"Close." I choke out the word. I don't mean the hotel. I'm so close.
He leans in, his lips inches from mine, and smiles. "I can see that, darlin'," he says. "You pretend you don't like it, and you can protest all you want, but taking off your panties in the middle of this bar made you wet."
"No," I say.
"No," he says, studying my face. "That's not all of it, is it? You like when I tell you what to do."
I realize, with growing horror, that he's right. "No way," I protest.
Gaige grins. He realizes that he's right, and that I know it. "It's okay, darlin'," he says, then he drops his voice. "I like it."
I laugh. "Of course you do," I say. "And it's not accurate."
"No?" he asks. He trails his finger over my collarbone and to the top of my shoulder. Gaige has a way of making the most innocuous gesture completely sexual. "Then I won't tell you that in the next thirty seconds, I'm going to spin your ass around, walk you out of this bar through all the people you just took your panties off in front of, and take you back to the hotel. When we walk into the hotel room, you're going to drop to your knees before the door shuts."
He pauses, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue. My head tells me it's ridiculous for me to stand here and listen to him tell me what he wants me to do, yet the throbbing between my legs is insistent. It distracts me from the rational thoughts in my head. "Yes," I say, more of a murmur than an actual coherent word.
Gaige has his hand on the small of my back, and he leads me out of the bar and down to the elevator. The young Japanese couple in the elevator nods at us, then studies their phones as Gaige runs his hand up my back and whispers softly in my ear. "Are you wet yet, darlin'?"
The girl in the elevator glances at me, then back at her phone and my face flushes red. When we're out of the elevator, I smack Gaige hard on the arm. "She heard you," I say.
Gaige shrugs. "You didn't answer me," he says, as we walk on the sidewalk. "Are you wet?"
Of course I am. He knows I am. Apparently, he knows better than I do what turns me on. But I don't say any of that. I just say, "Yes."
"How far are we from the hotel?"
"A few minutes, I think."
"Good," he says. "Because I'm going to spend the rest of the walk back telling you exactly what I want to do to you."
I can't fucking see straight. I'm wound so tight after spending the last fifteen minutes telling Delaney what I want to do to her. I hope she's as wrapped around the axle as I am. There's something about her that makes me crazy.
We're still a block away from the hotel when I realize Delaney is limping. "What's wrong?"
She kicks up one of her feet and sighs. "The perils of wearing heels in Japan," she says. "I don't know how the girls here do it, walking everywhere in stilettos. They must be masochists."
"Fuck walking," I say, and I pick her up before she can protest, but she does anyway.
"What are you doing?" she squeals.
"How far away from the hotel are we?" I ask.
"I don't know, a block, I think," she says. "Put me down before someone sees."
"Afraid not." I keep carrying her, ignoring the looks I get from strangers on the sidewalk. A couple of expats laugh as we pass them, and I explain, "She's totally drunk."
Delaney hits me on the shoulder. "I am not! Don't say that."
"You could be," I say. "If anyone sees us, that's the excuse I'm going with."
"Do not," she orders.
"I don't see where you're really in a position to argue about anything with me here," I point out. "Anyway, I've never carried a girl through the streets of Tokyo before, so you should stop your griping and enjoy the ride." I pause for a beat. "The same rule applies to the sex later on tonight."
"Very funny," she says, and she slaps me again when we walk through the lobby of the hotel. "Put me down."
"I don't think so," I say. When we pass the concierge, I explain, "She hurt her foot."
Delaney huffs, but she doesn't fling herself out of my arms, either. When we're in the elevator and alone, she turns her head and kisses me. We're still kissing when the door opens and I back out into the hallway with her in my arms, spinning her around.
And then I see her.
Chelsea stares at me, her eyes wide. And then a look – the smuggest, most self-satisfied goddamn look in the world – crosses her face. She says something to Akira Ito, who reddens deeply.
Delaney follows my gaze behind her, and her face turns ashen. She slides down quickly, standing and smoothing her dress. "Chelsea. Akira-san," she says.
"I'm incredibly sorry to disturb your evening, Delaney." Chelsea's voice drips with sarcasm.
"Gaige was just helping me. My feet were –" She speaks in Japanese to Akira, something I don't understand, then bows deeply. Akira gives her a barely perceptible nod of his head, and walks past us into the elevator.