Page 81 of Off the Grid

Maybe it’s time for Operation Bestiality.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Camilla

We’re down the hall and knocking on the door in seconds. When it swings open, the girl beside me squeals and launches herself into the arms of the man standing there. He staggers backward under the force of her weight but doesn’t miss a beat when her lips find his.

But it only takes seconds—and a few tongues stuck down each other’s throats no doubt—for him to notice me. He looks familiar but I can’t place from where. Probably because he’s your neighbor.

“Uh. Hi. And you are?” he asks above the noise behind him that’s pouring out into the hallway.

“Your neighbor.” My smile is quick and sarcastic as I try to place him.

“Oh. Uh.” He moves the woman to his side so that he can face me. “Not my place.”

“Whose is it then?” I stand on my tiptoes and try to look around, get my bearings, but all I find is wall to wall people who are clearly having a good time.

Wills, I’m guessing, glances over his shoulder. “Um. One sec. I’ll try to find—oh, there he is. C’mon.”

I follow Wills a short distance. I bump into people every few steps, decline drinks thrust at me, and weird glances slid my way, which I can only assume is because I clearly haven’t dressed the part.

“Hey,” Wills shouts. I can’t see the person he’s shouting at but just as the crowd parts, just as I see the back of someone I recognize, he says, “Riggs. Neighbor’s here to complain.”

“Fuck, man,” he says, but then turns around and jolts to a stop when he sees me standing there. I’m pretty sure we both have the same expression on our faces—shock that we live next door to each other.

But my brain processes more than that. It brings me back to the damn dream. To the imagination-induced, hand-helped orgasm that rocked my world following said dream. The same place my mind has gone each and every time I saw him this weekend at the race.

The reason I continue to avoid him.

And this visceral reaction to an imaginary meeting of our bodies—the sound of him groaning as he comes and the feel of his fingers gripping my hips as he pounded into me—is why I had to.

“Hey, you!” Riggs sways on his feet, clearly drunk as drunk can be, and a slow, crooked smile crawls over his lips. “Camilla. Cam. Cami. Cami-cam-cam.” He slurs the words out as he steps forward and wraps me in the biggest bear hug ever.

The part of me that goes to push him away falters when my hands hit the hard plane of his chest, and my mind is brought back to all the reasons I’ve avoided him.

To fingernails scoring his sweat-misted chest. To strong arms holding me against him. To my panted name on his lips.

“I thought you didn’t drink during the season.”

“This is my one exception. ’Member. I told you about it?” He angles his head and studies me.

“How could I forget?” I murmur. How can he look both adorable and sexy at the same time?

“Look who’s here,” he shouts to everybody as he leans back, arm still on my shoulders, and looks at me with eyes that are glassy but so damn adoring. “It’s Camilla who doesn’t like dare cards, bastards, or James Bond but loves good kisses, drivers, and champagne straight outta the bottle.”

“Hello, Camilla,” the crowd shouts back followed by a roar of cheers going up. A roar that explains so much about the sound I keep hearing from my apartment. Clearly this is how they greet people.

I shrink at the sound but raise my hand up in greeting.

“C’mon, Gasket,” Riggs says.

“Gasket?” I laugh the word out.

He nods emphatically. “You blow a gasket so easily. Get so angry at the drop of a hat—especially when it comes to me . . . so I officially name thee Gasket.” He grins and waves a pretend wand at me, clearly proud of himself for the nickname.

“You’re crazy.”