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Daddy.
His piercing blue eyes under a protruding brow line were a startling contrast against his tanned skin and raven-black hair. His face wasn’t conventionally handsome, I suppose. A bit of a crooked nose, a half-inch scar above his left eyebrow. More Russian mafia than Manhattan metrosexual. But, eye of the beholder and all that, right?
I look over my shoulder and see him placing his glass down at the bar.
He’s watching me go. But is he watching me because I'm watching him?
Yet…I swear there’s a flicker in his eyes as we connect from across the room. Just like I told my diary before bed last night.
I have to be reasonable. The bar is bustling with women flawless enough to grace the cover of Vogue or Cosmo.
I’m not bad looking. I mean, I’m an average girl. Curvy in the right places, I guess, but next to most of these women in here I look like a hobbit. Jack, on the other hand, is the epitome calm, confident sex appeal and raw, animal heat. If sex had a face, it would be this man.
Thing is, I’m hardly an authority on sex. I’ve only ever been around boys who laugh too much and drink too much and get high too often. They make crude jokes in an endless stream that gives me a headache. But Jack is no boy.
He’s a man. The oozing power and authority coming from him even has people in the crowded bar giving him space. And it’s not just his size, which is a little freakish if I’m being honest. But still, as I watch, people they lower their eyes, practically genuflecting as they pass by him.
Still, under that exterior there is something about his burning gaze that makes me feel fragile and tiny and protected.
Every flick of his eyes, every curve of his lips, every clench of his bearded jaw, seems to dive deep and make a home between my legs.
I do a few clenching Kegels as I walk and a flash of heat spirals up my spine. My breasts are tingling; nipples bunched up into tiny, hard balls, ready to pierce through the layers of lavender chiffon.
I’m also aware of the sudden wet mess between my legs. My pathetic bit of sexual experience has never left me panting for more. I had one date my senior year and to say it was unremarkable is being generous. For the first couple seconds Bobby Foster tried to dry hump my hip in his car after my senior prom, I simply held my breath. Then, I punched him in the stomach and that was the end of that.
That’s the extent of my worldly sexual experience, and a man like Jack looks like a pro player while I barely know the rules of the game.
I peer over my shoulder one more time as Sasha tugs me forward and my steps wobble. Her harsh grip on my upper arm yanks me into a dimly-lit corridor beyond the restrooms where I can smell the cleaning products from behind a locked door.
“Ow! Sasha, that hurts.” I jerk my arm away, rubbing the spot where her pointed, jabby fingernails dug in.
“So, tell me…”
“Tell you what? There’s nothing to tell,” I answer, trying to sound indifferent as I wonder how she noticed me talking to Jack.
A flash of annoyance darkens her face. “Tell me about that concept you were sketching out earlier for our dairy product client.”
I gape at her, trying to force my brain into gear. The world feels unsteady under my feet. I want to run my fingers through the dark hair sliding over the collar of Jack’s shirt. I want to pull his face into mine, and feel the scratch of his beard, the warmth of his tongue...
“Chastity?” Sasha’s voice cuts through the haze. “The concept?”
“The...what?” My words come out with a little whimper.
She presses her fingers with Maleficent inspired nails to her forehead on a long huff like I’m giving her a migraine. “That whole idea you came up with, with the clouds and migrating birds…explain it to me again.”
I return to earth with an anxious twist of my stomach, my real-life flooding back to me. I am once again vividly aware of the pounding music, of my skin prickling with a thousand goosebumps. I am also aware of how unsuitable I am for a man like Jack.
You’re dreaming if you think he’s had the same earth-shattering experience as you’re having. Too many fantasies, Chastity.
My heart twists as Sasha moves to my side, exposing a long mirror on the opposite wall that I hadn’t noticed until now.
Next to Sasha, I look silly. Her legs go on for miles, and she knows how to dress for them.
I wanted to wear something special tonight and what I see looking back at me is special but not in the right way. Not like the sample-size-New-York-Fashion-Week clothes most of the other women are wearing, paired with their Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos.
