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It might be these soft seats and the fancy car. Although I’m not usually superficial like that, I’m impressed. But it will take a lot more than a Maserati to get me into bed. I glance over at him, and that smirk, the perfection of his face, and those eyes looking at me like I’m something he wants to devour have me feeling this way.
He’s no boy and not a guy.
Harbor Westcott is all man.
Oh my, oh my,I don’t stand a chance. “You’ll do anything I want to do? That’s very amenable of you.”
Harbor starts the car and then sits back, buckled in, looking every bit the playboy I was warned about. Something about bad boys is just so irresistible.
With a wink, he replies, “What can I say? I like to hedge my bets.”
11
Harbor
I hate nightclubs.
Especially small-town clubs that think they’re edgy by playing pop music from the previous decade.
I don’t hate it so much tonight, though. Lark’s body glides from side to side while her shoulders sway under the lights of the dance floor. She claimed in the car that she had no moves, but I could argue otherwise after watching her for the past few songs.
She’s magnificent in her blend of virtue and vixen, a body caught in the middle of two identities, her sneakers lying in distinct contrast to her dress.
Eyes closing.
Tugging her bottom lip between her teeth.
The skirt of her dress rising when she raises her arms in the air.
A fascinating and so fucking sexy creature in a small package.
Plenty of women are showing more skin. Even her cutoffs at the gas station were shorter. But in this environment, with other guys staring at her as if she’s their next meal, she dances for me.
Every time her eyes find mine, her smile grows.
Such a fucking turn-on.
I could watch her for hours, and it still wouldn’t be enough time to riddle through how this woman has become my sole fascination in such a short time. I’ve started to miss her when we’re not together. We sit together now in class, but between her other classes and work, her studies, and mine, we’ve not had much time together since we went to dinner at Moretti’s. So I’ve been looking forward to seeing her free of obligations all week. Even if it had to be a late-night date.
Lark Summerlin is worth the wait.
The lights flicker, warning that it’s almost two o’clock, and the music is turned down. Disappointment fills the air as the sea of dancing bodies begins to dissipate.
I wave and then finish drinking my bottle of water, ready to have Lark to myself again. I push off the wall, toss my bottle in the trash, and work my way toward the dance floor.
Cutting through the crowd is easy but keeping an eye on Lark is a little harder. She’s not short, but it’s easy for her to disappear in the crowd. Like Moses, the sea of heated bodies part for me as I cross the dance floor.
She runs into my arms, our bodies slamming together. I catch her just as she says, “Hey there, stranger,” while gripping the front of my shirt.
Having a conversation in here is impossible, though, so I tilt my head and signal toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
Those teasing pink lips are licked, and she nods. I wouldn’t say she’s drunk, but she’s tipsy. I wrap my arm around her lower back to guide her to the door. If I didn’t, we’d end up in a corner by the way her hands are rubbing all over me. Like a bodyguard, I use my other arm to keep others out of her personal space.
We make it out of the exit and take a sharp right to head toward the car. She bumps into me and then snuggles under my arm. “Did you have a good time?” she asks when we’re clear of the crowds.
“I did.” A half-truth is better than a lie.
“I’m not ready for the night to end.”
