Chapter 5
EVER
“Do you like what you see?” the stranger asks in a low, throaty voice that could make any woman’s sex weep with longing.
I nod, unable to look away from the twinkle in his gorgeous eyes.
“Hi there.” I hope my voice is steady. My heartbeat sure isn’t. It’s been so long since a guy’s affected me so quickly. Like love at first sight. I ignore Carlos’s voice in my head, said with his signature flirtatious smirk.
“Hi there, yourself.” He slides his hand beneath my hair, clasps the back of my neck, and pulls me close. The heat between our bodies grows, and awareness is like a spotlight on my body—hot and intense.
The boys on campus have never looked at me the way this stranger does—with hunger in his eyes and possession in the grip he has on my nape.
His head dips close to my ear, and I catch a hint of his virile, masculine musk tinged with citrus. A burst of need consumes me from head to toe, and I’m suddenly lightheaded and weak in the knees.
“What’s your name?” His breath is warm on the shell of my ear.
My heart beats out of control, and my mouth dries. I wet my lips and answer in a breathy whisper back, “You first.” Good God, what is going on with my libido? It’s suddenly in overdrive.
Ty and his crew accuse me of being too reckless, but I am never this reckless.
“Why’s that?” With his hand tight but gentle on my nape, he peers down at me. My, he’s tall.
“You came on to me first.” I lift a shoulder.
His closed-mouth laughter reverberates against my chest, and I am lost to the sparkle in his eyes.
“That’s fair. Name’s Bobby.”
“Ever.”
His eyes widen, and he loosens his hold. “Come again?”
His reaction isn’t surprising. People do a double take, like they’ve never heard the name before. “Ever. That’s my name.”
“Like in happily ever after?”
“I guess so?”
“You don’t know the origin of your name?”
“Oh, I know, but if I tell, I’ll never hear the last of it.”
“I’m interested. Tell me more.” He tips his head to an empty booth in the crowded club. “Have a drink with me?”
I nod, and he takes my hand, expertly weaving us through the crowd until we’re in front of a booth. He gestures for me to slide in first. I do, and he follows. The dim lighting affords us privacy while the location gives us a view of the dance floor and the entrance.
“Come here often?” He catches a server’s attention and waves her over.
“It’s my first time.” I tuck my hair behind my ears.
He scoots closer until his muscular thigh presses into mine. Awareness shoots through me like a bolt of lightning, leaving behind a trail of heightened nerve endings.
What would it be like to get tangled up in his long legs and muscular arms? I imagine the experience would be orgasmic. An ache starts low in my belly and settles in the junction between my legs. Parts of me that have been dormant for two years tingle and throb.
I clear my throat. Am I taking my fantasy too far?
I’m leading Bobby on, and I’m not sure how I feel other than torn.
I put space between us and cross my legs, not missing his sexy laughter as an undercurrent beneath the loud music.
He’s onto how much he affects me, and torn or not, I like that he is aware of my body’s reaction to his.
“Are you from out of town, or do you live here and it’s your first time inside Crimson?” he asks with his full attention on me.
One of my brother’s rules is to not share personal information with strangers.
Carlos’s killer or killers are still out there, and that puts the crew in danger.
Bobby is a stranger, but after tonight, I won’t see him again.
It won’t hurt anyone, most importantly the crew, if I share a little bit about myself.
Looking at the man studying me with his intense, unusual-colored eyes, I doubt he’ll remember me past tonight. I’m a plain Jane with my dark-brown hair and boring brown eyes compared to the drop-dead gorgeous women in the club.
“If Dumas counts, then yes, I’m an out-of-towner. I live in and attend school in Dumas. It’s my last year at DU, but next week will be my last.”
“Are you transferring to a different school?”
“No, but I’m certain you’re not here”—I wave my hand at the crowd and the beautiful women looking in our direction, staring at him—“to hear a college coed’s sob story.” Gwen’s story.
The server places menus in front of us. I hand mine back.
I’m not here for a sit-down meal. I’m here to dance in Carlos’s memory and then drive back home.
My stomach has a different idea. It must’ve remembered that my last meal was a bagel with cream cheese during my lunch break.
Time slips by me, and I forget to eat. My stomach grumbles, and thank goodness the music is loud enough to drown out the sound.
Bobby takes the menu back like he’s figured me out. “Order whatever you want. My treat.”
From my experience, men who say “my treat” usually want something in return, but I’m not getting that vibe from Bobby.
“She’s not leaving until you order.”
I order the first item that catches my eye. “Mozzarella sticks and a glass of water, please.”
Bobby hands the menus to the server. “The usual.”
She dips her head. “Of course, sir.”
I wait for her to leave saying, “You must come here often if she knows what your usual is.”
“Something like that.” He winks. I resist the urge to melt beneath his sea-glass gaze. “You have questions.” He leans in and stares at my face.
It’s more a statement than a question, and there’s a teasing lilt in his voice that I find adorable and sexy as sin. “Am I that easy to read?”
“Let’s just say you would lose in a game of poker.”
I smile. “That’s fair.” I toy with my napkin, wondering whether I should ask my question.
There’s a reason for the saying “curiosity killed the cat.” It was my curiosity that led me to approach Braxton and ask him about the expensive-looking sports car in my neighborhood, not realizing he’d stolen it.
My curiosity gets the better of me, and I ask my question. “How old are you?”
I’ve been to swanky restaurants and dive bars with my brother, Ty, his boyfriend, José, and the crew, and I’ve never heard a server address them as “sir.”
“Unless you don’t want to tell,” I backtrack. Age can be a sensitive subject.
“Twenty-eight.”
Or not.
“You?”
“Twenty-one.” I was only sensitive about my age when women Carlos’s age looked down their noses at me and assumed I was one of the young ones in the neighborhood with a crush on the much older, tatted nightclub owner.
The joke was on them. I was the girlfriend. Nothing came between me and Carlos. Not a guy, and definitely not another girl, though they tried.
“Will my age be a problem?” He inches back, rests against the leather, and slides his arm over the back of the bench seat. His muscles flex and ripple beneath his shirt.
This man works out, and I . . . don’t. “It hasn’t been so far.”
“Not into guys on campus?”
“I didn’t say that, but no, college guys aren’t my type.”
“What is your type?”
You. Tall, dark, and sexy AF. I bypass his question. “Does my age bother you? I’m still in college.”
“It depends.” His heated gaze zones in on my eyes before dipping to my mouth. I squirm in my seat.
“On what?” I ask, breathless from his intense focus on my mouth.
“On whether we’ll see each other again. Will we, Ever?”