Текст книги "After Tonight "

Автор книги: Annie Kelly

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I quirk an eyebrow back at him. “Is that your way of saying I look young for my age?”

He laughs. “I guess so, yeah.”

“Well, thanks.” I can feel my cheeks color and I force myself not to look down—not when this gorgeous man’s attention is completely focused on me.

“I aim to please,” he drawls. “Besides, I have to do something to keep you from getting seduced away from me by some of the more—ah—interesting clientele.”

He nods his head toward a man walking past, wearing a tight silver T-shirt and an equally shiny cone-style bra over top.

I snort a laugh and shake my head. “I’m up for an adventure, but I’m not sure that’s quite my speed.”

Blue Eyes takes a swig from his beer, then grins. “Well, you’ll get an adventure here, alright. That’s for damn sure.”

“You say that like you come here often.”

He shrugs noncommittally. “I wouldn’t say often—but I’ve been here enough to see a lot of crazy shit go down. Sometimes I’m not sure how this place stays open.”

I lean toward him a bit. “So, since you’re the resident expert, can I ask you something?”

“Sure—shoot.”

“What’s up with the no-names thing? I mean, why is it important that we are strangers who stay strangers to each other?”

He rests an arm on the bar, letting his finger run along the edge of my coaster. Something in my lower stomach flips over itself as I watch his hand move back and forth.

“It’s kind of a rule—everyone stays anonymous in the club,” he says. “If you leave with someone, all bets are off. But, while you’re in here, you’re supposed to be whoever you want to be, not the person you actually are.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Sounds a little sketchy to me.”

He laughs. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Well, then why do you come here?”

“A couple reasons.” He scoots a little closer. “Partly because my friend owns this joint and I get in for free. But mostly because majority of the clubs around town are meat markets. That shit gets old fast.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. I send a very obvious look over at our bartender, then back at him.

“And you’re telling me this place isn’t a meat market?”

He cocks a sexy half grin that makes my knees feel a little weak. It’s a good thing I’m sitting down.

“I was mostly referring to the guy meat market—the Jersey Shore types with their ’roid muscles and hair product and fake tans. I’m just saying—people don’t come here only to hook up—they have fun. They dance. They let themselves go a little bit. It isn’t all about the score.”

I can feel my slightly intoxicated heart take a sad little nosedive into my belly. If he’s anti-meat-market and anti-score, then he’s definitely going to be anti–Number Three. I take a long sip of my drink to increase my bravado.

“So, are you—not interested in scoring, then?”

When I grow enough balls to look up at him, he’s staring at me, his gaze slightly hooded. His lashes are impossibly long, giving his eyes a darker frame, almost as though he’d lined them.

“I wouldn’t say I’m not interested,” he says slowly. “I just think I’m selective.”

“Selective?”

“Yeah.” Now, his smile doesn’t just unfurl—it practically prowls over his face in a slow, sexy bloom. “Selective about who I talk to at the bar. Selective about who I buy drinks for. Selective about who I score with.”

I force myself not to bite my bottom lip, because I really want to, and I know that it makes me look like a terrified high schooler. Instead, I fiddle with my straw.

“Good to know,” I manage to say.

“So,” he says, leaning back toward the bar and taking a sip from his beer. Unlike me, he seems completely unfazed by our conversation. “It’s your first time at Cave. That means there are a couple things you have to do.”

“Oh, yeah?” I glance up at him. “And those would be?”

He holds up two fingers. “First, you have to dance.” I roll my eyes. “You sound like my friends. They’ve practically bullied me about getting out there.”

He shrugs. “That’s because you have to. That, and you have to get your body painted.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

I lift an eyebrow at him. “Um, for one thing, I’m not an exhibitionist.”

He snorts. “Please—it’s not a big deal.”

I cross my arms. “You don’t think getting completely naked and prancing around in nothing but burnt umber and Prussian blue is a big deal?”

His mouth kicks up on one side. “I don’t know, Bob Ross. It doesn’t seem like all the people who get painted are completely naked. And, besides, the artists here are completely legit. Most of them own tattoo shops or work in graphic design studios by day. They do killer work.”

“Well,” I say, finishing the dregs of my second drink, “you’ve neglected to account for one minute detail.”

“And what’s that?”

“That I don’t want to get my body painted.”

Blue Eyes lets his narrowed gaze travel over my face like he can read it. I feel warm under the scrutiny—or maybe it’s just the alcohol. Or, you know, both.

“You don’t want to or you’re scared to?”

I roll my eyes.

“I’m not scared. I’m just . . . selective,” I say, tossing his word back at him. He smirks.

“Selective about what?”

“About who I let touch my body.”

“Ah.”

There’s the slightest hint of a smile on his mouth, and a flash of tongue when he licks his lips.

“While I think that’s probably good in theory,” he says, shifting to lean into my personal space again, “it seems to me like you’re just making excuses.”

“Oh, really?”

He bends in and lets his lips nearly touch my ear as he whispers, “Really.”

My heart rate kicks into high gear and I know he can tell. By the look on his face, he’s reading my body language as “ready and willing,” which would be almost accurate. Okay, totally accurate. He takes my hand, which was resting in my lap, and links it with his. He waits a few beats, examining our intertwined fingers, before speaking. When he does, his voice is quiet and a little gruff.

“That, and I’d give my right anything to see you in a little less clothing and a lot more paint.”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

Nervously, I clear my throat, then run my other hand down the perspiring side of my glass. Seconds later, I transfer it to the equally perspiring side of my face. Sure, it’s warm in here and, sure, I get flushed when I drink, but it’s more than that. This man—this stranger—is potent. Something about him makes me sweat.

And something about him makes me want to say yes.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can take them back, but I think it’s worth it just to see the surprise morph into pleasure on the face of my new partner in crime.

“Are you sure?” He’s still grinning. “I’m mostly full of shit—you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

I shrug. “I mean, it’s just paint, right? It’s not like it’s permanent.”

Man. That smile of his is like a force of nature.

“Yeah—there’s nothing about this place that’s permanent,” he says, glancing around us at the bar, then back at me. “Unless you want it to be.”

His eyes are full of something warmer than humor. Something like appreciation. Like desire. Something that makes me wonder what he’s done when he’s been here on all those nights before tonight.

“So, what about you?” We both slide forward off our stools until we’re standing toe-to-toe. I try not to teeter on Rainey’s heeled boots. “Have you ever had your body painted?”

He laughs. “You know what? I haven’t.”

“Seriously? But you just said everyone has to do that their first time.”

“I think I was more considering the first time for a woman at the club,” he says. “But, you know what? I’m game—we’ll do it together.”

“You want to get your body painted with me?”

“Honey,” he drawls, flashing that grin, “there isn’t anyone in the world I’d rather get body painted with.”

It’s my turn to laugh and I shake my head. “Oh, I bet you say that to all the ladies.”

And, because I’m an awkward mess, I attempt to gently elbow him in his side and, instead, jab him a lot harder than I intend.

“Oh, shit! God, I’m so sorry!” My hand flies to my mouth as he half doubles over. “Christ, I am an absolute disaster. Are you okay?”

I swear, I am such a spaz—more specifically, a spaz who doesn’t know CPR or the Heimlich or any other life-saving techniques. If I have to call Mystique over to come give him mouth-to-mouth, I will literally punch myself in the face.

But when straightens up to standing, I realize he’s laughing. Suddenly, he takes my hand and tugs me closer to him.

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

I blink at him. “What?”

He lets his thumb feather over my palm. “I said what’s your name?”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to—”

Quicker than you’d think possible, he moves his other hand up to cup my cheek.

“I know we’re not supposed to. But I want to.”

“Why?”

I hate the way my voice squeaks. But when his eyelids drop, hooding his gaze again, I forget all about how I sound.

I forget about everything but him.

“Because I think you’re intriguing. Because I think you’re sexy. And because I want to get to know you better.”

I bite my lip, and his eyes zero in on my mouth. I have to literally remind myself to inhale.

“Hyacinth,” I finally say. “My name’s Hyacinth.”

There’s a fire in his eyes when he smiles this time. He shifts his hand along my jaw until his thumb rests just under my bottom lip.

“Hyacinth.”

He says it quietly, slowly, it’s like he’s savoring it. Or maybe it just sounds that way to my addled brain—hell, I can hardly hear him over the beat of the music. Or maybe it’s the beat of my own heart. Who really knows anymore?

“It’s nice to meet you, Hyacinth,” Blue Eyes says as he tilts my face up to meet his gaze. “My name is Smith.”

Chapter Three

Taking Chances

“You want me to do what?”

I sort of gape at the girl in front of me, who is holding an airbrush gun in one hand and a martini glass in the other. She bats her extremely long, silver-tipped eyelashes.

“Take off your shirt,” she repeats, enunciating each word.

I glance over at Smith, who is already straddling a stool. The leather-clad girl in front of him has a gleeful look on her face. Can’t blame her, I guess. We all watch as he unbuttons his dress shirt.

Oh, for the love of all things good and holy.

He’s like a work of art—his skin is golden brown, even in the bluish light of the club, and his torso has the kind of definition you only see in commercials for exercise equipment.

Self-consciously, I glance down at the pale cleavage I’ve been flashing all night, and I want to groan. I am absolutely not removing my shirt. I’ll look like Casper the Friendly Ghost if I stand shirtless next to him. Not to mention—I mean, I really like wearing clothes. Particularly in public.

“Here’s the deal, honey,” my body artist says, leaning back to survey me. “You can leave the bra on—I can paint right over it. But if you want a masterpiece, you gotta show some skin. Hell, this ain’t a kid’s face-painting party, you dig?”

I swallow hard. Smith is watching me over one shoulder as the other artist crouches in front of him and makes large, sweeping gestures over his torso with the airbrush.

“Hyacinth?”

God, I love the sound of my name on his lips.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t really have to do this,” he says with a smile.

But there’s a challenge hidden behind those words, and he and I both know it. Jutting my chin out, I steel my nerves and yank my sweater up over my head. I don’t have to look at my bra, because I can remember precisely which one I’m wearing—beige satin, no padding in the cups. Couldn’t be more boring.

I turn to face Smith full on, and the infuriatingly sexy smile slips off his face. There’s no mistaking the heat flaring in his eyes.

“Color me surprised,” he says quietly.

I can feel myself turning red, but I just shrug.

“I like a challenge, I guess.”

“Clearly.”

When I look at him again, his gaze is locked on my chest, and I glance down to see that my nipples have hardened, very prominently, beneath the satin cups. I desperately want to cross my arms, and I have to force them to stay at my sides.

My airbrush artist places a hand on my bare shoulder. “Turn around, lemme see you.”

I feel relief at the excuse to move from Smith’s gaze. I pivot on one heel and square my shoulders. Ms. Silver Lashes grins up at me, then I feel a blast of air across my chest.

“What the—”

“Don’t look down.” She curls an index finger under my chin and tilts my face back up. “Just let me do my work.”

Then she lowers her voice.

“I promise I’ll make you look so sexy he won’t be able to take his eyes off you—even more than he can’t already.” I open my mouth, then close it. She quirks a brow at me for permission to continue, and I just nod slowly. Her glee is immediate, and she begins to make sweeping gestures and swirling motions along my torso and shoulders. The paint itself feels like a fine mist at some points. At other times, I can only feel the air pressure from the gun.

I bite my lip and look back at Smith, who now has his arms raised with his hands interlocked behind his head. Along one forearm, I can see the muted ink of a fairly intricate tattoo. God, even his forearms are gorgeous—tan and strong, the kind you want resting at your waist and pulling you in closer. For the next few minutes, I picture scenarios that involve him sweeping me up and carrying me to safety, like if I were being attacked by killer bees or zombies or something.

“Cyn?”

I look up at the entryway and see that Carson is standing about ten feet from me, jaw dropped and eyes bulging. Behind her, Rainey looks equally gob-smacked.

“Man, I knew getting you out was a good idea, but I never thought I’d see this happen.”

Rainey pushes past Carson, who is too busy staring at my boobs to provide any sort of intelligent commentary.

“Dude.” Rainey lets her eyes slide up and down my body. “Just . . . wow.”

I tilt her a smile. “I haven’t seen it yet, so don’t spoil it.”

“I’m done—you can look now,” Silver Lashes says.

She pulls back and gestures to a full-length mirror a few feet away. I move toward it cautiously.

Please don’t look like Lady Gaga. Please don’t look like Lady Gaga . . .

I stare at my reflection in absolute awe. I don’t look like Lady Gaga. I don’t have an animal print or lightning bolts or anything else that I’ve seen painted on passersby. Instead, there’s a base of thick green grass sweeping up from my waist and curling into long stems and leaves. Then, imbedded in the green are dozens of tiny purple blossoms. They pepper my stomach and move up and over my breasts and collarbone. The ones closest to my shoulders are lighter and more golden, like there’s actual sun shining down on me.

“What kind of flowers are those?” Carson asks. I look over my shoulder and see her staring at my reflection, too.

“They’re hyacinths,” I say quietly.

Rainey is shaking her head in amazement. I turn to face the body artist, who is already motioning for the next client to sit down.

“This is beautiful—thank you.”

She grins, then sort of shrugs. “You’ve got a great name, honey. I’m glad you like my work. Tell all your friends—I’ve got a tattoo parlor over near Roland Park. You ever need some permanent ink, you come see me.”

I nod, a little dazed. My green sweater is in my hands, and I’m not sure what to do with it now. I can’t put it on over this masterpiece. I suppose I could tie it around my waist . . .

“I’ll take that.” Carson snatches the sweater from my grip. “I don’t want you to get tempted to put it back on.”

“Can I get it back when we leave? I’d rather not prance around Baltimore topless.”

She shrugs. “We’ll see—you might decide you like your new look so much, you’re willing to show it off in other venues.”

“Doubtful,” I snort.

But I take one last, lingering look into the mirror and, I have to admit, I’m more than just happy with the results of taking this risk—I’ve never felt this comfortable being exposed. I guess it’s because I’m basically covered up in a way that makes my body seem beautiful, but not showy.

“Wow.”

I can feel Smith’s breath against my bare shoulder. When I turn toward him and look down, I almost swallow my tongue.

He’s wearing his shirt now, unbuttoned and open, and his entire chest and torso are highlighted like a Greek sculpture. The body artist played up his chiseled muscles and taut stomach, adding deep shadows to emphasize each delicious line and ripple. At the center of his sternum, there’s a symbol reminiscent of the Superman S emblem. It’s in darker tones—metallic, like iron, but also sort of smoky, with curly tendrils of barbed wire coming out from every side.

“You look amazing,” he says to me.

I blink, forcing my gaze away from Smith’s pecs (which looks delicious) and his abs (which look equally delicious) and back up to his face. He quirks a smile when my eyes meet his.

“You do, too,” I say.

I try not to blush as his gaze travels over my body.

“So, that’s one thing down.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and his eyes move toward the entrance to the dance floor. “You want to go check the other item off your list?”

I almost laugh out loud. Little does he know I have a completely different list than the two “assignments” he’d given me at the bar.

“Are you asking me to dance?” I say, attempting to sound coy. It must work, because Smith gives me an almost-bashful shrug.

“I guess I am. You in?”

I pretend to consider his proposition, then nod. “I’d love to.” Behind me, Carson and Rainey are debating which designs they want painted on their bodies. I tug on Carson’s sleeve and, when she looks up, I motion to Smith.

“We’re going to go dance. I’ll come find you later, okay?”

She blinks at me, then her lips slide into a slow, wide smile.

“Awesome. Have a great time.” She lowers her voice. “Text us if you end up leaving.”

I can feel her gaze—really, the gazes of everyone in that room—following Smith and me as we head out of the alcove and toward the dance floor. I mean, I can’t blame them for watching—I’ve seen his ass in those jeans and I know exactly what the other women in the room are seeing. But he’s watching only me as we approach the dance floor, which is practically pulsing beneath colored lights and overactive strobes. There are dozens of bodies in various states of undress—some painted, some not—moving to the music with a kind of abandon that I’m not sure I can muster.

“You look nervous,” he says, smiling. I shrug.

“I’m usually not a big dancer, I’m—uh—not that good at it.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

He reaches out to brush my hair over my shoulder, then lets his hand slide down the back of my arm. Goose bumps erupt in the wake of his touch, and I can’t help but marvel at how his hands feel both gentle and strong.

“It’s all about rhythm,” he says.

“Which I don’t have.”

It’s Smith’s turn to shrug. “Come on—I’ll teach you.”

I give him a skeptical look, which he effectively ignores as he pulls me toward him. Our painted chests meet and his skin feels impossibly warm against mine. At first, I don’t know where to put my hands, at least until he takes both my wrists and guides them to rest on each of his shoulders. I can feel the muscles beneath his skin tense as I press my fingers into the thin fabric of his shirt.

“This is a good start,” he murmurs.

I lick my bottom lip nervously. He’s so close that I can see a faint black ring around the blue irises of his eyes. Slowly, he moves both of his hands to my waist and turns me around so that my back is against his front. The buttons of his shirt press against my back, and the ridge of his belt hits my hip. His breath fans out over my skin in variable gusts and he takes a step forward, effectively steering me through a throng of people and onto the dance floor. Once we reach the middle, he stops me, tightening his grip to hold me in place.

“Okay, bend your knees,” he says into my ear.

I feel his cheek brush against my hair and his breath coast along my neck. I have to actively choose not to shiver from his closeness—the lack of space between us makes me want to burrow further into him.

Instead, I try to relax my legs. My knees naturally flex and I lean further back into Smith’s chest. Now his hands are resting at the place where my jeans meet my lower back, and he lets them coast along the edge of my pants and come to a stop at the snap in the front.

This is right about the time I stop breathing.

“Now, dance with me.”

His hips press against mine and begin to move me along with him. The dance beat is fast and sort of hypnotic. I close my eyes and let my body follow his lead, using his movements as a template.

As our bodies come together, I try to block out my self-consciousness. I’m worried that I’m sweating too much, that my hair’s gone flat, that my lipstick has faded and has left me looking ghostly in the black-lit surroundings. I’m worried that I can’t dance as well as Smith can, and I’m worried that I’ve had too much to drink and it could hit me any second. Most of all, I’m worried that my arousal is going to block out any measure of levelheadedness that I have left.

But after a few minutes, I manage to stop letting the worry direct my actions. Because all I can think of is how Smith’s body feels against mine. This kind of dancing feels like a wake-up call. The way our bodies brush and roll, the way our skin presses together in the sexiest way? Well, let’s just say that my liquid courage is allowing me to show Smith how much I’m enjoying it.

I exhale long and slow, then I let my head fall back against his shoulder. His right hand slides up until it’s splayed over my belly.

“Is this okay?” he asks in my ear. His tone is gruff. Strained.

I just nod, swallowing hard.

He makes an appreciative little growl, then pulls me tighter into him. I thought he’d looked strong and built before, but now that I’m touching him, I realize I didn’t know the half of it. His body is like some kind of miracle. Before I can stop myself, I reach back behind me and tuck my hand between us until my palm is pressed against his abdomen.

Immediately, I can feel the muscles beneath my fingers tighten as I explore them. This dance has evolved from hot to scorching—all the more so when his pinkie slides under the waistband of my jeans. And the waistband of my panties.

I can vaguely remember this as the moment when two things happened—first, the alcohol from my drinks hits me hard, forcing my thoughts to swim through a strange alternate universe that can only picture sex and dancing; and, second, my body took over where my mind fell short.

In a matter of seconds, I reach up with both arms and lock my hands at the back of Smith’s neck. My breasts lift and he pulls me even closer, so my ass is tucked up against his groin. I can feel his erection, hot and hard, against my lower back and, thrilled by it, I begin to grind back against him as we dance.

He hisses a breath out through his teeth and lets both hands travel up to my rib cage. His thumbs rest just below my bra. Then, almost imperceptibly, he strokes my skin.

“I can’t imagine why you think you aren’t good at this,” he says, his lips pressed against my earlobe. “Because, trust me when I say, you are very fucking good at this.”

Then he skates his lips from my ear to my neck. I can’t hold in the moan rising in my throat. His thumbs inch up, ever so slightly, and graze the very bottom curve of both my breasts. And he does this just as his tongue flickers out against the sensitive skin below my ear.

That’s it.

I turn my face to look up at him.

“I want you to come home with me.”

For a second, Smith freezes—then he slowly turns me to face him fully. With his chin tilted down, he meets my gaze.

“Are you drunk?”

I narrow my eyes. “No, I’m not drunk.”

He grins at my indignation.

“I just don’t think you’re the kind of girl who usually asks a man you just met to come home with you when you’re sober.”

“Shows what you know,” I scoff. “I don’t ask men to come home with me at all.”

Wow. That sounded a lot less pathetic in my head.

Smith chuckles a little and crosses his arms over his chest. I want to reach out and stop him—it’s a crime to cover up that amazing body. And, since apparently I have no filter after a few drinks, I tell him so.

“It’s a crime to cover up that amazing body.”

Chuckling, he unfolds his arms and reaches for me. He rests his hands on my shoulders, then squeezes gently.

“Let’s go find your friends.”

Great. He’s done with me already—and we didn’t even make it back to my apartment. How bad do things have to be that a man would turn a woman down for a one-night stand?

I can feel the heat rising up my neck and over my chest as I shake off his hands.

“Forget it, I’ll find them myself.”

Smith blinks and steps closer. “Are you mad?”

“No, it’s fine—you don’t want to come home with me and you apparently think I need a babysitter. I’ll find my friends on my own. Thanks for the dance.”

I spin around on one heel and start stomping off the dance floor. I make it only about five feet before I feel a firm hand curl around my upper arm. I set my jaw, ready to lay into him, but that conviction evaporates when he turns me back around to face him.

“Listen,” he says, pulling me close. He smooths a hand down my back to my waist and lets it rest there. “There is nothing, nothing I would rather do than go home with you right now. You have no idea how badly I want to do that. But, come on, Hyacinth—do you really want that?”

I don’t even hesitate when I say, “That is exactly what I want. I want you to come home with me. I want you to find me irresistible. I want to make you feel . . .”—I stumble for a second—“I want to make you feel fucking amazing.” Smith sort of groans and his forehead rests against mine. His eyes close, then open again. Now, the deep blue irises have gone almost liquid with something I can’t quite define. He moves his gaze from my lips to my eyes and back again.

“All I can think about is how much I want to kiss you,” he mutters, so quietly I can barely hear it over the music. “Actually, I want to do a whole lot more than kiss you.”

“Like what?” I say, my voice equally soft.

He moves a hand to my face, then lets his fingers migrate slowly from my jaw to my neck to my bra strap. He grazes it with his thumb as he says, “I want us to get the hell out of here. I want to take you back to your place. Or my place. Or any fucking place you want me to take you.”

I hold my breath as his thumb moves to trace the cups of my bra and the swells of my breasts above them.

“I’d like to be alone with you,” he continues, “so I can convince you to let me kiss you here”—he lets his knuckle dip into my cleavage. “And here”—he trails a finger down my sternum to my navel, then stops just above my jeans. “And any other place you’ll let me kiss you.”

Oh, holy hell.

“Please,” I choke out. It’s a whimper. It’s a plea. I don’t even know what I’m asking for.

I reach out and place my hand over the painted emblem on his chest, then move it down and over his abdomen. He stiffens, his expression looking almost pained, and I can’t help but notice how impressive his arousal is. It’s sort of a relief to see he’s feeling this as much as I am.

“So,” I say slowly, “how about we just start with kissing. We can worry about the other stuff later.”

Smith cocks a brow at me and moves both his hands to my shoulders.

“Something tells me a kiss from you will only leave me wanting more.”

I shrug. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

He lets one of his hands slide from my shoulder to the nape of my neck. Automatically, my head tips up and our eyes meet. The feverish burn in his feels like a mirror—I’m positive the lustful intensity in my eyes looks exactly the same. Nervously, I lick my bottom lip.

Then he mumbles something like “fuck it” and dips his head toward me. When his lips capture mine, I’m lost.

Smith is delicious—that’s the only way I can describe him. When his tongue flicks out and grazes my bottom lip, I can taste the tang of the beer he was drinking and the slight hint of something minty, like he’d brushed his teeth or chewed Altoids before coming out for the night. He deepens the kiss, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of my jeans and pulling me even closer. His torso is pressing against me, and I let my fingers graze over his shoulders and down his back. One of us groans, but I’m so preoccupied, I couldn’t tell you if it was me or him.

“Hyacinth,” he murmurs against my mouth.

Gently, I capture his bottom lip with my teeth, and this time I know it’s him making a low growl of satisfaction.

“Come home with me,” I whisper, shifting to let my mouth press against his neck, then his ear.

Around us, the strobe lights pulse and the music swells, and Smith’s eyes are trained on mine in a way that leaves me both breathless and energized. I’ve never wanted anyone or anything as much as I want this man right now. I let my thumb stroke along his jaw, the stubble feeling both soft and rough and completely irresistible.

Smith takes a step back to look at me, then grins.

“I’ve got a better idea.”