Him
Hollie
He is the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
The man at the end of the bar has been nursing his drink for around ten minutes. I know this because I keep looking at him. He’s wearing a suit, his tie half undone and his jacket unbuttoned. His hair is short at the sides but long on top, a slight messy curl to it.
In a total juxtaposition, there are tattoos creeping out from beneath the collar of his shirt. I can’t make out what they are from here. Part of me wants to go over and slide the collar back so I can see. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought.
Why is he here? Is he alone like me?
I came into the hotel bar on a whim, all dressed up with nowhere to go. The party I’d been at was stiff and corporate, two things I’m not. Inwardly at least. I left without telling anyone. They are peers of my industry that I have nothing in common with, so don’t feel bad about it. And I wound up here.
The hotel is on the Upper East Side of New York and is an architectural masterpiece. The grand, spacious art déco style in the lobby continues into the bar. It’s anonymous and soothing with its low lights, and soft music. The clientele are tucked away in booths or talking quietly with their heads dipped together. Mostly couples, some businessmen.
And the lone stranger, sipping amber liquid from a crystal glass.
His eyes lift and meet mine. I quickly look away into my glass of red wine. When I sneak a glance back at him, he’s still looking at me. His expression is intense, as if there is something about me he can’t quite figure out.
Lifting the glass, I take a few sips of the wine, to calm my nerves.
I should leave. This isn’t something I normally do. He’s still looking at me, as if he is deciding what move he wants to make. Leaning one elbow on the bar, I uncross and re-cross my legs. The split in the dark red dress slipping so that my bare thigh is visible.
The man tracks the movement with his eyes and his tongue darts out. Goosebumps prick my skin and the hair on my arms rises.
I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to a man looking at me before. It’s as if he is undressing me with his eyes, the ghost of his hands on my skin.
Oh God, what is going on with me? I finish the wine and decide its time to go.
The bartender appears with the bottle of red wine. I really shouldn’t.
“Compliments of the gentleman at the end of the bar.”
“What?” I gasp, my eyes darting back to him.
“Do you not want to accept it?”
Flustered, I look back at the bartender.
“Uh, yes. That’s fine. Thank you.”
He pours me another glass and I take a fortifying sip. I have to thank him now, right? I imagine myself doing that whole raising my glass and giving him a sultry look, but I’m not sure I can pull that off.
He must have seen something he liked, if he sent a drink my way.
The bartender walks away. I blow out a breath and count to five, then move my attention back to the end of the bar. The man is no longer there.
My heart plummets and I turn on the stool to search for him.
Oh.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Clearing my throat, I nod, because my voice is faulty. His eyes take me in, from my toes to the top of my head, then back to my eyes. He says nothing, but I feel as though he’s just stripped me naked. I’m not freaked out by that, which takes me by surprise.
He focuses on the camelia flower tattoo on my shoulder cap and collarbone. Delicate branches with half open flower buds twist upwards behind my ear. It’s beautiful work, done by one of the most talented artists I’ve ever known.
“How far does it go?” he asks.
My breath hitches. The dress hides the rest of the tattoo, which curls over my shoulder blade. I still remember lying on the tattoo table, completely unclothed to my waist as he tattooed me. His professional hands would feel nothing like how it would if this man were to run his hands over my art.
“Waistline,” I say.
His eyes move over my bare shoulder again, before he pulls out the stool beside me and takes a seat. Touching his collar, his fingertips trail over the ink snaking out of his own collar. I want to see it.
My heart is pounding so fast, I feel light-headed. He’s barely spoken to me. Why does it feel like I know him intimately?
The bartender returns and pours him a glass of red wine. He lifts it towards me. We clink and I watch his fingers around the glass, the way he lifts it and takes a few sips, his throat working as he swallows.
Good god. I’m about to combust. I’ve never done anything like this before, never felt this turned on by a man who has done nothing but sit beside me. The way he is staring tells me he knows the effect he is having.
I can’t help but wonder how often he does this. How many women have fallen under this spell?
“I saw you come in and I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
What do I say to that? Instead of bumbling an embarrassing response I smile, hoping I’m pulling off sultry and not flailing for a way to handle this man.
“I didn’t want to interrupt if you were waiting for someone, but you’ve been alone for a while. I can’t imagine that anyone would stand up a woman as beautiful as you.”
I shake my head. “I’m not meeting anybody. I left a party and came here for a quiet drink.”
“You weren’t enjoying the party?”
“It was with people I don’t know very well and, if I’m being honest, a little boring.”
“Well, I’m glad the party was boring.” My frown makes him smile. “You wouldn’t have walked in here otherwise.”
Biting my lip, I glance at the bar. My eyes are drawn back to him when he raises his hand and lightly touches my jaw, tilting my head up. His fingertips leave a trail of fire across my skin. It burns all the way through me, across my breasts, through my stomach and down between my thighs.
This is crazy, I shouldn’t allow a man I’ve only just met to touch me this way. He trails his fingers over the tattoo, then pulls back and drinks more of his wine. It crosses my mind that he could be some kind of pickup artist.
“My brother is getting married, here in the hotel. Tomorrow.”
“Really? It’s a beautiful place to get married.”
He eyes the bar then focuses back on me. “Yeah. I’m only in town for two days.”
“Where do you live?”
“Vancouver.”
My brow lifts in surprise. “You’re Canadian?”
“No, American. I moved to Canada for work straight out of college. Loved it so much, I stayed.”
“You’re a long way from home then.”
He nods. “Family weddings, not something you can get out of. Would you like to dance?”
People behind us are dancing. I hadn’t noticed until now. The music is a slow, sexy beat and the couples are dancing close. It’s not a nightclub. Without second guessing myself I nod.
He reaches his hand towards me, and I slip mine into it so he can help me down off the stool. That throbbing vibration begins again. My nipples pebble under the dress. I’m not wearing a bra so it’s obvious what’s going on. It’s not cold here.
His smile is knowing as he moves alongside me, pressing his palm to my lower back. My pulse is pounding, and my breath is thready.
He spins me towards him when we reach the dancefloor and pulls me close. Our bodies are flush and where we touch, it feels like fire is licking over my skin. It’s a wonder my dress hasn’t combusted and fallen to the floor.
He keeps one hand on my lower back, the other takes my hand. I’ve never danced like this before. I’m more of a hardcore club girl. Then again, I’ve never done any of this before. Gone to a hotel bar alone, wearing a cocktail dress, accepting a drink from a stranger across the room.
The courage to look up at him escapes me, so I stare at his shoulder. The people all around us vanish as he moves us, leading as if he was born to do it. He makes me feel safe, sexy and… horny.
The hand I had on his shoulder lowers down over his chest. His heart is beating hard beneath my palm. He releases my hand and touches my chin, delicately feathering over my skin, tilting my head so our eyes meet.
Something passes between us in that look. An understanding, a need. I can’t look away as his head lowers, and he lifts mine.
His lips touch mine and all thought spirals out of my head.