Page 179 of Midnight Curfew

She rises, though, and walks over the riser to him, and he spins her around and pulls her back into his lap. She falls on him, and he wraps his arms around her waist—my shirt—and buries his mouth in her neck.

Immediately, though, his eyes close, his lungs filling with a long breath.

Fisting her neck, he grinds the collar of my shirt in his hand, his arms so tight around her.

Is he hard under her?

Opening his eyes again, he brushes his nose over the collar, gripping the tie at her neck. His mouth moves over her skin, but his gaze remains on me, dropping to my chest. She drops her head back, but her eyes are open. I can’t tell if she likes it, but she’s going along with it.

“Put both of your hands on her,” I tell him.

His brow falters until he realizes what I mean. I might want him, and I might have him again and again, but I need to remember that I’ll never be everything he wants.

I want to watch what he’s like with her.

Dallas looks at her, and she turns her head, looking at him. She nods, and he slides his hands into her open shirt, cupping her tits. I watch his fingers squeeze them and massage them as he dips his nose into her collar again.

They look good together. His friends would think they were a hot couple.

“You grew up together, right?” I ask.

Aracely tilts her eyes up to me. “Yeah.”

“What’s your favorite memory of him as a child?”

Dallas goes still, and she glances between him and me.

After a moment, she says, “He would disappear during storms sometimes.” A lump moves down her throat. “I was the only one who always knew where he was, but I never told anyone.”

I lock gazes with him.

“He was on the beach,” she tells me, “in the rain. By himself.”

I can’t imagine Dallas anywhere without either someone to fuck or something to drink.

But I like the image she paints of him, before his parents died and before life fucked with him. I wish I had that memory of him.

“Finger her,” I say.

A pinch appears between Dallas’s brows, and her chest starts moving faster with her breaths. Or maybe it’s his breathing that’s moving her.

“I want to see what you got,” he tells me instead.

My gaze shifts, almost glancing at the mirror, but I stop myself in time. He’s daring me in front of people who want to see what I’ve got, too.

“Yes.” I grin. “Time for the Den.”

Let’s see if he wants to play now.

—

“Take off everything on top,” Simona Leary tells us.

I hand her my jacket, Dallas removing his jacket and shirt. The door to the Den sits in back of the Wolfe Room, and once we’re through, the décor switches from black and purple to black and deep blue. The ceilings hang lower, the room smaller with more people.

And this is summer. So many people from the community are off around the world right now, he’s not even getting the full picture.

It’s enough, though. We just need to kill some time.