Kill me.
Actually, kill me.
I swallow, mortified, but try to salvage my dignity. I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin.
“Eavesdropping is rude,” I say, proud my voice only shakes a little.
Dom’s breath skims my neck as he answers.
“So is lying.”
Humiliation spills behind my ribs, but I refuse to show it.
I turn slowly until we’re face-to-face.
He’s standing too close, he’s too tall, and way too intense. That part of my narrative was true at least.
I force a sweet smile.
“Well,” I say, dripping sarcasm, “I’m sorry for talking about your seemingly nonexistent sex life, but the people wanted an answer.”
His eyes dance with amusement, and he steps closer, propping a fist on my barstool.
“So, in your little story,” he murmurs, “am I any good?”
My stomach flips, traitorous and hot.
“I wouldn’t know,” I snap.
He tilts his head.
“No,” he agrees softly, dangerously. “You really wouldn’t.”
He takes all of me in and drops his voice.
“But keep talking like you do, and I might start correcting those stories.”
Fire.
Lightning.
Panic.
Heat.
I feel it all at once and bite my lip to stop from smiling.
“Maybe I’d let you,” I whisper, too fast.
His eyes flare slightly, like I surprised him. Then he leans in until we’re almost nose to nose.
“Your mouth writes cheques your body can’t cash,” he murmurs.
My pulse is still somewhere under the carpet when Dom plucks the drink from my hand, his long fingers brushing my palm.
He raises the glass to his lips without looking away from me and drinks. I watch him swallow, eyes dropping to his Adam’s apple. His gaze stays locked onmine the entire time, like he’s doing something obscene.
“Thirsty?” I manage, voice faint.
