Tempting Her Best Friend(36)

But sometime after they made it to the chair, the mood…shifted. Movements slowed, caresses softened, kisses lengthened. And the way he looked at her… It seemed less like sex and more like—

Alyssa reached for Dillon on the other side of the bed, but cool sheets met her touch instead of the warmth of his hard body.

Opening her eyes and raising up on one arm, she found a note on his pillow written on the hotel stationary.

Aly-gator,

Got antsy. I’ll be back by 4.

~ D

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she set the note down where she found it and hugged her knees to her chest. He used the word “antsy.” Code for “things are getting too serious so I’m pulling back.”

Which was fine. Great, even.

Despite her beginning to feel otherwise, she’d needed the reminder that she and Dillon weren’t a real couple. He’d offered her his body for mutual sexual release, not his heart for the taking for chrissake. Technically, he’d made the offer because he felt protective of her and didn’t want her shacking up with a stranger. Sure, the chemistry and sex was amazing, but she had a hard time believing anything less was possible when it involved Dillon Alexander.

God, she was so naive. She couldn’t believe she’d almost used the words “making love” for what happened between them earlier. Maybe the myriad of overwhelming physical sensations caused her brain to warp them into something more in its own need to process and compartmentalize.

Nice work, Aly. That BS almost sounds plausible. You should write a dissertation on it.

Perfect. Now even her conscience was slapping her with sarcastic barbs. Then again, she couldn’t blame it at this point. For having an IQ higher than the average Ivy League graduate, she’d been thinking like a Disney princess with stars in her eyes. Someday her prince would come and all that utter nonsense.

A few sessions of mind-blowing sex with a virile man (albeit, a virile man she happened to already love and now couldn’t think of without picturing him naked) had stripped her of her good judgment and replaced it with a girlish fantasy of happily ever after. With a man who got “antsy” and left.

Just like Dad.

Shit! She shoved her fingers into the roots of her hair and fisted the hunks in frustration. This was a bad idea from the start. She’d wanted something real with him, but she’d settled for what little bit he offered her.

Just like Mom.

No, she wouldn’t allow herself to think that way. Alyssa launched herself from the bed, donned the available plush bathrobe, and paced the length of the room with agitated steps as she sifted through her thoughts. She wasn’t weak-willed like her mother, and Dillon had only been trying to help her in an awkward situation.

It wasn’t his fault she’d accepted his offer for a weekend of mutual gratification and then let her emotions get tangled up in the process. She’d known it would be impossible to keep her heart out of the arrangement and still she’d agreed. The desire to feel wanted by the man she loved had been too great. She might be more emotionally independent than most, but she was still a girl. Sometimes she just needed to be held and told she was pretty, damn it. Was that so wrong?

Of course not. And, honestly, who better to accept that sort of thing from than Dillon if he’s offering?

Exactly! Finally her conscience had dropped the snark and started making sense again. So then why did her eyes burn and her cheeks feel wet? Stopping in front of the full-length mirror, she braced her hands on either side and narrowed her eyes at her rumpled reflection. She didn’t know if she was PMSing or what her deal was, but this little breakdown was at an end. They’d continue the weekend as they’d began: enjoying each other in every way humanly possible. And she’d do it with her heart firmly on lockdown. She was an adult, and this was an adult arrangement between friends. That was all. End of story.

“Good Lord, is that the time?” Turning back to the bed, she checked to make sure she’d read it in the mirror correctly. Quarter after four. Checking her phone, she frowned to see she hadn’t missed a call or text from Dillon. It wasn’t like him not to let her know if he was running late. Although it wasn’t like he was on his way home from work, either. It wouldn’t be hard to lose track of time in Sin City, especially since displaying clocks anywhere seemed to be a punishable offense.

But explained tardiness or not, he still wasn’t back, and the masquerade ball started at five. With the crazy sex-fest they’d been enjoying in the last sixteen hours, she’d totally forgotten to remind him about it.

She worried her lip with her teeth. Would he be able to get in? She doubted he’d brought a tux with him in his duffel bag, but every hotel in Vegas had a formal shop in it for just such occasions. Add the prerequisite mask, and he could charm his way past the female sentries as a cover model. Again.