“No need to look so suspicious,” he soothes. “Do you need a reason to have a drink with an old friend?”
“You and I don’t drink together.”
“We could do a lot of things together, if you just let yourself.”
I press my hand to his chest as he steps closer, my chuckle sounding like a clapped-out lawnmower. “Just stop right there. Those things you’re thinking? We aren’t doing them.” Not tonight. Not anymore. I just haven’t gathered the strength to break it to him. Or admit it fully to myself.
“What things would they be?” he almost purrs, lifting my hand to slide it to his shoulder. The hunger in his eyes is answered by the empty ache between my legs.
I hate myself for being a pushover.
“I told you, just a drink,” he whispers, sliding his lips across my neck.
“I can’t. I have the boys to think about.” I’m not beyond using them as an excuse to protect my eternally foolish heart. I told myself it wouldn’t happen this time, that I’d be the one who called time on this thing between us. So why am I bending as he presses me against the curve of the banister? Why do I sigh and grip his shoulders as he slips his thigh between my legs?
“Just a drink,” he purrs. “A conversation.”
“With us, it never ends in just conversation.”
“I want us to get to know each other better, outside of the bedroom.”
“Why?”
If he senses my body stiffen, it doesn’t stop his hand from drifting from my waist, the flesh of his palm coasting up the side of my breast.
“Because we could be good together. If only you’d allow yourself to take the chance.”
My heart kicks at his tempting words. We were good together once. We never gave our relationship a title, and we kept it secret from the ones who love us best, but things were good—we were good. We laughed together. We talked. I thought I was getting to know him. I was not.
“Darling.” He presses his words into my neck. “I can’t think straight when you’re near, and I can’t function when you’re not.”
“Van, please.” Please more. Please stop. Please never stop. But this is how he makes me feel—like I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels. “That’s just sex,” I whisper. That’s all this is. That’s all it can ever be.
“We’re so good at that,” he purrs as he puts his lips and tongue to such deliciously nefarious use. My head rolls to the side, an easy accomplice to his kisses. “Spend the night with me.” And there it is, the real reason, heat pooling between my legs at the press of his hard cock. “Or a lifetime.”
The longing in his tone snaps me back to myself like the ping of strong knicker elastic. My body stiffens, everything inside me stilling. Everything but my heart, which is currently thundering like the hooves of a derby winner.
“Are you drunk?” My palms push at his shoulder.
“You know I’m not.” His chest moves back, but nothing else. My heart continues to hammer, as does the pulse between my legs. “Unless you count drunk on you.”
Talk of promises and lifetimes is like crack cocaine to my underfed heart. But I won’t be teased. Not like this.
“You’re talking nonsense. Lifetimes, Van? That’s just”—hurtful, tempting, unfair—“ridiculous,” I settle on.
“Is it?” He seems to frown and smile at the same time, like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Like he isn’t the confusing one. Like he’s unaware of our history. Ignorant of what he does to me.
Even after he hurt me, if he’d as much as flicked an eyebrow, I would’ve dropped everything and run to him. Right up until I stepped onto the aisle on my wedding day. But there were no more moments for me and him. Until my divorce.
“How can it be nonsense when I mean it? When I dream of you constantly.”
“You dream of me because I’m available again,” I say, my tone cool. Because, to give him his due, he kept his distance while I was married. He behaved with propriety. Or ambivalence.
“I never stopped dreaming about you.” The light in the stairwell renders him half in shadow, making him look suddenly severe. “I never stopped wanting you, even when you belonged to another man.”
“Whose fault was that?” The comment escapes without thought, just malicious intent, echoing in the hallway. “Mine, of course. You warned me not to fall in love with you. It’s a mistake I have no intention of making again.”
“I wasn’t worthy of your heart.”
“And you think you are now?”
“I could be if you take that chance. I dare you, Isla.” He steps closer again. “Take that chance.”
“I no longer make wagers that are bad for me.” My tone is bitter, and this time, when I press my palms against his chest, he moves. My gown swishes against his pants, the sound of my hammering heels muffled by the industrial carpet as I hurry. He doesn’t follow, and I’m glad about that. At least, I’m trying to be glad about it.