Chapter 4 #3
“Very wholesome, actually,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.
“My grandma hosts these big monthly dinners, and everyone must come or she threatens to die on the spot. My cousin missed one for jury duty, and she banished him to the kids table for life. He’s forty-five.
” He shakes his head. “Poor bastard. And there’s no booze allowed at that table. ”
“She sounds great.”
He nods. “Except for her small problem with boundaries. I’m pretty sure she hacked my Hinge account again. I keep matching with the granddaughters of her Mahjong club.”
Hinge account? So he’s single. The thought both relaxes and charges me, like a shot of good tequila.
He tips his head slightly toward mine so I can hear him over noisy bar patrons who are growing louder by the minute.
“Any specific reason you’re here tonight?” he asks. “You don’t strike me as a hardcore UFC fan.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I say, checking my bun for loose tendrils.
“This is the title fight, and you haven’t looked at the screen once.”
“Neither have you.”
His eyes dip down to my lips before meeting mine again, his voice so low it’s almost imperceptible. “For good reason.”
Oh god. I’m blushing at level ten now. I push my drink away slightly. It’s going down way too easy. I keep gulping it out of sheer nervousness.
And maybe it’s the whiskey, or maybe because this man is a stranger. Or maybe it’s the receptive, earnest look on his face when I spoke of my mom. Whatever the reason, I tell him the truth.
“I’m here tonight because I just found out my best friend has a new girlfriend, and it has me feeling … alone in the world.” I let out a slow breath. It feels good to let the words diffuse out of my body.
Our knees touch again under the bar. His honey eyes snag on mine, but the playful humor in them is fading, melting into something more serious. Primal.
“You are not alone in the world.”
“I’m not?” My chest rises and falls visibly, but I can’t help it.
“No.” He leans in, his voice deep and low in my ear. “Let me prove it to you.”
Oh, fuck. My skin tingles as if already anticipating his touch. I close my eyes.
“Prove it how?”
He’s watching me. Even with closed eyes, I sense it.
His fingertip, whisper light, gently presses the plumpest part of my bottom lip.
“By kissing you here.” His touch trails to the side of my neck just under my ear, his voice now smooth and rich like the honeyed color of his eyes. “And here. It’s impossible to feel alone when someone kisses you here.”
I exhale hard, the blood in my body pulsing dangerously lower.
A dull ache blooms below my belly button.
What is going on? A second ago, I was about to call an Uber to secretly drive me past Casey’s to see if Helena was spending the night.
Now, this (OK, so actually insanely attractive) man is lighting my skin on fire, pushing out all rational thought.
Before I talk myself out of it, I nod.
Fuck yes. Prove it to me, Croc Man.
He turns his head quietly but confidently, pressing his full lips into mine.
I suck in a sharp breath, like I just plunged into the ocean.
His lips are soft and cool, tasting of citrus and sugar and summer.
They are so new to me, his lips. Unexplored.
They touch mine with respectful, playful pushes, but there is a wanting underneath, thrumming and dangerous.
It’s the wanting that gets me. His hands are in my hair now, his pointed canines delicately nipping into my lower lip.
I tip my head back, filled to the brim with sensation.
I forgot how good kissing feels.
He gathers me to him, his lips never leaving mine.
His kissing intensifies. I can tell we’re both fighting the urge to let this make out session evolve into actual foreplay right here in the bar.
But I don’t care who’s watching. My back elongates and my chest rises in confidence, as if I am a goddess.
A wanton seductress. Anything but a fucking best friend.
This man, all outdoors and citrus sweetness, is taking me higher and higher.
The crowds around us bellow at the fight onscreen while I wage my own war with my desire, and what is socially acceptable behavior in public.
But, god, what I want to do to this man with my hands.
With my lips. We are inconspicuous here, saved by the violence on the screen and the darkness in the room.
The sounds around us reach a fever pitch when he slips his fingertips delicately underneath the collar of my turtleneck and grazes the nape of my neck, releasing a violent shudder through my body.
Holy shit, he’s so hot.
The room’s tenor fades back down to regular volume, and his kissing retreats into those gentle pushes again, his hands now safely at my waist. The lights of the bar flicker, warning of last call. Then they pop on in earnest, as abrasive as a rooster’s crow.
I blink a few times, disoriented. Kissing dreamily in the dark is one thing, but with the lights on, everything seems more real.
He’s probably not even all that hot. Drunken bar hookups never are, especially when they’re wearing beanies.
I blink again and wait for his smooth bronze skin to turn pock-marked and oily.
For his playful, intelligent eyes to turn beady and predatory.
But no. With the lights on, he’s somehow even more sexy. And something else.
Familiar.