expecting. Disappointment was evident on her face when he excused himself.
Cam was nowhere to be seen in the dark club, but he found Luke and Tucker deep in conversation, surprisingly not with women but two dudes who turned out to be José Quintana and Scott Carroll. He talked to them for a while, which was cool, then told Tucker and Luke he was leaving.
“Already?” Tucker frowned at him. “Dude, the night is young.”
“I know. Just not feeling it tonight.” He slapped Tuck’s shoulder. “I’ll see you guys next week. We have to pick up our tuxes Thursday.”
He eschewed a taxi in favor of walking home. It wasn’t that far from the West Hubbard club, and it was a nice evening. Sloane was probably home by now. Why did he have this bizarre urge to call her or text her? He actually pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it.
Fucked. He was truly fucked. With a sigh, he tapped in a text message.
Immediately he wished he could take it back. It was just after midnight, early for him, but she was probably asleep. She’d see this in the morning and it would be so lame.
But her reply came right away. What are you doing texting me at this time of the night?
A slow smile pulled at his lips and he stopped on a corner. I’m lonely and bored.
Is this a booty call????????
He grinned. You do have a sweet booty.
A kissy face emoticon appeared.
I take that as an invitation to kiss said booty.
You wish.
Yes, I do wish. Where are you?
Home.
Perfect. I want to see you. He hesitated. Ah, why not? And kiss your sweet little ass.
This time there was a pause and he pictured her frowning in indecision. Hopefully with maybe a little arousal mixed in. Finally, he got the text with her address. Yes! He grinned and did a fist pump. Dearborn. He glanced at the street sign of the corner he was standing on—West Hubbard and Dearborn. It was a sign. Not that he believed in shit like that.
He hailed a cab and jumped in, giving the driver Sloane’s address.
Chapter Eleven
Sloane closed her eyes, her phone in her hand. Christ on a crutch, what had she just done? A Saturday night booty call because he was alone and horny?
She knew he could have any girl he wanted. She heard the women in the office talking about him all the time. She’d seen flirtatious waitresses slip him their numbers. Why was he alone on a Saturday night?
Her phone buzzed again. On my way. Not far.
Welp, he was on his way over, she’d best get dressed. Or something. She’d been in bed reading when her phone had chimed and she’d been curious enough to check who was texting her at that time of the night.
She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. If he was expecting sex, getting dressed was a waste of time. On the other hand, she wasn’t about to greet him at the door naked, and her wardrobe of sexy sleepwear was sorely lacking, since nobody ever saw her sleeping. She looked down at the camisole and panties she had on. Fuck, what was she supposed to wear?
She bit her lip and turned in a circle in her bedroom. The yoga pants she’d had on earlier were draped over the arm of a chair. That would have to do. She slipped them on, and hopped into the bathroom to brush her hair. She was wearing her glasses and no makeup. Nope, she wasn’t going to pop in contacts at this time of night and put on makeup. If this freaked him out or turned him off, oh well.
Her doorbell rang a short time later and she peered through the sidelight to make sure it was him on her front doorstep.
“Hey,” he said with that sexy smile, walking in. He wore a suit, a dark jacket with narrow lapels and slim-fitting pants over a collared dark shirt but no tie. Apparently he hadn’t been sitting at home. He moved into her space, cupped her face in both hands and kissed her.
Damn, that was hot.
He drew back and smiled as he looked into her eyes. “How was your evening with your parents?”
“It was okay. Come in.” She closed and locked the door, her senses overloaded with his presence, the scent of his aftershave all citrusy male, how his stubble felt rough against her face, the feel of his mouth on hers, the taste of some kind