Page 37 of Playing the Player

When my face is clean and moisturized, I start on my hair, brushing through the knotted strands until they’re smooth again and the whole time, I can’t get that man or that kiss out of my head. And don’t get me started on the shower incident. As if I could forget that.

I want him to kiss me again. I want to know what his hands would feel like on my body. I want him to want me just as bad.

My pussy is throbbing and I can feel how wet I am at just the thought of him. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol fueling me, or the pure hunger I feel for him, but before I can talk myself out of it, I call his name. “Conor?”

“Everything okay?” He asks as he saunters into the bathroom. His tie is gone and he has unbuttoned his shirt completely, revealing his toned chest and stomach. My mouth waters at the sight of him and all words leave my brain, not a single, coherent thought flows through my head apart from holy fuck.

“My eyes are up here, Sash.” His amused voice snaps me back to reality.

I clear my throat, not trusting my words to come out clear. “Can you help with my zipper please?”

Conor stalks towards me, eyes dark and dangerous as he eyes my back. When he stops behind me, our eyes connect in the mirror and like every other time, the world seems to stop.

Conor holds my gaze as he reaches for my hair, gathering it gently in one hand and moving it over my shoulder. His fingers brushing against the bare skin on my back send chills racing down my spine and cause goosebumps to erupt down my arms.

His smirk comes back in full force. He knows exactly what he does to me and he’s enjoying every second of it.

His fingers skate over my skin again as he moves to the zipper and still, our eyes haven’t left each other. The sound of the zip coming undone seems so loud against the quiet bathroom.

Conor lowers the zipper at an achingly slow pace and I feel like I’m burning from the inside out from his fiery gaze.

When the zipper reaches the bottom, Conor’s eyes move from mine to my back. “No bra?” He whispers, his hot breath fanning across my naked skin.

“No bra.” I don’t know if it’s the champagne, or the want I feel for this man, but I do something I never thought I would have.

Slipping the thin spaghetti straps over my shoulders, I let go of the dress, waiting for it to fall down my body and pool at my feet. But it never comes. Instead, two strong hands wrap around my front, holding the dress in place.

“What are you doing?” Conor asks, his voice a low, husky whisper. His hands look so big against my tiny frame.

I lean back into him, staring at our reflection in the mirror. “I want you.”

Conor stays silent for a moment, searching my face in the glass. “No, you don’t.”

“I want you.” I say again with more conviction this time.

His jaw tightens, his hands pressing harder into me. “You’re drunk, Sash.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“Yes it does.” Conor lets out a low sigh, and there’s something almost pained in his expression. “We’re not doing this.” My heart drops. “I can’t.”

My shoulders sag in defeat. After all the heated stares that have passed between us today, every time he touched me longer than he needed to, that damn kiss, I thought he wanted me too. How could I have been so stupid? So naive? Of course he doesn’t want me.

I lower my eyes, carefully removing his hands from my body while keeping the dress in place with my own. I move around him, praying he doesn’t see my face. I don’t need him to see the tears in my eyes.

This is so embarrassing. Warmth infiltrates my cheeks, my chest, my lungs. I just hope I drank enough alcohol that I won’t remember any of this when I wake up tomorrow.

“Sash?” Conor’s voice stops me in my tracks. “What’s wrong?”

I don’t turn around when I speak. “Nothing.”

“Look at me.”

I don’t.

“Sasha, look at me.”

When I still don’t move, Conor does. He comes around to my front, taking my chin between his finger and thumb and tilting my face up to meet his.