Page 14 of The Snowflake Effect

The longer she complains about God knows what, the more her shirt shifts.

More red lace. More skin.

What is wrong with me, lusting after someone I can’t quit bickering with?

“You’re not even listening to me,” she chastises. “And my eyes are up here.”

Hot and bothered and hard as hell, I crack my neck. “Sorry. I’m just…” Wishing I knew how to calm down and talk to you. Shake this painful awkwardness.

She rolls her eyes on a sigh, clearly enamored with my conversation skills. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall. First door on your left.”

She blows past me, and I slump.

I’ve seriously lost my mojo. Marina and I never dated. We fell in love at fifteen and didn’t look back. There was no awkward flirting, no need to impress. Aside from our disastrous first year at university where we went to different schools, things were easy. Then with Moondog and the boys, hooking up was never hard. Sawyer would reel women in, and I’d play along.

The past year, though, I’d down at least two fingers of bourbon when out on a date, always taking a cab so I could relax. I got tired of the effort involved. Tired of comparing everyone to Marina. But I’m still a guy, and my recent dry spell is clearly sapping my ability to function normally.

I shift my jeans as I picture that red lace and what Shay must look like beneath it. At least she gets me fired up. Puts me on the defensive, but there’s passion there. Without Jackson and work and my million everyday decisions, I should be able to get my flirt on with her for one night. Act more normal and actually converse.

I’m in Aspen, for fuck’s sake.

Putting down my glass, I kick off the counter to catch her when she leaves the bathroom. Arms crossed, I stand in the hallway and stare at the door, trying to think of the right thing to say to her. Something kind, this time. A way to tell her how attractive she is without coming across as crass, but my neck heats. Sweat gathers on my palms.

You’re beautiful and I’d like to kiss you is pathetically lame.

By the time the door swings inward, my thoughts are no closer to coherent. She steps toward the hallway, and I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Her eyes are downcast, her focus on her breasts as she reaches in to adjust that red bra. More lace. More skin.

My words don’t form, but my body moves.

Before she looks up, I’m pushing her back into the bathroom and kicking the door shut behind me. I pin her against the counter, our bodies flush, my erection straining, and I’m about to slam my mouth on hers—action is clearly easier than words—but reason takes hold.

I pull back, unsure why I’m putting the moves on a woman who probably hates me.

Then she says, “Now’s not the time to get shy.”

Maybe hate is a strong word.

Roughly, I claim her lips. No more trying and failing to talk. No more snarky remarks. Hunger consumes me, every irritation from today releasing as our tongues collide and chests heave. And fuck, those lips—even softer than they look, but sure and demanding.

I wrap one arm around her waist and cup her breast with my free hand, drawing out a gratifying whimper as I rock against her and tease her nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt.

Burning and frantic, we claw at each other.

The movement of our hips inches her skirt higher. I grip her waist and lift her onto the sink, her legs falling wide for me, a tease of red peeking out from between her thighs.

Her head falls against the mirror at her back, her eyes drifting shut when I drag my hand up her toned leg. “God, yes,” she says and shudders as I slip a finger under the lace.

Slick wetness greets me.

She rocks against my hand, circling her hips as I slide a second finger in. Gripping my shoulders, she pants, her nails digging through my shirt. I suck a path to her cleavage, and she arches toward me, asking for more. Demanding it. I bite her skin, marking her sensitive flesh, and I finally pull her neckline lower. Man, that red lace.

“Shit.” She jerks forward and rubs her ass where it just hit the tap. I ease my fingers out, eliciting a sigh from her, then she narrows her eyes. “That’s courtesy of you, Asshole.” She lifts her skirt higher, displaying a purple bruise.

Sharp breaths spike through me as I hike up my top and lower the side of my jeans, the yellow tinge on my hip unmistakable. “Back at ya, Bitch.”

We’re still name-calling, but there’s an underlying teasing quality now, and I like it.