Her blonde hair has textured layers that make me want to thread my fingers through it and mess it up. See what it looks like wrapped around my fist.
“Let me get you another drink,” she says, and her voice is like smoke.
I blink, trying to get my brain back online. “You don't have to.” I don’t even recognize the stunned tone of my voice. No woman has ever offered to buy me a drink.
“It’s the least I can do for bulldozing into you.” She's already moving toward the bar, and I find myself following her like a lost puppy.
We find two stools at the far end, away from the worst of the crowd. As she slides onto the stool, her black dress rides up, revealing creamy, well-toned thighs and heels that could probably kill a man.
As we order, I realize she doesn't seem to recognize me. At all.
When was the last time that happened?
Either way, I'm having trouble remembering how to breathe.
“I'm Nova,” I say, using the nickname without thinking.
“Avery.” She extends her hand, and when our fingers touch, pinpricks of awareness light up my skin.
I’ve never felt an attraction this strong.
I catch the bartender's eye with a subtle nod, and he's over immediately. “What can I get you?”
“Elderflower martini,” Avery says without hesitation.
I like that. A woman who doesn’t ponder over a simple drink choice. She’s ticked another box of my preference for women. Indecision is one of the biggest turn offs there is.
“Macallan 18, neat for me,” I say.
As the bartender moves away, I shift on my stool, angling toward her so our knees brush. She doesn't pull away, but her eyebrow arches.
“You're pretty forward,” she says, taking a sip of her martini when it arrives.
“When I see something I want, I go for it.” I let my gaze drop to her lips for just a second before meeting her eyes again. “Life is too short to play games.”
“And what exactly do you think you want?” Her voice has dropped lower, matching mine. Her eyes have a smoldering quality with an expression that's both mysterious and inviting.
“Right now?” I lean in closer, close enough to catch her vanilla scent. “To know if you taste as sweet as you smell.”
She takes another sip of her drink without breaking eye contact. “That's quite an assumption.”
“Is it wrong?”
Silence stretches between us. Her knee presses against mine with just the slightest pressure, but it might as well be a damn fire alarm for how it affects me.
“Ask me in an hour,” she finally says, and then straightens up. “So what do you do?”
“I play hockey,” I say, shifting positions too, but only because my erection is growing visible. All I can think about is the press of her body, the feel of those lips against me, and the way those killer heels would feel digging into my back.
Avery raises her eyebrows. “Like professionally?”
I grin, enjoying being a complete stranger to someone. “You could say that.”
“Well, I hope you're better at hockey than you are at carrying drinks,” she says in a serious tone.
I laugh. “Ouch. Right for the throat.”
A smile plays at the corners of her very enticing mouth. I wonder what she can do with those lips. “So what brings a professional hockey player to Chicago? Besides spilling drinks on innocent women.”
