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But I kind of like it on him.
Walker.
The tattooed, slutty sci-fi fan.
He's intriguing.
Too intriguing. I'm not opening myself up to heartbreak again.
I know I shouldn't stereotype, but the tattoos and the man-whoring don't suggest stable, supportive boyfriend material.
T
hen again, clean-cut guys haven't exactly been good to me.
I move to the kitchen—it's on the other side of the coffee table—and grab a glass. "You want water?"
"Sure."
I pour two glasses and hand one to him.
He's smiling.
"What?"
"Women don't usually offer water."
"That's bad strategy."
"Yeah?"
"You need to stay hydrated if you want peak performance."
He chuckles. "True."
"You keep laughing."
"With you."
"With me?"
"I promise. I like you, Iris." He takes a long sip and sets his glass on the table. He moves toward me. Closer. Closer.
There.
He peels my fingers from my glass and sets it on the counter.
His hands go to my hips.
He leans in close.
My eyelids flutter together.
I rise to my tiptoes and press my lips to his.
He tastes good. Like whiskey. Fuck, it's been too long since I've really savored a sip.
Or a kiss.
