Page 30 of Wait for Him

Perfectly normal behavior.

“Just needed some air,” I tell Michael. “I'm going to head home soon, anyway. You and Jackson can party on without me tonight.”

“Are you okay?” He tilts his head and studies me in that irritating way he does when he already knows the answer. “You can talk to me, you know.”

I can't even meet his eyes because suddenly there are far too many things I could say. Things I've never said to anyone because saying them would give them shape, and once they have shape, I might have to admit they're real.

“I'm good. Just jet-lagged as fuck.”

It isn't a complete lie. I got back from Malaysia a couple of days ago, and my body still isn't entirely convinced we're in California. I loop my arm through his and turn us toward the ballroom before he can inspect me any harder.

“Come on. Get back inside. I'm going to grab my bag and visit the itty-bitties room.”

“I never got my dance.” He reaches over and ruffles my hair just because he knows I hate it.

“Stop that!” I punch him in the stomach, which does absolutely nothing except make him laugh. “I'll go to the restroom and meet you on the dance floor. One dance. Then I'm going home, Michael. You can't stop me.”

He holds both hands up in surrender, but I know he's full of shit. Surrender is always Michael's opening position. He's already plotting how to trap me into another two hours of drinking and dancing with him and Jackson.

Usually, I'd let him.

I just don't have it in me tonight.

I leave him at the terrace door and make my way toward the VIP suite to grab my bag before heading to the restroom for a quick hair and makeup check. I'm already mentally calculating how long I have to stay after my dance with Michael before leaving can reasonably be called tired instead of rude when I open the suite door and immediately hear a woman moan.

I freeze with one hand still on the handle.

Then comes the unmistakable rhythm of bodies moving together, skin meeting skin, followed by another muffled moan.

Well.

Somebody is having an excellent gala.

I bite back a laugh like a schoolgirl who has accidentally wandered into the adults-only portion of the evening and start backing out. Whoever they are, they clearly don't need an audience, and my bag can survive another ten minutes without me.

Then I hear him.

“Fucking hell. So goddamn tight.”

Everything inside me stops.

Jackson. I know his voice too well to mistake it. And I've heard that voice.

My heart drops so violently that I feel it somewhere near my stomach, and I should leave. There is absolutely no reason for me to see what I already know is happening. I should quietly close the door, go find Michael, have my dance, and go home.

Instead, my feet carry me farther into the suite.

I hate myself for every step.

I round the corner where the sofas are arranged, and there they are.

Jackson is sitting on one of them with the woman who's been flirting with him all night on his lap. Her dress is bunched around her waist, her underwear shoved aside, and some detached, ugly little part of my brain actually wonders if they were so desperate for each other they couldn't even bother taking them off.

I tell myself to turn around.

Her dark hair falls nearly to her ass when her head tips back, and she's so small on top of him that his hands nearly span her waist. Those hands grip her hard enough to dimple the skin beneath his fingers before one travel up her back and disappears into her hair.

I know that hand.