London Falling. Chanel Cleeton

some sort of strappy thing, left little to the imagination—and I had a pretty vivid imagination and memory—and showed off her tanned, tight little body. It ended just under her curvy ass, exposing plenty of leg.

      For a moment I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t look her in the eye. I was two steps away from maneuvering Maggie up against the wall and getting under that dress, audience or not.

      “Girls’ night,” Fleur answered, oblivious to the tenuous grip I kept on my sanity.

      I looked away from Maggie, my gaze traveling over the three of them. They were all dressed to kill tonight. Fleur smirked back at me. Mya’s eyes narrowed slightly, and for one awful moment, I wondered if she’d seen my reaction. Maggie still wouldn’t look at me.

      “Where are you headed?” I asked Fleur, trying to keep my voice casual. I hated the tension running through my body, the possessiveness flooding me. It was a new experience, one that wasn’t entirely welcome.

      “That new club, Air.”

      Awesome. It was exactly the kind of place Fleur would choose. It would likely be full of B-list actors and athletes and flashy new-money. In that dress, they’d be all over Maggie.

      No way.

      I couldn’t help it. I had to know if she hated me. I turned my attention away from Fleur, my gaze lingering over Maggie’s body, before reaching her eyes.

      She flinched and looked back down at the floor.

      I needed to explain to her about Layla. If she wasn’t going to give me a chance to get close to her, I would take it.

      “I’ll come with you guys.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      Maggie

      I WISHED HE would stop looking at me.

      Actually, I wished he would go home. Or never have come out with us at all. I still didn’t know how he’d managed it. One minute we were walking down the stairs, the next he was helping me into a cab, his hands grazing my bare shoulders.

      I blamed Fleur. Besides being her cousin, he was also one of her closest friends, and she never did a good job of telling him no. Of course, a lot of girls seemed to have that problem where Samir was concerned—myself included.

      I moved my hips to the music, tossing my head back. I wanted to lose myself in the beat, the freedom of it. For the first time in months, I felt like I belonged. I felt more like myself here in this nightclub in London than I ever had in a lifetime in South Carolina.

      Summer had been awkward. My life back home was beginning to feel a lot like a shirt that was a size too small. I tried to make it work, tried to fit in. But there was a part of me that was always here, in London, wishing I could get back to the life I left behind. Wishing I could get back to the person I actually liked to be, versus the shell of me I’d been in my hometown.

      I’d missed this, missed feeling like I was a part of life, rather than like it was just happening to me. I missed the possibilities.

      This place was a prime example. Clubs like Air didn’t exist in my hometown, with its family restaurants and only a couple of stoplights.

      Here, waitresses served canisters of oxygen and fancy cocktails. Thanks to Samir, we were in the club’s VIP section, girls dancing on the tables around us, people mixing magnums of champagne with oxygen. It was a crazy, surreal experience that felt like something out of a movie and yet somehow—thanks to my scholarship and, indirectly, my Harvard rejection—it had become my life.

      I grabbed my glass of champagne, downing the remnants in one big gulp. The oxygen was supposed to be best when mixed with champagne or something—I couldn’t tell much of difference. But of course, the drink selection was the furthest thing from my mind. This time I stared back at him.

      Samir lounged in his chair, whiskey and Coke in hand, his feet crossed at the ankles, propped up against the table. All he needed was a cigar to complete the portrait of satisfied male.

      He’d dressed casually tonight, probably more out of haste than anything else. He wore a simple collared black dress shirt—a few buttons unbuttoned—and a pair of his signature Diesel jeans. The shoes propped up against the table looked like Gucci or something equally expensive.

      The more I drank, the more I wanted to undress him, one article of clothing at a time.

      Samir used to be the one temptation I couldn’t resist. And now that I’d had him, I wanted more.

      I hadn’t been able to really look at him earlier, surrounded by everyone. I studied him now, until our gazes locked and his eyes widened slightly.

      Shit.

      I looked away, nerves pounding. I was playing with fire, dancing around the heat and the flames. But wasn’t that part of the excitement? Deep down, in places I didn’t want to admit to having, wasn’t that part of what I liked? The thrill of the chase—the ecstasy and agony of wondering if he still wanted me, if he lay awake at nights turned on, fantasizing about me, or if he woke from dreams that seemed more like memories—of naked flesh and heat and release.

      I couldn’t resist—I glanced back over at him.

      He sat at the table, nursing his drink, his eyes hooded. This time, he wasn’t looking at me.

      Since we’d arrived, scores of girls had come over to the table, flirting with him, practically giving him a lap dance. He’d ignored every one. Apparently he was taking this girlfriend more seriously than I’d thought.

      We’d all criticized him for being a player and yet, here he was, faithful to someone far away. A better person would have been happy for him. It just made me want to drink more.

      I turned my body slightly, sneaking another peek at him. He stared back at me, unsmiling, his gaze unwavering. It was the staring equivalent of a game of chicken, one he would probably win.

      A girl walked over to the table, a sultry grin on her face. What was this, number six for the night? If anything, Samir’s lack of interest seemed to spur them on. I had no doubt he’d become a competition to them—the prize they all wanted to win.

      The girl leaned down, her long blond hair brushing against Samir as she whispered in his ear.

      My stomach clenched. It was harder than I’d anticipated, watching him with someone else. I hated that I even wondered, but the thought flashed through my mind: Has he slept with her, too? I wasn’t prepared for the spark of hurt I felt—irrational as it was—at the sight of another girl so physically close to him. I held my breath, waiting for his reaction, wishing I didn’t care.

      He waved her off, his gaze connecting with mine. Something that might have been embarrassment flickered in his eyes before it was replaced by the same smug expression I’d come to know as classically Samir.

      I glared back at him.

      The girl remained at his side, a pouty expression her face. I knew I’d regret what I was about to do, but I couldn’t resist. It—all of it—was just too much.

      I moved in for the kill, closing the distance between us. “He has a girlfriend, you know. He’s devoted to her. So you might as well not waste your time.” I wanted to hurt him, wanted to make him feel small, the way he’d made me feel. It was petty of me, but I was pissed off and spoiling for a fight.

      The girl turned to face me, but I barely spared her a glance. My words weren’t for her. This time I met his gaze dead-on. Challenging him.

      Samir’s eyes darkened. He stood and brushed past the girl, his gaze locked on me. As difficult as it was, I held his stare. I was done being the girl who backed away from a fight.

      He moved toward me, coming to stand before me, mere inches separating our bodies. He was just tall enough, and close enough, that I had to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. It was the closest we’d been since we’d slept together, and my body knew it. My skin felt overly warm,