“Not quite.” He shakes his head, a smile on his lips. I take a half a step closer to him. Damn, he smells good too. He looks good, he smells good and I’m positive he’d taste good if I could just get his lips on mine. Or lick him. I might settle for licking him at this point if I didn’t think it might make things weird.
“Whatever. You get the gist,” I whisper, leaning in a bit closer. Kiss. Me.
“I’ll pass.”
Wait, what?
I’m positive if you looked up the word ‘disbelief’ right at this moment a picture of my face would be attached. It’d be in one of those animated three-second clips and the only thing moving on my face would be my eyelids, blinking in slow repetition.
My libido slows down a bit to give my brain a moment to catch up.
“No?” I repeat.
“Are you unfamiliar with the word, Payton?”
“You run a strip club.” I’m dumbfounded. Like what the fuck?
“So you think I indiscriminately fuck anyone who offers?” He says it calmly, seemingly without any care, but his response takes a second too long and his eyes don’t quite meet mine.
“No!” Sorta. Yeah, I sorta did. God, I’m awful, but really? “It’s not like I thought that many women offered,” I try to clarify.
His brows lift at that and then he laughs before brushing past me and continuing up the second set of steps.
“I meant outright,” I protest, clambering after him. “Obviously you get plenty of offers for sex. Look at yourself, of course you do.”
I’m not sure that came out right either.
“It’s a very flattering offer,” I add for lack of anything else to say. It really is. I’m far from hideous and besides, I’m not wrong about all the sexual tension between us. There’s enough of it to power all the neon in Vegas.
We’ve reached the landing to the second floor and he pauses and turns to face me, his eyes dropping to my lips. Finally, finally, finally. Then he shakes his head, as if shaking sense into himself, before opening the stairwell door without a word.
This motherfucker.
“Why the hell not though?” I slide past him into the hall and stand in front of him, one hand on my hip, the other pointed in his face. “That was a great offer.” I punctuate that with my finger. “Most men would be delighted with such straightforwardness.”
“Would they?” The smirk is back on his stupid, perfect face. “Is it an offer you make often, Payton?”
Oh, no, he did not.
“Listen, asshole. That’s really none of your business. I can hand out a golden ticket to whomever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want. The number of tickets handed out does not change my value as a female, so save your sexist bullshit for someone who cares. I’m not going to apologize for being in charge of my own sexuality and asking for what I want.”
“A golden ticket. Jesus Christ, I can’t with you.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t with you either. You’re not even seeing anyone. What is your hangup?”
“I’m not seeing anyone?” He looks interested by this revelation, his brows shooting up before his lips relax into an amused grin.
“Are you?” Fuck a dildo, I should really verify my information with more than one source before I dive into things. This is exactly how I got kicked out of the Girl Troopers in the second grade. Well, not exactly. But sorta. No, this is nothing like that.
“No,” he agrees with a shrug. “I’m not.”
“You are such a pain in the ass.”
“So.” He says it slowly as if he’s in no hurry. He never speaks in a hurry though, I’ve noticed. I wonder if he’s like this with everyone, confident enough to know that they’ll wait to hear what he has to say. “I should service you on demand because I’m not otherwise involved with anyone? Is that what you’re saying? Isn’t that sexist as well?”
“It would be,” I agree, “if you weren’t every bit as attracted to me as I am to you.”
“Am I?”
God, not this song and dance again.
“Yes,” I insist confidently. If I’m wrong about this so help me, but I’m already in this deep, there’s no point backing down now. Might as well go for broke—this is Vegas after all. Also, I’ve never been a coy girl. Go for the brass ring and all that. “You’re curious about me,” I tell him. “You look at me like I’m interesting. Or at the very least pretty.”
Somewhere in this exchange he’s stepped half a foot closer, but he’s still not touching me.
“You like my ass,” I add in a last-ditch effort because he’s neither saying anything or kissing me.
He moves another inch closer and smiles. I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes and I’m holding my breath because sexual tension is tense.
“I look at you that way because you’re nuts and I never know what’s about to come out of your mouth.”
“Oh.” Oh. I blink. Wow, did I get this wrong. My cheeks heat in embarrassment and I drop my gaze to his shoulder. I’m still really into the way the jacket fits him. Perfectly cut, the seam running from to neck to sleeve really does it for me, so there’s that.
“And because you’re beautiful.”
Oh. Okay. We’re doing a mixed signals thing. I bite my lip and risk another look at him.
“Game-changing beautiful.” The words are whispered against my ear. “Possibly crazy, definitely trouble.” This whispered against my lips.
And then he kisses me.
Chapter Nine
He doesn’t tip my chin up with a single fingertip. No, instead he palms my jaw, his fingertips burning into the skin behind my neck, his thumb on my chin, his lips soft and firm and warm and perfectly pressed against mine. And he most certainly does not kiss me like he’s indifferent to me. He kisses me like he wants to do filthy things with me.
I love it when I’m right.
It’s almost as satisfying a feeling as Vince’s tongue exploring my mouth, but no I told you so in the world could top this kiss. He tastes minty and he smells exactly like a grownup man should. Spicy and masculine. Like a forest on a fall day, with a treehouse complete with a rope ladder for climbing. He’s warm, the heat of his body pleasant in a hallway I hadn’t realized was chilly until I was pressed against him.
The jacket I like so much is soft gripped between my fingertips, but beneath it Vince is hard. And I don’t mean his penis. If he’s got a hard-on he’s not grinding it against me like a randy teenager. Only a minute ago I’d have been okay with a randy teenager bump-and-grind, but not now. Now that I’m in the midst of this perfect kiss I don’t want anything else. He’s hard as in he’s firm in all the right places. My forearms are pressed against his chest and he’s so deliciously solid. The feel of him makes me feel like I’m safe. As if I’ve suddenly developed some kind of prehistoric appreciation for strength and virility and muscle. Or maybe it’s simply an appreciation for the mental picture I’ve concocted of him fucking me against a wall without dropping me.
He slides his other hand into my hair and tugs, maneuvering my head to change the angle of the kiss and sending a rush of heat through me. His fingers brush against my scalp and I take back everything I said about not wanting a quick grind. I’m dying for more, anything more as long as it happens right now.