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“Well, maybe you should’ve chosen a different path. Like football.”
He chuckles. “New England was declining.”
“Oh, no.” I make a sad face. “Patriots? Really?”
He shrugs. “Brady was the best quarterback until the shit hit the fan right before the Change.”
I cheer to him in the air with my glass. “Pittsburgh Steelers.”
He throws his head back. “No waaaaaay. Why? Roethlisberger?”
“Nah, Tomlin.”
“The coach?”
“He’s hot.”
He laughs again, and I love the sound of it. “That’s the only criteria?”
I shrug with a smile. “Why not?”
This seems too easy—discussing football, sitting naked on the couch and drinking cocktails, being around him when he lets go. We never got to talk before. Not about us. Everything we know about each other is from the files or other people. It’s unusual. Like reading about an exotic animal in a book and suddenly seeing it up close.
Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s just an odd evening out. But he is not the Archer everyone talked about. Maybe that’s because we are cocooned in his place, and his phone hasn’t rung in a while. Work is somewhere else. So is the rest of the world.
His eyes roam along my body openly.
“You are staring,” I say teasingly.
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. Something you want? Or just admiring?”
I want to talk more, but it’s hard to keep the conversation when I’m buzzed, and we are naked, and I’m so aware of his body next to mine, only several feet away, that smile flickering on his lips, making my pussy clench with need.
“What is it that you drink all the time?” I ask.
“Armenian cognac.”
“Not a Hennessy fan?”
“Armenian stuff is the world’s best secret.”
“I wanna try.”
I tasted it on Archer when he kissed me. It’s peculiar. Strong. I want to know what he likes. Want more ofhim.
His eyes narrow like he is wondering if he should keep that cognac a secret. And there is something else. Mischief.
“Come.” He motions with his head, rising, his taut bare ass so delicious when he walks off that I would follow it anywhere.
He refills his glass as I stand next to him and study our reflections in the mirror behind the bar.
Both naked. Him a head taller than me. His skin lighter than mine. His body much stronger. His face serious, the jaw and cheekbones sharpened even more by the shadows. His hair a mess, strands falling onto his face—my doing.
Want to make more mess together?
His eyes flick up to meet mine in the mirror—it’s as if he can sense when I think about him. Which is constantly when he is around.
