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He holds my gaze for ten thousand years before pulling a fifty from his pocket and tossing it onto the bar.
"Let's go."
He stands. I try to slide off the stool to follow him, but between the shock of what he just said and the four shots of tequila in my bloodstream, gravity totally fails me. I stumble forward.
And crash directly into him and all the muscles.
He catches me, his large hands gripping my waist to steady me. It’s like running into a brick wall. But it’s not just the hard lines of his chest that I feel. Through the thin fabric of my clothes, pressed right against my stomach, is a thick, undeniable erection.
A really fucking big erection.
Oh, he wasn't kidding.
I look up, my mouth suddenly dry, but he isn't looking at me. His jaw is locked tight. Keeping one arm securely around my waist so I don't faceplant onto the floor, he reaches around me.
His fingers snatch the gold wedding band off the bar, his fist closing tight around it. I stare at his hand, a tiny, sober sliver of my brain wondering what the hell he plans to do with it. And what the hell I’m doing with a married man.
But I tell it to get fucked the way I’m about to and go back to hoping he knows what to do with that beast between his legs.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers moving into my hair as he steers me and my wobbly legs away from the bar and out into the muggy Florida night.
CHAPTER 3
GOLDIE
God, why did I choose to live in the literal armpit of America? I wrinkle my nose as soon as the hot, moist air hits me the second we step outside.
It’s disgusting, and yeah, moist is the right word for how it feels. Gross in a makes you want to immediately take a shower kind of way.
And normally I’d be rushing to hop into whatever ride I called to escape it, but my tank top sticking to my back is the least of my concerns.
My brain is fully focused on the fact that Sumner’s hand is still wrapped around the back of my neck under my hair. I’m like one of those puppies who instantly submits the second someone grips me around the neck like this. It puts me in the most shiver-y, relaxed place.
But when this guy does it, it’s also hot. So, so hot.
It’s like the devil’s taint out here heat-wise, yet I’ve got goosebumps all over my body from the way his thumb brushes the side of my neck, and my knees wobble.
I’m not sure how much longer my legs are gonna hold me up.
His grip is firm, steering me and my unsteady legs across the empty street and away from the bright neon of the bar. We hit the beach, my sandals sinking into the soft, sugary sand, and the rhythmic crash of the Gulf fills the quiet between us.
Wait. Why are we at the beach?
It’s not like it’s far from the bar, but still.
The hotel is down the strip. The beach is dark, secluded, and currently empty. And this guy’s a total stranger. A sober girl would turn her ass around and get the hell out of here. I’ve gotta say, walking into the pitch-black night with a massive, muscular man whose last name I don't even know probably isn’t the craziest thing I’m gonna do tonight.
Stranger danger, Goldie.
But then his thumb strokes my neck again, and the alarm bell shorts out in a shower of sparks. If he’s a serial killer, at least I’ll find out before I have a baby with the guy.
"So," I say, because the silence is making my skin prickle and I physically cannot shut up when I'm nervous. “Just so we’re clear, if your dick turns out to be disappointing after all this buildup, I’m going to be really fucking annoyed.”
He stops walking near the water’s edge. A short, surprised huff of a laugh escapes him. It’s a deep, rich sound that does absolutely terrible things to my heart rate.
Does this count as cardio?
I’m totally counting it.
