on the rest of her face.
It was the look that did it.
He couldn’t hold it any longer.
He burst out laughing, walked in, hooked her with an arm, kicked the door shut with his foot, and bent to her, pressing his lips to hers.
She made a noise of irritation before she did something surprising.
He’d just been going for a hard, closed-mouth kiss. Considering she had to be hungover AF, he didn’t suspect she could take more.
But she melted into the kiss and opened her mouth to allow him entry.
That warm, sweet mouth?
Judge didn’t decline this invitation.
However, he also didn’t make her go without breath for long. It was a deep, wet one, but not a long one, and then he lifted his head.
“Mornin’, gorgeous,” he muttered, still smiling at her.
“I believe we should catalog this as evidence we don’t suit,” she groused.
“Why?” he asked, not giving a shit what she was going to say, because they totally “suited,” and as far as he was concerned, that kiss wasn’t evidence.
It was proof.
However, he asked because he knew whatever she came up with would be hilarious.
“You’re a morning person.”
He raised his brows, suddenly entirely interested in what she had to share, because that wasn’t hilarious, it was surprising.