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“Uh-huh.”
“Just that…”
“You don't want kids or you don't want Ryan's kids?”
“I never thought about it,” I say.
“You must use something.”
“Not that it's any of your business,” I say. “But I have an IUD.”
“Good to know,” he says and he sinks his teeth into his lip. It's such a sexy gesture, the kind of thing he'd do in between moans.
He shakes his head and licks the last bits of salt off his glass. His lips still look so perfect, so soft and sweet. Do they taste like his drink? They must. They must taste like some delightful mix of agave and lime and Luke.
Jesus, what is wrong with me? I try to look him in the eyes. He's smirking. So he realizes I was staring at him.
I clear my throat. What were we talking about?
His eyes connect with mine, and I feel my heart pounding in my chest. I try to take a deep breath, but I can only manage something fast and choppy.
“Are you thinking about ending your hiatus?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I say. Could that have been more obvious?
“And you need Ryan's permission?” His big, brown eyes bear into me. It sounds so ugly like that.
“Not exactly.”
“But close?” Finally, he looks away, down at his drink. It's nothing but melted ice at this point. His lips must taste like agave and lime. His tongue must taste like agave and lime. Fuck. I can't think about his lips or his tongue, especially not when he's trying so hard to hide his disapproval.
“It's complicated,” I say.
“It's not,” he says. “Ryan always thinks he knows best. And he always needs to shine brighter than everyone else.” His eyes are different now. It's like he went into his head, deep in thought about something. Or someone.
The waiter stops at our table again to drop off our food—grilled fish and sautéed vegetables, the perfect, healthy, nourishing, non-tempting, non-binge inducing meal—and asks if we want another round of drinks. “What do you think? Do you want another round?” Luke asks.
I shouldn't. I am already flushed and nervous and way out of my league. But I nod, yes, I want another. I want this free and easy feeling. I want my inhibitions to stay dull so nothing will stop me from flirting or smiling or staring.
The waiter leaves. Luke stretches his arms above his head, his white T-shirt sliding up his torso, revealing a sliver of skin above his jeans. His body is taut. Perfect abs. And those v-lines, those perfect v-lines, going from his hips to his… I try to pull my gaze away from his crotch, but I only manage to get as far as the soft, black hairs below his bellybutton.
Fuck. I shouldn't think about anything below his bellybutton. I shouldn't picture him slipping off his shirt over his head, revealing the rest of his strong, lean body. I certainly shouldn't picture him unzipping his jeans and sliding them off his hips.
He rouses my attention with a dramatic, “Ahem.” I finally pull my gaze back to his eyes.
“Sorry,” I say, my cheeks flushing.
“You can look all you want. I work out for a reason.”
“And what's that?”
“To look great naked.”
I will not picture him naked. I will not picture him naked. I will not picture him naked.
I swear I won't.
“So, what's your favorite movie?” I ask, in a lame attempt to occupy my thoughts long enough they won't create an image of Luke naked.
