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She giggles before draining her glass and sliding out of the booth. Reaching over to grab my glass, our hands touch, and it sends a spark through me.
“Maybe another drink will remind you how to play.” She holds my gaze before she sashays off to the bar. Her hips have me transfixed.
Yeah, I definitely needed a second. Her effect on me is unlike anything I’ve experienced.
“I might lock up first.”
“But I need somewhere to stay tonight!” I call out, wondering what I’m going to do. I still haven’t figured out a backup plan, therefore, I need the bar to stay open until I do.
“Do you?” she calls, and I swear I’ve heard wrong. Surely, she isn’t insinuating…
Nah…she’s just playing with me.
But it doesn’t stop this unfamiliar feeling of hope. That maybe someone will want me again.
“Let’s just enjoy Christmas. You definitely need—”
“Are we back to the live a little speech? I heard that loud and clear,” I tease.
“Good, you heard me. I’m checking on your old age; you still clean your ears.”
I chuckle. This woman kills me…in the best way.
I don’t bother discussing the issue of where I’m sleeping tonight. I’ll deal with it later. I just want to enjoy this…simply…enjoy her.
Be present in this moment, right here, right now.
Sensible Marc can return tomorrow back in New York, where work and reality are waiting for me.
“Is there anything you’re allergic to or don’t like?” she calls out over her shoulder, while my eyes stay glued to her. I love those hips...curves…they are making me sweat.
“Marc,” she prompts.
Fuck, focus. “Ah, no, I eat and drink everything.”
She lifts her head up slowly, meeting my gaze. Nodding, she walks behind the bar, cutting off my view. I’m curious to see what she is doing with the drink, so I slip out of the brown booth and walk over, leaning over the bar to take a peek.
“Nuh-uh, you can’t see what it is.”
I chuckle and say, “Well, let me use the restroom, and then I’ll meet you back in the booth.”
“Okay.”
I go to the restroom and then return to my seat and see a plate of Christmas sugar cookies. She must’ve dropped them off, so I grab one and munch on it, until she comes around carrying two drinks.
Watching her lower one glass in front of me, she takes her seat, cradling hers. I try to focus on something else other than her petite shape and how perfect she would feel between my hands. So, I look down at what she made.
“What is it?” I ask, picking up the pale-yellow drink that has a foam top to inspect it before sipping, enjoying the sugar, citrus, and spirit flavors.
Licking my lips slowly, I catch her watching the movement with intensity. My chest tightens and when she licks her own lips, I struggle to hold myself back from leaning over this table and kissing the shit out of her, running my tongue over her delicious lips. Instead, I sit back and clutch the glass tightly as she answers.
“Whiskey sour.”
I chuckle and ask, “You describe yourself as sour?”
She laughs, and when she recovers, she says, “The name is stupid, but I love the taste and think it’s me.”
I take another sip and describe it. “Rich, smooth, with a hint of tart.”
