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He tilts his head to the side slightly, considering me before he speaks. “Why do you care?”
“We’re friends now, remember?” I tell him, “I’m trying to get to know you.”
“I love dancing.” He tells me, his expression carefully neutral.
“So?”
“It was safer for everyone involved if I watched.” The look in his eye and the casual sensuality in his voice challenge me to ask him what he means by that.
I know I shouldn’t ask the question but I’m only human. And listen, curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.
“Why?”
“You really want me to answer that question?”
I’m playing with fire but I’m four tequila shots and a beer in and the fire is starting to feel so good.
“Yes.”
“You look fucking stunning. If I’d danced with you and you’d shaken your ass anywhere near me, I’d have taken you upstairs and fucked it over and over again until you begged me to stop.” He says, “Even then I would have kept going. I wouldn’t have stopped until I’d gotten my fill of you. UntilIwas satisfied.”
My throat dries up at his words.
I’ve never been pursued with such blind dedication and my whole brain and body are in chaos trying to find a way to respond, but he continues.
“You’re not ready for that yet, so I stayed here.” He runs a hand across his mouth and over his jaw. “Plus, this was the better vantage point to make sure the men around you were keeping their hands to themselves. If I’m not allowed to touch you, no one else is either.”
My blood heats at his words but I work to control my internal temperature.
“Your possessiveness is misplaced.”
“I’m not possessive,” He says, his eyes boring into mine, “I’m covetous. I’m downright envious. I desperately want something that belongs to someone else, at least for now.”
I snort in fake wonder. “You really think you’ll always get your way, don’t you?”
“Yes.” He says matter-of-factly.
“You’re not going to deny it?”
“Why should I?”
He pushes off the wall and heads for the kitchen, cutting off our conversation. But he walks away at a leisurely pace, like he wants me to follow him.
So I do.
“You want something to drink?” He asks nonchalantly, like we weren’t just in the middle of another conversation.
But I’m thirsty.
“Vodka soda with lime, please.”
He moves around the kitchen making my drink, grabbing a cutting board and chopping some limes while I jump up and sit on the counter opposite the island where he’s stationed.
I watch him work, silently. He’s doing this meticulously, looking at his phone and using jiggers to measure out exact amounts instead of tossing all the ingredients together.
All the while, countless people from the party seek him out. Whether it’s just to say hi, tell him a story or a joke, it doesn’t matter. They come up to him constantly, their golden boy.
They want to speak to him, to have him smile at them. And he does, to every single person, acknowledging and listening to them with easy charm.
