He ran a hand through his hair and nodded, holding her gaze. Her eyes were big and dark and a little too bright behind her glasses. He wanted to touch her, but all things considered, that was probably a bad idea. So he kept his clumsy hands to himself, and swore silently that he’d make her smile tonight. One way or another. “All right,” he said.

The tension between them dissolved, or maybe it had just faded for a while. “Come on, then,” she said brightly, stepping back to let him in. Which was when he noticed her outfit—or her lack of one. She was wearing some silky robe thing, and the skirt ended just above the knee. He’d been drooling over her fucking ankles for weeks. Now he stared at the inch of thigh just above her knees and decided he should’ve jacked off before he came over. Twice. Three times, even. His balls ached just looking at her. Was this normal? This couldn’t be normal.

She shoved the cat at him, turned in a dangerous whirl of short, silky skirt, and started off down the hall.

Red stared at the cat. The cat stared at him. If he were the kind of man who really understood animals, he might say this particular cat was sending him a telepathic message that went something like, Get your dirty pervert eyes off my mum.

“Sorry, mate,” he muttered, and shut the door, and made his way to the living room.

She was bending over by the TV, switching off all the plug sockets. The hem of her robe lifted for a split second and he caught a flash of bare, brown skin before he looked away. All his nerve endings sparked to life, even as he begged them to calm the hell down. Everything in him turned hot and liquid, except his dick, which was, of course, rock fucking hard. He sat down and held Smudge over his lap.

And, because God was having a great time taking the piss out of Red today, Chloe turned around and zeroed in on the sight with a smile. “I thought you didn’t like cats?”

“Yeah, well.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe I judged before I really got to know them. They’re not as snooty as they seem. My bad.”

He watched as surprise flickered across her face. “Oh.” She shot him a quick, shy smile and his heart burst like a firework. “Okay then. Um … I’m just going to get dressed. I’ll be five minutes.”

“Don’t rush. It doesn’t matter if we’re later than we planned.”

She gave him the same indulgent nod mothers gave their nonsense-babbling toddlers and hurried out of the room, probably intending to ignore him.

While she was gone, Red decided to occupy himself by listing the many, many reasons why he shouldn’t lust after Chloe anymore, even if he desperately wanted to, really enjoyed it, and wasn’t totally sure he could stop.

1. He’d come on to her and she had very firmly shut him down. No matter how much he thought about the taste of her skin, or the sound of her moans, it wasn’t happening. So he should stop torturing himself now.

2. If he didn’t stop, she might notice, and then she’d be uncomfortable. He was her superintendent, for Christ’s sake—which he probably should’ve thought about before he’d put his hands on her. He couldn’t make her uncomfortable. It just wasn’t right.

2.5. Vik would slaughter him. And then Alisha would beat his corpse with a hairbrush.

3. Thoughts of her were starting to distract him at work.

4. He hadn’t masturbated this much since he was a kid, and he was worried his balls might permanently shrivel up like walnuts.

He was just working on number five when Chloe reappeared, ruining everything. He’d thought the robe was bad, but now … now, she wore a dress the color of gold-edged moonlight, the fabric stretching tight over roller-coaster curves that deserved their own hazard warning. That outfit cupped every inch of her the way his hands wanted to. Her cleavage was so deep she might as well just throw in the towel and go topless. He consoled himself with the fact that the dress was longer than the robe, until she moved and a thigh-high slit made itself known. Fuck.

Her face wasn’t any easier to look at. Her eyes yanked him in like twin black holes and her lush lips shone with some kind of makeup. Her hair was different, pulled back in a thick, fancy braid he didn’t know the name of, one he’d like to wrap around his fist while he kissed her pretty mouth.

He was fucked. He was absolutely fucked.

She came to stand in front of him, clutching a little gold bag. “Is this appropriate?”

Appropriate? He cleared his throat. Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck up. “Well. It doesn’t have buttons, but it’ll do.”

She laughed and hit him on the shoulder with her bag. He wondered absently if he’d survive the night.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Walking toward the entrance of a nightclub was like leaping back in time. Except, in her teens and early twenties, Chloe had never felt the cold, whereas right now she was shivering her barely supported tits off.

The night was made of layered shadows and flashing, neon lights, rain an icy threat in the air that kissed her overheated skin, freezing her nervousness dead. She was too busy regretting her skimpy outfit to question if she should be here at all. That, she supposed, was a solid silver lining.

Red was in front of her, his big body a wind barrier she shamelessly huddled behind. He was holding her hand, tugging her along like a boat, and she knew he did it so they wouldn’t get separated in the busy dark—only, she couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d held her hand. Her heart pounded now just as fast as it had then. He’d been so tender, to touch her like that as he pulled her apart with his kiss. She still couldn’t decide what it meant. Her logical brain said, It means he likes you, obviously!

And maybe—probably—he did. But it couldn’t be that simple, or that lovely. Things never were, for Chloe.

Their first stop of the night had the cheapest drinks, which, Red had explained in the taxi, was strategic. She’d tried to point out that expensive drinks wouldn’t bother her, but he’d muttered something about posh money wasters and told her to get into the spirit of the thing. So here they were, heading toward a slightly shady-looking club with a small field of cigarette butts littering the pavement in front of it. There was a sign the color of her glasses above the door that read BLUEBELL. Bluebell’s pounding music took every other nightclub’s pounding music by the throat and squeezed. The closer they got, the more she wondered if she ought to have brought some earplugs.

Red nodded at the massive, black-coated bouncers, dragged her through the doors, and then they were inside. Everything was dark, flashing, and sweaty. She didn’t like it.

No—that wasn’t right. She simply wasn’t used to it, or drunk enough to enjoy it yet. Of course, a little voice in her head muttered that the hangover she would incur from drinking enough alcohol to make this place palatable would also leave her bed bound for a week. She squashed that voice. It was a party pooper and it belonged to the old, boring Chloe, not the Chloe who rescued cats.

Wait. She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Smudge.

Red somehow carved out a space for them at the bar. She found herself caged between his chest and the sticky surface, his hands braced on either side of her body. He bent his head to her ear, and the feel of his breath against the side of her throat made everything between her legs tingle. She pressed her thighs together while he shouted over the music, “What do you want?”