Three

CORA

Everett’s hands grip my thighs, and his fingertips dig into my flesh while he moves forward. I’m not expecting it when he slams my back against the wall.

I gasp from the pain of contact, and Everett—being the self-serving legacy politician he is—doesn’t miss an opportunity to take what he wants. When my lips part, his tongue presses against mine, opening the kiss. Beer and tequila and lime and mint inundate me, and…

…Everett Logan is, far and away, the best kisser I’ve ever encountered.

His motions are shameless, nothing short of filthy, and the moment he sucks on the tip of my tongue, I actually feel the astonishment leave my body and reshape into raw, uncontainable lust.

We battle for the air in each other’s lungs, hands roaming freely. Mine find his hair, tugging it the way I’ve always wanted to, dismantling his perfect rich boy package. Conversely, his hands slide under the hem of my tight skirt, cupping my ass and spreading the width of his big hands across my tingling, bare skin.

But I’d never let him outdo me. If he’s touching my skin, I have to touch his too. I grab a fistful of his t-shirt, baring his ridged abdomen.

Before I can get my hands on him, his mouth breaks from mine and slides down my neck, latching onto a spot below the corner of my jaw. He sucks hard , and I can almost feel color rising to the surface of my skin as he breaks blood vessels and imprints a hickey on me.

I grab his face, and we’re both panting and teetering on the precipice of abandon. He blinks. I frown. An amused grin cracks his focused expression, and he wets his lips before murmuring, “You could turn me into a fucking mess, couldn’t you? Do you feel like destroying me?”

“What?” I question, unable to process the words coming from Everett Logan’s well-kissed mouth right now.

“No wonder they pay you for it,” he murmurs, eyeing my lips as he speaks. “You’re worth every penny, aren’t you?”

The words are vile and offensive—and they scratch my particular itch perfectly. I inhale through my nostrils, wishing he would say more. More degrading. Filthier.

“Even you couldn’t afford me,” I respond instead.

His big black pupils nearly block out the evergreen, and they lock on mine as a smug smile appears at the corner of his lips. I kiss it immediately.

My stomach is filled with puffy clouds and feather wings and other fluttery shit, and if not for his hands fully gripping my bare ass, I would assume I was hallucinating. Everything is hazy like vapor but profoundly sensitive at the same time. Finally, I release Everett’s jaw and slide my hand underneath his stretched shirt. Instead of dwelling on his glorious abs, I walk my fingertips to his defined pectoral and cup it. When I flick the pad of my thumb over his peaked nipple, he groans into my mouth.

My stomach flips over. He’s so responsive .

I have no idea where this is going, but I want to touch more of his body. I want to see more of him—incite more reactions to the things I do to him.

I want more of his vile words.

And most of all, I want him to touch more of me with those strong, sure hands—the hands going so far as to separate my ass cheeks, letting the strap of my thong graze the sensitive nerve endings on my asshole…

…until the elevator jolts.

We both freeze.

Another jolt.

A grinding sound follows the second jolt before the elevator car moves, ascending the final few feet of its journey to the tenth floor.

Ding!

The tenth-floor hallway appears through the elevator’s open doors—and I’m still wrapped around Everett like a rubber grip on a number two pencil.

I pull back to look at him, and he’s truly the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. His lips are tinged with black from my lipstick, and his mouth looks well and truly used. For once, his hair is askew—careless and easy and absurdly attractive.

I didn’t think it was possible for him to become more handsome, but I was dead wrong.

I was dead wrong about a lot of things, apparently. I thought Everett disliked me. But tonight, he kissed me—and I kissed him back. Now, all I want to do is kiss him again.

I lean forward, fully prepared to pick up where we left off, but he gives me his cheek.

“I can’t,” he murmurs, facing the open doors. “This was a mistake.”

The entire world crashes down on me in that elevator car.

I’ve turned stone cold sober in a matter of seconds. I mean it. DUI rates would plummet if bars hired Everett to stand at the door and say This was a mistake to departing patrons.

I’m not sure if Everett lowered me voluntarily or if I successfully managed to thrash out of his grip, but now we’re standing a few feet from each other.

Horrified, I clutch the rail lining the edge of the elevator.

I am humiliated .

The doors begin closing behind him, so he reaches back and stops them. “Come on,” he says, motioning for me to leave.

But my hands are locked. Letting go of the railing would lead to free fall. “No.”

Everett glances back at the open doors before his eyes return to my face. “We’re home.”

“Get out,” I order, raising my chin.

His expression turns pleading. “Hey, let’s—”

“Get,” I repeat, “the fuck out of the elevator, Everett.”

There’s an acridity under his inhalation. There’s a resignation in the way he folds his puffy, kiss-stained lips over his teeth. There’s an acceptance in his stare—in those green eyes tracing the path of my hand as I release the railing and wipe my mouth, trying to erase the memory of him.

Those little reactions are all it takes for me to realize: This is a guy who knows how to follow orders. Sure enough, he does exactly what I say. He steps out without objection and stands on the landing.

“Fuck you,” I say as the doors close, blocking out the sound of him saying I’m sorry .