The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue #2) - Jessica Hawkins Page 0,50
in front of me, shaking my head. Andrew scoots closer to the table, then smooths his tie against his chest. I’d noticed it before, the red bright against his dark features, but now I look a little closer. It’s the exact color of my dress. Earlier, Andrew mentioned that he’d been looking forward to seeing me in red. Did he choose that tie on purpose?
I look down at my dress and then to Andrew. Mindy’s leaning toward him as she speaks, but he’s watching me. He nods once as he touches the knot of his tie as if to say—Yes, I wore it for you. He thought of me. It shouldn’t feel good to know that, but my body warms. I try to stop it. I don’t want anything from him, not thoughtfulness, not consideration. They complicate things. I don’t want complicated, and neither does he.
A man calls our attention to the stage, and I give him my undivided focus. The alternative is watching Andrew and Mindy get to know each other. Halfway into the second honoree’s slideshow, Andrew excuses himself from the table. I look over at Nathan, feeling his eyes on me, as if he expects me to get up as well. I don’t move an inch.
I’m listening to the woman’s acceptance speech when someone touches my shoulder. I start, looking back at Andrew.
“You dropped this,” he says quietly.
Automatically, I open my hand, and he presses something into it. When he returns to his seat, I check. He’s given me a small, rigid envelope with the hotel’s logo on it. Inside is a keycard with a room number scribbled next to it.
Gaping, I look up at him, but he’s already turned to face the stage. The man is incorrigible.
And, apparently, ready for his dessert.
THIRTEEN
My empty salad plate is replaced with grilled chicken. As the gala’s next presenter takes the stage, I can’t help but notice how Mindy glances over at Andrew only slightly less than Sadie looks from Mindy to Andrew. Nathan, on the other hand, makes no secret of watching Andrew and me. Andrew’s the only one who seems riveted by the presentation, though I get the feeling it’s because he’s avoiding all the eyes on him.
My palm sweats around the hotel room key Andrew passed me. I should put it in my purse, but just holding it gives me a thrill. What does he have planned? This is a nice hotel—surely there’s a bathtub. And a bed. Maybe even a kitchenette with a counter. Or maybe he wants to take me on top of or against or inside something new.
Halfway through my meal, as they’re presenting the literary PR categories, Andrew wipes his mouth with his napkin, gives me a pointed look, and scoots his chair away from the table.
Sadie leans over Mindy to get to Andrew. “Where are you going now?”
“Bathroom again.” He grins. “Must’ve been something I ate.”
“You’re disgusting.” Sadie turns back to the stage, quieted.
Andrew keeps his eyes on mine until he’s passed me. His intention is clear—I’m supposed to follow, but this is ridiculous. Adults don’t really sneak off during a formal event for a quickie. Is he that primal? Then again, he knew me less than an hour before proposing sex. He’s not ashamed of what he wants.
And what do I want? I’d be a fool to say anything but him. A fool and a liar. I check my program. Avec’s category is toward the end, giving us at least half an hour. I dab the corners of my mouth with my napkin and slide back in my chair. Only Nathan notices me slip away, but in order to stop me, he’d have to speak loud enough to interrupt the presenter. I navigate briskly through the tables, casting a few smiles at familiar faces.
But the closer I get to the door, the less concerned I become with the people in the room. They’re replaced by the thought of Andrew’s strong, enveloping arms. His hungry mouth on mine. Andrew is a lover and a rebel, voracious and greedy yet attentive and sweet. He’s an anomaly I don’t need or even want to figure out. I just want to bask in his carnal attention, in the unknown of what he’ll do with me next.
He’s not in the lobby. I head for the elevator. His red tie, his provocative words earlier, his whisky breath. My heart beats hard at the base of my throat and other places too—my ears, my stomach, between my legs.