She turns back to the bar, brings her straw to her mouth again, and sways her body to the music. What she doesn’t do is continue, and I’m not letting her off the hook that easy.
“And what about gin and tonic? You don’t think I’m going to let you analyze everyone else—including me—and then just move on before you tell me about yourself, do you?”
She shrugs slyly. “A woman who drinks gin and tonic?”
I nod again.
“If she spots you at the bar and sparks up a conversation with you, consider yourself fucking lucky.”
I laugh out loud. “Noted.”
She waggles her brows and then shakes her head. “I’m kidding—”
I put a finger to her lips, and just as I intended, she stops talking immediately.
“No. Don’t take it back. It’s true, and you should own it.”
She jerks her head a little as her eyes search mine. I hold them just long enough to feel warmth pour out of her and wash straight over me.
Then I grab my whiskey and take a sip. “So, Lena, where are you from?”
“Ah, sorry. I don’t give out any personal information to strangers.” She shakes her head as she licks two drops of gin off her lips, and once again, my cock takes notice.
With no more than the prompt of my surprised brows, she continues. “Statistically speaking, let’s say this club has a thousand people inside it,” she says. “That means that at least one person in this room is or will be a murderer. For all I know, that person could be you. Now, it wouldn’t be smart of me to give my personal information to a future murderer, would it?”
“First of all, I think your statistics might be a bit off.” They’re very off, in fact. I raise a challenging brow. “And, secondly, you already told me your first name…”
“Well, I never said I was some kind of statistical genius,” she challenges. “And how do you know it’s my real first name?”
I don’t even second-guess it. Lena is her first name. Just as I suspected before, the chance to appreciate her name further has arisen, and the verdict came in quickly and without contention. Those sexy four letters ooze from every pore on her curvy little body.
“Okay, Lena,” I say, leaning forward to whisper into her ear. “Answer me this. How do you feel about dancing with a potential murderer based off your very inaccurate statistics?”
She turns her head so that her lips almost brush mine and eyes me skeptically.
I almost laugh. “I’m not one, by the way. A murderer, past, present, or future.”
I step back and hold out a hand.
She doesn’t hesitate to place her hand in mine, and I take the gift in similar regard. My steps are swift and sure as I lead her out onto the dance floor, spin her around, and get a quick look at her long, tanned legs and black leather skirt before pulling her body against mine.
A seductive beat blends her heartbeat with mine. I slide my hands down her arms and settle them on the supple fabric at her perfect, gently rounded hips.
Lena moves exactly how I imagined she would, and my fingertips squeeze reflexively with every confident, sexy sway.
She is sex and sin and lust and seduction all rolled into one, and I have never felt more present in a moment than I do in this one.
Normally, my brain is going a mile a minute, obsessed with work, planning and plotting and always looking five steps ahead to the future.
But not right now. Not here. Not with her.
Right now, I’m a man dancing with a woman—one who screams trouble and spontaneity and wild, passionate sex.
Everyone wanted me to let go and live a little, and I’m finally starting to agree. I thrive on control and order, but with Lena, not knowing exactly what’s coming seems like it might be a good thing.
From the booth at the center of the room, the DJ shouts something to the crowd, and everyone throws their hands in the air and shouts their excitement.
The song switches over to a house remix of “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish, and the thumping, addictive beat is the perfect excuse to pull Lena even closer, sliding my leg between her thighs.
She grinds her hips against me as she sings along to the song, her full lips doing an erotic dance with each word of the lyrics, and I can’t stop my gaze from flickering down to her mouth.
Goddamn, I want to taste her.
She leans forward and starts to whisper the lyrics into my ear, and the warmth of her breath sends a shock straight down my chest, across my abs, and right into my dick.
She sings about being the bad guy, about doing what she likes whenever she wants, and about being good at being bad.
It’s like she’s trying to warn me, but I’m well past rational thinking at this point.
Instead, I slide my hand beneath her chin and move her gaze to mine.
And instead of saying anything, I prove to both her and myself that I can be the bad guy too.
Lips to hers, I take her mouth in a kiss. Soft and slow at first, until I feel the vibration of her moan, and then so deep I can taste the gin all the way on the back of her tongue.
Fuck me.
Lena
Flirtation is a staple of my existence. I’ve used it on every man I’ve ever had in my life, including my father and brother. Of course, it’s a different kind of flirtation with your family; otherwise, it’d be creepy. But I’ve been doing it forever.
Most families wait with bated breath for their children to roll, crawl, walk, and talk. But about the same time I was reaching those milestones, I was creating a new one of my own.
And it’s gotten me a lot—men I’ve wanted, compassion from my brother, material possessions from my father.
It’s only in the last two years that I’ve realized it’s also gotten me a ton of things I don’t want, too—heartbreak, stalkers, miscommunication, an overly protective brother, and a father who spoils me too much, to name a few.
I’m fortunate to have a dad who’s nothing like my mother, but the need for parental support from somewhere has put an emphasis on his need to take care of me that doesn’t exactly endorse independence.
It’s been a bumpy ride on the flirtation roller coaster, but tonight—when I honestly expected it the least—I’ve crested a hill and ended up right here, in this moment I can hardly believe I’m living.
Theo kisses me with the kind of reckless abandon that spurs a deep throb between my thighs and commands my lips and tongue with a confidence I’ve never known from a man.
Usually, I’m the one putting on the show—the one making an effort to entice and pleasure—but Theo has shown me in under twenty minutes that it’s entirely possible to have it the other way around.
The realization feels almost as life-changing as this kiss.
Heart-pounding, breath-stealing, it’s the kind of kiss I both fear and worship at once.
My mind dances with visuals of what he looks like beneath that suit of his, mental slide after perfect mental slide of firm, heavy muscles beneath tanned, toned skin.
Fuck, I want him.
All I need is one night. One night to feel uninhibited pleasure and orgasm-assisted self-discovery.
I mean, what could it hurt? Technically, I’m on vacation, and it’s not like spending a night in the sheets with him is going to derail my career plans…