I pretend-yawn. “The conversation is stale, so I’m trying my best… since you’re saving me from the perils of this place.” I grin, not even sure why.
“Nothing about this encounter is stale, Foxy.”
The suggestion in his voice. Fuck. I cross and uncross my legs, and immediately regret it. I can’t show him he’s affecting me.
I swallow. The air between us is thick with something that I haven’t felt in a long time.
Desire.
Lust.
Need.
“What’s your agenda, Romeo?”
“I’m not sure yet.” He utters the sentence with a level of dryness, and a hint of disdain.
I smirk. “And you’re trying to find out by staring at me?”
He blinks a few times, and then turns to watch the scene around us, seeking distance. Like he’s as surprised by the ease of our interaction as I am.
“Why are you here?” he asks, not looking at me, propping his elbows on the counter behind him.
I play with my drink and lean back on my stool. We’re like two observers, sitting in the middle of a playroom but not interested in joining in.
“Same reason as everyone else.” I shrug.
“Now you’re just lying, Foxy.”
“And you know that how?”
“You’ve been uncomfortable, chugging down drinks and rubbing your legs together.” He turns his head to me, his eyes sparkling with jest. “It’s like you don’t want to be here, but somewhere deep down, there is a part of you that would like to let loose.”
“You don’t know me.”
“No. But I’d like to.”
My pulse betrays me before my brain can object. I blink at him. He doesn’t lean in, laying it hard on me. Demanding my attention. Declaring his intention.
He leans back, watching me, giving me space.
Space I don’t have to fight for like I’m used to.
“Don’t waste your time, Romeo. Go and join the fun.” A small part of me regrets the words, but I need to stay focused here.
He leans closer, his lips almost touching the shell of my ear. “Something tells me I’ve joined already.”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
He laughs. It’s a low, raspy chuckle, and I like it. For some outlandish reason, I don’t mind his company.
Sparring with him isn’t about making sure I’mtaken seriously. It’s just a light flirtation. In fact, I’m not even sure we’re flirting. We’re just… What are we doing?
His eyes on me now are offering something, but I’m not sure what it is. Like he likes what he sees, but it’s my turn to make a move.
It’s an appreciative scrutiny, yet I don’t feel like prey. I feel like a goddess. Like he respects my boundaries.
Respect shouldn’t be seductive, but here we are.
