Page 11 of Turn Me On

Ten seconds later, the tired parents step out on the eighteenth floor. “Take the stairwell next time,” I tease Vance as Adriana heads the other way.

He waves me off as he trudges down the hall to his room. “I don’t see you taking it either.”

“Fair point,” Maddox says, shooting me a sly grin.

Are you so smart-mouthed with the friend you’re about to see?

But I bite my tongue as the doors start to close on the two of us. We’ll be all alone for eighteen long floors down, down, down. What’s an elevator ride between two guys who want to fuck but can’t?

Eons.

Especially since he’s seeing afriend. I clench my jaw, irritated he’s going to hit the town, tempted to ask what the hell his story is.

Maybe I’ll ask right the fuck now. But as the doors start to whoosh closed, a brassy voice calls, “Wait up!”

Maddox sticks out an arm and the elevator grunts, the doors jerking back open. A woman in heels and a little black dress totters in, followed by another woman in a pink top and jeans. Two men careen in after them, belting the chorus to “Livin’ on a Prayer.” The foursome reek of tequila and karaoke.

Great. Now I’ll be stuck with my jealousy in a smaller space. I move closer to Maddox’s corner, giving the crew some room.

“Thank you,” the woman coos to Maddox and squeezes his arm.

“Of course,” he says, smoothly unflappable as she lets go of him. “Looks like you all had a good night.”

Damn, he’s easygoing, and I am a tightly wound jack-in-the-box.

“The best. It’s my birthday,” the woman chirps, and the quartet launches into a round of “You Say It’s Your Birthday” as if they’d rehearsed it.

As the car descends slowly, the women thrust their arms high, and the men bump hips with them. We all jostle around, and after a few seconds of sardining, Maddox arranges himself right in front of me.

So much for necessary distance. Now I’m almost as close to him as I want to be, which is the motherfucking problem. Mere inches separate us, and I catch a faint whiff of his shampoo. He smells like the ocean, and the scent lights up my mind. I want to make out on the beach with him until we’re sweaty and hot and have to jump in the sea. I want to take him back to my bungalow and strip him to nothing, pin him down on the chaise lounge and play with his body.

I lean in for another heady hit of his scent. He’s so close I could rope an arm around his waist, jerk him flush to me, grind against his tight ass.

I close my eyes for a second. What did I just tell Vance? That this would all work out. But it won’t if I’m getting a sex high from my new agent. We’re being serenaded by a drunken birthday girl, and I’m perving on said agent’s luscious, toned ass.

“It’s my birthday too,” the brassy woman croons.

I redirect my errant thoughts, but they escape and now I picture running my hands across his muscular back, over his neck, into his thick, wavy hair.

What if someone else will do that to him tonight?

As the quartet warbles off-key, my head battles with desire and jealousy. I’m dizzy and grab the elevator bar to steady myself, but Maddox is gripping it already. My hand slides against his, our fingers touching once again.

The feel of his skin ignites a fire in me. Before I think it through, I hiss in his ear, “Who’s your friend?”

He flinches, but he doesn’t move his hand. “What?”

“The person you’re seeing tonight,” I say, pushing my finger against his. He pushes back. “Who is he?”

The car jerks to a stop, and Maddox lets go of the bar. I want to groan in frustration. The foursome pours out in a swirl of perfume and revelry, and I pray—and I am not a praying man—that no one else gets on.

The doors close on just us two, and Maddox turns to me slowly, brow pinched. “What did you just ask?”

It’s a challenge. I probably deserve the harsh tone.

When his eyes lock with mine, those beautiful browns are hard. Borderline angry. I should back down. Instead, the dragon of jealousy roars inside me. “You’re seeing a friend tonight? Do you have a boyfriend? A date?” I ask bitterly.

“No. I don’t,” he bites out, then turns to face the doors, crossing his arms. The message is clear. He wouldn’t have hit on me if he was involved.