Page 45 of The Spare
A soft moan slipped out of her lips as mine brushed over them. We were shaken from the moment by a commotion in the ballroom, and then the countdown. She looked over to the doors and sighed. “Well, I should probably go find my date. New Year’s kiss and all.”
“Not a chance.” I wrapped my arm tighter around her waist and pulled her in for a peck on the lips. It was short—far too short. She pulled closer, her lips begging to be kissed again. A real kiss. It was impossibly tempting now that I knew her lips were as soft as they looked.
After a moment, she smiled, making no attempt to part.
“Happy New Year, Sloan,” I whispered.
“Happy New Year, Marcus.”
I had never loved hearing anything more than the sound of my name on her lips.
CHAPTER23
Sloan
Iwoke the next morning to sunrays streaming into the room, burrowing like knives into my eye sockets. The terrible thumping in my head kept getting louder.
The pain was quickly forgotten and replaced with panic when I opened my eyes and they began darting around the unfamiliar room.
Where am I?
I tried to piece together what I remembered from the night before and recalled the distinct memory of getting in a town car with Marcus. A different concern popped into my mind before I realized I was in a guestroom. I was in Marcus’s guestroom. I let out a loud sigh of relief. Nothing had been done that couldn’t be undone—or no one, to put it more aptly.
A change of clothes sat on the dresser. I carefully pulled myself out of bed, steadied my uneasy gait on the nightstand, and walked over to change.
I somehow got out of my dress last night, but that was probably me—no way Marcus did it. My mind drifted to last night and remembered the hours we spent in seclusion. It was intimate. I wanted more.
Then I tried to remember how I got so drunk, and it dawned on me.
Wife, Daughter, or Mistress. A game where we guessed the relationship status of the many guests in attendance. We played, or more specifically, I played, much to Marcus’s amusement right after we kissed.
The kiss. If you could even call it that. It was a peck. Sweet and innocent.
What it did to me was the furthest thing from innocent. The feeling of being held tightly in his arms, the desire that pooled in my body and begged for more. All of it replayed over and over in my mind. My dreams were filled with how his lips would feel on my neck, my inner thigh…
Something shifted last night.
I changed into what felt like my clothing. I looked in the mirror and realized it was my clothing. I must have left it behind after he drove me back to my townhouse.
Although, every woman in Manhattan society had a pair of Brunello joggers and a Loro Piana pullover.
I shook off the bizarre thought and tried to pull myself together before I went downstairs. Thankfully, I had some makeup in my clutch to touch up what had smeared, and my hair looked great. Day two of a blowout was easily the best day, hair-wise. I ran my fingers through it, gave myself a once over, and walked out into the hallway.
Marcus’s TriBeCa townhouse was enormous. It was clean and airy, with large windows and high ceilings. I reached the top of the staircase, from where I could see most of the dining room and living area below. Marcus sat at the head of the dining table with his laptop open. He was seemingly switching between reading the paper and working.
I descended the staircase slowly, trying to ignore the waves of nausea and the hammering in my head. “She lives,” Marcus said.
He didn’t look up from his laptop as he took a sip of his coffee. The sunlight streamed into the dining room and washed over him, casting devious shadows on the shirt he wore. I was dizzy again, but this time it had nothing to do with the alcohol.
“Are these mine?” If he gave me another woman’s clothes, I would kill him. My mind wandered to all the women who must have passed through this place. I used all my power to walk steadily from the staircase landing to the seat beside him at the table where a place setting awaited me.
“Yes.” He still didn’t look up, but he did his best to suppress a smile at my expense. He knew why I asked the question. “You left them behind in the car after Thanksgiving.”
Right.At least the jealousy faded. The humiliation, however, mounted.
I gripped the cup of coffee in front of me. “How bad was I?”
“You were a perfect lady.” He put a pastry on my plate and nudged me to eat something.
