The air between us thickens with anticipation, and I break our eye contact, because suddenly I’m getting ideas I shouldn’t have. Reaching out to touch his bulging biceps. Maybe find out how he tastes?
I shake my head and focus on the stage. Not that the show helps me clear my head. I watch it stubbornly, regardless. His scorching gaze burns into my side.
“You keep looking at me.” The words barely pass through my throat.
Okay, I find him attractive. That doesn’t mean I’m going to act on it. He probably finds a victim here every night.
“I can’t help it.”
“Most men here assume they can have what they are looking at.”
“I assume nothing.”
He doesn’t sayI’m not most men. In some ways, his answer feels like a rejection. But it’s not.
His look says he’s interested, but he doesn’t act on it. The freedom of choice he’s awarding me is either a genius move, or this man is simply comfortable enough having me lead.
“Why?” I lick my lips, and my heart flutters when his gaze falls to my mouth.
“Because you’d make a terrible possession.” He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles.
His palm is surprisingly calloused, as if he’s used to manual labor. But it’s his warmth that sends an electric current through me.
It momentarily distracts me from his words, but they finally push through the alcohol-and touch-induced fog. I snatch my hand back. “Excuse me?”
“You, Foxy, are too alive for that.”
I hate how much I like that. I hate how much it feels like the truth.
Not sexy. Not untamable. Not too mouthy.
My heart pounds in my chest. Why is that the best compliment I’ve ever gotten? And he stares at me with an intensity that threatens my underwear.
I swallow, my mouth dry for no reason. I put the glass to my lips, drinking slowly to gain time. To regain composure. To find my sanity.
I let the liquid wash down my throat slowlywhile my gaze stays on Romeo’s, drowning in the buzzing energy of our eye contact.
Heat slides under my skin, low and insistent, like my body’s already decided before my brain catches up.
I’m stalling because, for some outlandish reason, my instinct to rebut him doesn’t show up. Instead, I want to take his hand and walk with him upstairs.
Like my dry spell ended the moment I set foot into this place, whether I like it or not. I might be stalling, but I’m also enjoying his blatant perusal as he rakes his hungry eyes over me while I drink.
Finally, I put my empty glass down, and I lick my lips extra slowly… Oh shit, I’m really flirting here.
His Adam’s apple bobs. I glance up the stairs and back at him.
It feels like an hour has passed since his last words, but he says nothing else. He doesn’t pressure me further.
Only our bodies are having a mute conversation. His silence isn’t empty—it’s a dare wrapped in restraint.
I might have just met a man who doesn’t kill the vibe because he gets off on listening to himself or on conquering. I’m making assumptions here, but his silence is the biggest turn-on.
It’s an illusion, but somehow, I feel like he gave methe freedom to choose. And few men in my life show me that courtesy. One that should be a given.
Before I overthink it, I slide off the stool and take his hand.
I lead him toward the staircase, hoping he’d know how to find a private room. He follows me without a word.
