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Is that—“Hi.”
He motions to my empty glass. “Can I get you a drink?”
Holy fuck, yes it is. It’s a British accent.
Goodbye, panties. See you on the other side… of his bed.
I look at it and up to him. Maybe another is on the cards after all. I lick my lips and meet his eyes. “Sauvignon, please.”
He winks and grabs my glass. I watch as he walks to the bar, confidence radiating off him. It’s like an aura around him. He’s shit hot and he knows it, but he’s not arrogant about it.
Okay, the way he leans against the bar and shoots a panty-melting smile at the girl working it is kind of arrogant, but it’s that sexy arrogant.
I’d probably be a little arrogant if I had an ass that tight, to be honest. His jeans fit him perfectly, not too tight and not too baggy… just enough that I can see the curve of his ass. And watch it. Yep. Oh boy am I watching it.
He turns and I find myself staring at his zipper instead. If only I was telekinetic, that bitch would be undone right about now.
I let my eyes linger there for a moment longer before trawling them up his body. I’m staring, unashamed, and I don’t give a shit. My brazenness is fueled by wine and hormones. A lot of.
His blue and yellow checkered shirt hugs his waist and stretches over his shoulders. His sleeves are rolled to just below his elbow, but the material is tight enough I can see his biceps flexing as he sets down our drinks.
He sits, smirking, and leans back in his chair. “Good night?”
“It got better when you showed up,” I reply, taking my glass and sipping.
His smirk grows, just a little. “A woman who speaks her mind. It must be my lucky night.”
Keep talking and it will be, honey. “Depends how you define lucky.”
His eyes flash with something I can’t put my finger on, and he leans forward on the table once more. He cups his chin and rubs his thumb over his bottom lip as he studies me.
My eyes fall to his mouth. He has the kind of lips I wouldn’t mind kissing all day—plump, pink, soft-looking. The kind of lips that could cause some damage…
He stands and walks around the table to me. Taking my hands, he pulls me up to stand. His eyes search mine, and he steps forward, bringing our bodies closer.
“Do you dance?” he asks, his voice low.
I tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “Do you?”
His lips curve enticingly, and he wraps an arm around my waist. His hand on the small of my back, he jerks me against him and lowers his mouth to my ear. “You show me your moves, and I’ll show you mine. How’s that for a deal, babe?”
“Sounds fun.” I hook my finger in one of his belt loops and step back, tugging him with me. “Come on, then.”
We walk up the stairs to the dance floor, my fingers linked around his so we don’t get separated. It’s darker and louder than downstairs and there are bodies everywhere.
Every. Where.
Writhing. Grinding. Shaking. Undulating.
They move in time to the music, and it takes only seconds for the vibrations of the beat to snake their way over my skin and sink in.
I let go of his hand and grab his shirt. One tug and he’s against me. “Show me what you’ve got, handsome.”
That smirk curves his lips again, slowly and sexily. He grabs my hips and pushes me into the mass of hot bodies, following me. His fingers flex against me, and using that as momentum, I sway my hips from side to side.
The movements are flowing and easy, soon taking my whole body with them. Within seconds, he steps closer and curves his hands around to my back and over my ass. He cups it, pulling me closer again.
Our bodies are completely together, mine moving, his still. My hips rub his and my breasts brush his chest, our proximity and the hardness of his body puckering my nipples inside my bra.
