21. Drew

I've never seen Jericho like this. In all the time I've known her, I've never once seen her express negativity toward a stranger, much less dress them down in mixed company. She does it to me plenty, and Chris and Silas have gotten an earful from her once or twice, too, but this is different. She doesn't like him, and I can barely believe it.

I mean I guess I can believe it. The Heir rubbed me the wrong way for years, until…okay I see the joke here—he started rubbing me the right way. But aside from admitting he's a lazy rich dude, he hasn't done anything else that would have drawn her ire.

When the food is delivered, her glare could burn a hole in Olivier's plate. Initially, he digs in heartily, like he's determined to enjoy it, but I don't think he does.

And for that, I feel guilty, because I picked the restaurant.

Elodie, to my great displeasure, tells him at one point, "I think white wine would have been the perfect touch."

Something in him seems to wilt at that. He puts his fork down and reaches for his wineglass, avoiding glancing at our side of the table. Meanwhile, Jericho mentions that a few of her friends are in the neighborhood having drinks.

Elodie picks up on the cue quickly, and with not-so-subtle relief says, "Yeah, we should probably get going, too."

Olivier carelessly tosses three one-hundred-dollar bills on the table, and I almost protest, but decide not to. He won't even look at me, and I hate that the most. He mumbles a goodbye and helps Elodie into her coat.

Before they're even halfway to the door, I hear Elodie say to him, "What a bitch."

Jericho turns to stare at me, mouth open in offense.

I don't know what to say. Where to even begin.

"Did she just…?"

I keep quiet.

"Unbelievable."

"I mean…"

"What?" Jericho asks, dark amber eyes flashing.

I should tread carefully. The whole bitch thing was uncalled for, and I'm not about to side with Jericho's newly declared enemy. But I need to understand what the hell just happened. "You obviously didn't like them."

"She was fine, but he was—I don't even know what to say about him."

"He really got under your skin, huh?"

"Did you know he doesn't have a job?"

"I didn't realize that was a dealbreaker for you."

"It's not just that. He was oozing entitlement." To demonstrate, she picks up the money he dropped and waves it around with contempt. Dinner probably comes to one-fifty, if that. We only had two bottles of house wine.

"The Alfredo thing pushed me over the edge," she says.

I don't want to tell her that him wearing that black turtleneck almost had me groping him in the downstairs bathroom. That's how close he pushed me to the edge tonight. Turtlenecks aren't supposed to be sexy. But a few weeks ago, I didn't think men were sexy, either, and here we are, with me wishing I was the one getting into the car with him.

Because what fucking plans uptown? "Are you okay?" I ask her.

"I'm… I don't know, Drew. What was with that? Why did you invite those people? Why couldn't we just have had dinner together like I thought we planned?"

"I'm sorry. It sounded like you were looking forward to it when we talked about it this morning."

"What was I supposed to say? You never invite people to do anything. I picture you up there in that fancy lobby just folding deeper and deeper into yourself, so I was… I don't know what I was. Now I just feel like I've been punked."

"Sorry," I say again, quieter this time.

"Do you not want to hang out with me?"

"It's not that…"

"Then what?"

I take a deep breath and lean back in my chair. Folding my hands in my lap, I stare down at them. "I'm really struggling, Jer."

"With?"

"Everything," I sigh.

She turns in her seat, crossing her legs toward me. I remember the first time I saw those legs, when she slid that black sequined romper off. I'd been mesmerized. Transfixed. Tonight, they're just legs. I have no feelings about them at all.

"Talk to me, Drew. I know you're not happy. I can see you're struggling. What can I do?"

"There's nothing you can do," I say.

"I can listen."

"Not if I don't want to talk."

"Honey…"

I shut my eyes. "Please don't," I whisper, my heart an empty, grasping void.

She falls silent.

"I think I need to head home on my own tonight," I finally say. "Can I order you a ride?"

"No," she says quietly. "I got it."

"I'm sorry," I say for what feels like the hundredth time.

"It's all good, Drew." She wraps her hand around my wrist. "It's gonna be okay."

I wish I could agree with her. I wish she and I still wanted the same things from each other. But instead, I stay silent like a fucking coward.

I wait with her outside for her ride to pick her up. After I hug her goodbye. I order one for myself. While I wait the five minutes promised, I text Olivier.

You still with her?

1204

I'm dropping her off.

Can I come up?

1204

Sure

I turn off my screen and lift my face to the cold wind and the heavy sky. The air is thick and wet with snow that hasn't yet fallen, and Chelsea is full of noise at this hour. Music spills from open doorways. Tires grind through slush. An ambulance siren wails. The smell is asphalt. Winter. And garlic from the restaurant I just left with my relationship status now in the "it's complicated" category.

I hope I didn't hurt her.

But I know I did. I can only hope it hurts more like a terminal illness…an expected death. Like accepting the inevitable. Not like I took a hammer to her heart.

My ride pulls up, and I slide into the back seat, pretending to be engrossed in my phone so I don't have to speak with the driver. Since Olivier ended up paying for the meal and the wine, I can afford this ride, which I'm grateful for because I don't have the bandwidth to navigate the subways it would take to get not only across town, but sixty blocks up. I have about three hundred bucks left on my credit card, and I still need to pay the plumber.

I can't afford for anything else to go wrong, but I somehow know it will. The next expensive disaster is just around the corner, and I ruminate over what it might be. A visit to the emergency room. An unplanned trip home. Anything medical would fuck me over.

My thoughts turn the Manhattan traffic into a mortal threat. I flinch when the driver cuts someone off, and I have to shake my head and look back down at my phone. I'd rather be carsick than think about all this unpredictable life shit.

I do get a little nauseated as the driver speeds up, slows down, takes hard turns, and weaves in and out of cars like he's on a Formula One track, but before I get too sick, he's pulling up to The Eastmoor.

I use my key to enter through the service entrance. It's risky coming into the building like this. The part-time night doorman is on duty, an older man whose name actually is Jack. He's a solid guy, but he's not one to get up and move around if he doesn't have to.

And I'm also at the point where I don't really give a fuck if he sees me. I need to be in 1204 right now. I need eyes on Olivier. I need to apologize for dinner and lay my hands on black cashmere and tug his curls, and I need… I need…

Anything.

Anything but this sinkhole of a feeling that makes drowning seem like a decent idea.

I get into the service elevator undetected and scrub my hands over my face. I take off my coat, already in a light sweat I can't explain. Fuck, I hope he's not angry with me. But it is my fault. I put him in that position tonight—one he was uncomfortable with from the start. It was my dumb plan. My stupid, thoughtless way of keeping track of him because I don't like not knowing where he is.

I'm not normally like this, so why am I like this with him?

Inside this ancient, slow-moving elevator, the answer comes to me with vivid clarity.

I want him.

I want him more than anything I've wanted in a very long time.

I want his scent in my nostrils, his mouth on my cock, his hair in my fist—any way I can get him, really. Anything he wants.

I reach the twelfth floor and move quickly to his door, knocking three times and sucking in another breath. I wipe a few beads of perspiration from my upper lip, and as I'm lowering my hand, he's opening the door.

Still in cashmere, jeans, socks, his blue eyes blaze, searing me. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry," I say on the breath I've been holding.

He frowns and steps out of the doorway to let me in. "Sorry for…"

My words come out rushed. "That was a disaster, and you left upset, and I didn't intend that, and I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Drew." He sounds defeated. Hopeless. Fuck, I know that feeling.

We face each other in the foyer, and he reaches out to take my coat from my arms, hanging it next to one of his on a hook behind him. "Come upstairs," he says.

I don't argue. I can't think of one reason not to do exactly as he says or any place I'd rather be tonight.

When he takes my hand, I hold on too tight.

He gives it a squeeze in return. "I'm glad you're here," he says when we reach the stairs.

"Thank you."

"But you don't have anything to apologize for. I was a mess. I made a terrible first impression. I could have tried harder."

"I thought you were fine," I tell him. "And I really love your sweater."

He makes a soft sound like a laugh. We reach the top of the stairs, and he leads me over to the bed, which is made and looks fit for royalty. So many pillows. So much luxury.

Olivier lets go of my hand and turns to look at me. "Something happen after we left?"

"I just told her I wanted to be on my own tonight."

He stares down at the foot of space between us. "But you're not on your own, Drew."

"I lied. Are you surprised?"

He swallows hard enough that it draws my gaze, his bruised throat bobbing just above the soft roll of his too-sexy turtleneck. I want to touch it. I want to touch everything.

"May I approach, your honor?" he asks.

I nod, and he closes the small gap, his hand coming up to rest on my cheek. He looks directly into my eyes and holds me steady with his gaze. His thumb brushes my cheekbone lightly, yet it sends rough shockwaves through my system. I suppress a shudder, but my breath quickens.

"I want more," he says.

"Okay."

"To be clear, I'm just talking about your body. I don't have much to offer besides mine anyway, and after what you told me earlier, you don't either. It doesn't need to be complicated."

"What do you want?" I ask, but what I really want to say is take everything.

"I want to kiss you. On the mouth. I want your tongue in my mouth."

"I've been thinking about that," I say.

"Have you?"

I nod. "All the time."

"What's stopping you?"

"What's stopping you?" I ask.

He half-grins. "Honestly? That I'll love it."

"It's gonna be really good, isn't it?" I ask, my dick getting hard from the smooth, repetitive stroke of his thumb, the smell of him, the way he said the word "tongue."

"I think that's a possibility."

"Is this still weird for you?" I ask.

Olivier shakes his head. "You?"

"Maybe."

"Still trying not to put too much thought into it?" he asks.

"What do you want me to say?" I hear the raw vulnerability in my voice. Feelings outweigh thoughts in my head by a factor of ten, and they're overwhelming. I can't pick out a single one and describe it. It's not that I'm trying not to put any thought into what's going on between us—it's that I can't.

"I want you to say fuck it—fuck everything, and then I want to kiss you."

"Right now?" I ask.

"Right now, Drew."

Something in me responds to his certainty. It quiets some of the noise in my head. Desire is still there, though—and the need is clawing.

"I want you," I whisper.

"I know you do."

"But I don't know how to want you."

"I think that's something we can figure out," he tells me.

I wet my lips with a subtle lick. His hand stills on my face and he shifts closer to me, our chests touching. His breath warms my chin. "Take it," I say.

I don't want him to ask. I don't want him to hesitate. I want him to take my mouth the way I took his once. It's not the same, I get that—what I did was terrible. I'm lucky he was high. I'm lucky he's not some delicate flower who can't withstand the blast of one of my landmines.

He's strong, and he's beautiful, and he wants me exactly as I come, at least for now.

He aligns his mouth with mine and takes a bite of my lower lip. I shiver at the feel of his sharp teeth sinking in, at the soft moan he lets out when his lips close around the bite, tugging me even closer to him. Fuck. How does he turn everything he does into a masterclass in eroticism?

He does it again and again, biting here and there, tugging and sucking while I stand frozen as the sensations he's eliciting harden my cock and break me out in a full sweat. His hand slips from my cheek to cup the back of my head, his fingers sliding through my hair to get a grip as he licks a line across the seam of my closed lips.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

I'm better than okay, but before I ask him why he's asking, I realize I'm doing absolutely nothing. I'm just standing here, like a fucking mannequin. Sweating and hard and breathing too fast. Like someone who's never been kissed before. "I'm fucking this up, aren't I?"