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Chapter2
Emersyn
We fireoff the first round of questions in rapid succession, to which we both reply without a care in the world. I mean, they are all basic get-to-you-kinda-questions. Ice breakers.
“Where are you from?”
“Georgia,” he replies.
“Oh, a good ol’ boy.” His smirk is cocky and confident.
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“Definitely a statement. You have that classic Southern charm.”
“So you find me charming?”
“Among other things,” I admit, and his smirk expands into a bashful smile that is freakin’ adorable. Unlike most men who come into the club, this man has a genuine personality that caught my attention immediately. While his friends were drinking and waiting for the girls to take the stage, he hung out and messed around on his phone, his heart bleeding out on his sleeve. He wasn’t drinking his sorrows away, like most people would do. I don’t know the backstory of his broken heart, but how do you still care about someone who left you without a word? This Laney sounds like a selfish bitch, but really I shouldn’t be judgmental.
There was a gravitational pull toward him the moment he sat at my bar. But I couldn’t be so forward that I climbed in his lap and propositioned him. What kind of girl do you take me for? I have to get him to warm up to me first. So I watched him. His mannerisms when he asked for a drink, his body language as he scrolled through his phone, how he interacted with his friends. I was completely enamored with his presence, and I needed more than a single interaction of getting him a glass of water.
I want to greedily absorb every second with him, get to know who he is as a person, then I want to make him forget.
We continue tossing simple questions back and forth, friendly conversation flowing with ease. He’s comfortable with me, finally smiling, even laughing at times.
“Tits or ass?”
He smirks and says, “That’s where I’m greedy. I like a handful of both.”
“Just a handful?”
“I’ll take as much as I can get. I don’t have a specific type. I love all women.”
Damn good answer.
“Blue collar or suit?”
I roll my eyes; I can’t believe he’d even ask that.
“100% blue collar, without question. I wouldn’t give a suit the time of day.” I’ve seen too many of the skeletons those expensive suits hide.
He flinches like he’s been smacked and says, “Damn, guess I’m out of the runnin’, then.”
“Whatever.” I laugh.
“What are you laughing about?”
I wrap my fingers around his hand and turn his palm up. I trace the callouses along his palm with the pad of my thumb, ignoring the spark as we touch. The small jerk of his hand alerts me that I'm not the only one who felt it. When I look up and meet his gaze, his pupils are lasered in on me, and that look in his eyes… It’s intense. I swallow the lump in my throat and force my confident bravado.
“A suit’s hands would be soft, delicate even, and perfectly manicured. Your hands are hard, rough, strong.”
“I thought the question was what I preferred to wear, not my job category.”
Ah ha, so he's clever.
“So you like wearing suits, but you're blue collar,” I state. He shrugs, offers me a small wink, and picks up his glass. “I like to look good.”
He’s just taken a sip of water when I ask, “What do you think about when you masturbate?"
