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Lark lifts a hand to rest on my shoulder. Where his palm touches me, warmth spreads, tingling, all through my arm, up my shoulder and across my body. After a moment of hesitation, I reach up to thread my fingers through his, and squeeze just once, lightly.
He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes. That’s what makes me ask.
“What about you?” I keep my eyes on the bar, but I can see him in the reflection of the bottles of liquor lined up there. The way his head drops a little, and his eyes darken.
“My youngest brother,” he says, after a long moment of quiet. “He was in a car accident last year. Drunk driver. They say he was killed on impact, never felt anything, but…”
“Shit, Lark.” I tighten my grip on his hand.
He shifts beside me, then picks up his whiskey again, takes a longer sip this time. “Losing someone that young… Really makes you appreciate the time you still have. Makes you want to live life right.” He glances at me again, and this time, I don’t look away. I let my eyes linger, the same way his are.
I lose track of how long we just sit, sizing one another up, before he bends a little closer. There’s barely a foot between us now. He’s close enough I catch his scent, woodsy and smoke-tinted from the whiskey, with a hint of something else underneath, something that reminds me of salt and the ocean.
“Cassidy,” he says, and my name on his lips sends a thrum of electricity through me, all the way to the tips of my fingers.
His hand slides along my body, from my shoulder down to the small of my back, where his fingers spread out, strong and so roughly calloused I can feel them even through my thin clubbing dress.
“Lark?” I manage, and my voice only quivers ever so slightly at the end. I manage to hold his gaze, though, keep my chin raised, and I don’t even let him see the way my breath catches or my stomach tightens at his touch.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, still in that low, thrumming voice. The one that’s impossible to resist.
I tilt my head back, my face toward his, and when he dips down to feather his lips against mine, it feels like static shock, touching a doorknob after shuffling your feet across a carpet.
Then he sinks against me, his free hand drifting up to cup my cheek, pulling me off my stool and toward him. I stumble against him—the whiskey’s hitting harder than I expected after those other drinks earlier at the club. He chuckles, his mouth still pressed to mine, and then his lips part, taking mine with. His tongue traces the edges of my lips, and I arch my back, both my arms sliding up to wrap around his neck.
I’m not sure how we settle our tab. I have a vague memory of Lark tapping on the bar, sliding his wallet out of his back pocket. Then the next thing I know, we’re stumbling outside, his arms around my waist, holding my body against his.
The cold night air wakes me up a little, shoots fresh pulses of energy through my veins.
We part, and in the distant streetlights, Lark’s eyes look greener than ever, pools I could drown in. I realize I’m grinning like an idiot, but I don’t stop, because he’s looking at me with the same expression.
“Where the hell did you come from, Cassidy?” he murmurs, and I wonder briefly if this man is a mind-reader, because I’d just been thinking the same thing. Then he kisses me again, and I forget all about speaking.
His hands slide lower, from my waist down over the curve of my ass. I slide one leg around the back of his thigh and arch my body up against his, while my hands slide down those strong, thick shoulders and over his chest.
God, I can feel every inch of his muscle through the shirt he’s wearing, as starkly as if he were already half-naked.
He tilts his head, kisses his way along my jawline and then catches the lower edge of my earlobe, worrying it between his teeth, just for a second, before his tongue traces the curve after. The sensation makes my breath catch, my body sing with want.
“You are goddamn intoxicating, you know that?” he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot enough to make my head spin all over again. “More potent than the whiskey.”
I laugh, but it’s faint, breathy. It’s hard to catch a full breath with this man’s strong arms around me, protective and possessive at once. “Look who’s talking,” I murmur, and he pulls back just far enough to meet my gaze again, his blazing hot.
“You don’t want to get mixed up with me, Cassidy,” he says, suddenly sounding far more sober than I feel. My heart skips a beat. But I can’t tear my gaze from those deep, soulful eyes. I couldn’t make my legs work to walk away from him if I wanted to—and I really, really don’t want to.
