“Don’t say anything,” he whispers. “Dance with me.”
Wyatt leads me deep into the sea of bodies with laughter caught in my throat all the way there. I feel giddy and high and a little unstable now that he’s around.
We wrap our arms around one another as if it were something we’ve spent the last decade doing.
“I think we should discuss logistics,” he whispers warm in my ear, and the entire left side of my body catches fire.
“Logistics?” I’m intrigued. Seriously, we have to be the only couple in the history of the planet that has charted out their first time with strategic mapping and the quasi involvement of a legal team—or a legal document at the least. Wait, did I say couple?
“Next Saturday night we have an official date.” His warm, deep voice trembles through my bones and elicits a riot of elation buzzing up and down my spine.
“Do we now?” My toes curl because next Saturday night is the exact date we chose to consummate our contract. “Your place or mine?” Annie is gone every weekend, so technically my room at Prescott Hall will be free.
“Most definitely mine,” he rumbles low and animalistic. “I’ll provide the bedposts—you can bring the handcuffs.”
“Easy, big boy. I don’t think we’ve graduated to handcuffs just yet.” I press my lips tight to keep the insane smile off my face. A thousand erotic thoughts run through my mind. I have one week to get spray tanned just a shade below Oompa Loompa, polish my claws, and do a little bush whacking. “Am I spending the night? The devil is in the dirty details.”
He frowns a moment. “You look more like an angel to me. And, as for spending the night—only if you want. I’m not into taking hostages. But, just so you know, I cook up a mean Sunday brunch. I’d hate for you to miss it.”
“That depends. Can I eat it off your abs?”
“There’s no other way to serve it.”
“I guess I’d better stay then—you know, to verify your culinary skills.” I twist my lips a moment. “Will there be whips night one?”
He thunders out a laugh. “Are whips a precursor to handcuffs? If so, all options are on the table.”
A familiar cackle pierces over the music, and I turn in that annoying direction.
“Oh, God,” I hack out the words as if choking on a chicken bone. There she is in all her seven-foot big-haired glory.
“What’s wrong?”
“Cat Alice.” Her name comes out in a hiss. “She’s…” the words refuse to formulate. Clearly my tongue wants no part in this. Her arm is draped over Will’s shoulder as they buddy up in a booth together. He’s whispering something in her ear, and all I see is red. For so long I felt that Will and I were sacred. We were as good as married, sleeping together, giving away our intimacies to one another like a prayer before bedtime. And now here he is with my so-called relation, his lips moving over the side of her face like a cockroach. This is the worst betrayal. Cat Alice is family. We grew up together. We told each other secrets in the dark during long weekend sleepovers. She was the only person I told when Will and I were first together. And when Will and I started to argue last summer, she was the first person who told me she was sorry to see things go south.
Cat Alice jerks her head my way, her eyes expanding like headlights.
They are so watching us!
I twist into Wyatt and peer around his bicep to confirm the theory.
Oh, God. It’s true.
The two of them crane their necks for a better look as I bury my face in Wyatt’s dress shirt. The irony. Ha!
“What’s going on?” He tries to pull back, but I’ve adhered myself to his chest like Velcro. “Did you catch your earring on my shirt?”
“No, actually”—I take a tempered breath—“I lost my virginity to the moron in the booth behind you. And the girl who’s face he’s gnawing on is my almost cousin, Cat Alice.” I spin him around so he can get a good look at the heresy.
“Ah, yes. Will and Cat.” He leans in and whispers, “They’re staring. They look riveted, by the way.”
“I hope Will is deeply regretting his wandering penis.”
“He looks as if he’s ready to chop it off and hand it over as an apology. Would that be sufficient?” Wyatt seems mildly entertained by the situation.
“Not if he had a thousand penises to chop off. But a little self mutilation is always a good start.”
“You should forgive him.”
I pull back and examine this hulking man that my arms can’t fully wrap themselves around. He’s so gorgeous that at all times ten different women have him under their surveillance. “Bless your penile-acquitting heart. No thanks. And for the record, he hasn’t asked for my forgiveness.”