“I gather you thought you were in danger?”
“In danger of combusting into flames of embarrassment, yes. And now, according to the rules of my people, I should thank you. With a hardy handshake.” The heat in my cheeks feels like a contributor to global warming as I take his large hand and pump it ridiculously. “And a cup of coffee.” I pause. “Lyle, you’re looking at me like you know what crazy is and that I’m it.”
“I wouldn’t say crazy exactly.” He frowns in an effort not to give in to a smile.
“Sure. I mean, it’s not like every man on earth claims to have dated that one girl who turned out to be certifiable.” Just most of them would be my guess. “Relax. That’s not what this is. I promise I’m not going to get you drunk on pink cocktails before chaining you to my bed. I just have twenty-four hours to kill.”
“Twenty-four hours?” If I’d tried to anticipate a reaction to go with his slightly wary tone, I probably would’ve chosen dread, not the almost speculative look that he slides over my body.
“I’m not even going to ask what that was all about,” I mutter, ignoring how my skin reacts as though his gaze were a physical thing. The tingling flare between my legs is a little harder to disregard.
He doesn’t offer a reply, though the look he gives me is all innocence, which should look ridiculous on a man of his age, but he somehow works it. I’d say it’s been a while since that blazing blue gaze was anything but innocent, something that’s confirmed as his expression turns almost calculating. I just want to see what I can get away with suddenly feels like having a tiger by its tail.
Time to redress that balance.
“I have twenty-four hours until I leave,” I reiterate, bringing my hands to my chest. “You . . .” I reiterate, touching his very nice chest again—is it any wonder that my hands are there again when his jacket hugs him so beautifully? Tight, but not the kind of tight that speaks of ill-fitting, but enough to reveal the very obvious ripple of muscles beneath the fine fabric. Obviously custom-made. And so soft under my fingertips. Soft fabric. Hard male. All male. Where was I again? Oh. “You could keep me company for an hour or two.”
“A lot can happen in a couple of hours,” his low tone rumbles.
For the second time in our short acquaintance, he removes my hands from his chest, only this time, he reaches his long arm around me, pulling me to his side.
3
Alexander
Where the fuck are you?
What kind of man doesn’t turn up to his own birthday bash? Bad form, Alexander. Bad fucking form.
My jacket already discarded to the back of the bench, I place my phone back against the table, screen down, ignoring the last in this series of Matteo’s texts.
I’ve never been one for spontaneity. Never been the kind of man who takes off on a whim. Plans are to be adhered to. Responsibilities are to be acknowledged and met. And when your friends have plans for a birthday dinner, you’re obliged to attend. I know all that. And believe in it, even. But here I sit, ignoring both my phone and my responsibilities in favour of . . . well, I don’t know what this is. I only know I’m enjoying it more than anything in recent memory.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” my oddly compelling tablemate demands, her delicious dimple peeking out. With dark hair and darker eyes, she has an earthy kind of beauty. Deliciously ripe and round in all the right places, and nothing like my usual type. There’s her age for a start. She’s much younger. Too young, perhaps.
But despite first impressions, I’m pleased to find her not the least deranged, though she’s certainly made me feel a little out of my element. Possibly even a little unhinged.
“What does it taste like?”
I’d like to know how she tastes. Feel the almost indecent fullness of her bottom lip between my teeth. But that’s not what we’re doing right now, even if I can’t help but imagine how she’d be in bed. Instead, I inhale a deep breath, exhaling an equally deep sigh. Then, against my better judgment, I aim to answer her question by lifting the glass to my lips.
“Not like that.” I don’t think anyone has ever rolled their eyes at me before, have they? She prods the straw in the direction of my mouth, her slender forefinger adorned by a thick silver band. “It came with one of these for a reason, Lyle.”
“My abject humiliation?” Because the straw the drink was delivered with is in the shape of a penis. A pink penis.
“Don’t be so uptight.”
“I tend to be tense when someone is trying to shove a penis in my mouth.”
“You’re a riot! No, don’t do that—you heard the server,” she adds with an infectious giggle. “You’re not allowed to use your hands.”
I went to a party with the same rule a long time ago.
There were fewer clothes, as I recall.
Fingers poised over the straw, I narrow my gaze as though what I’d like to use my hands for would be to throttle her when, in fact, I’d be more inclined to use them in other much more satisfying ways. But she does look delighted as I settle my mouth over the straw. Then she’s not quite so much as I clench it between my teeth and drop it to the tabletop. My mouth comes away from the glass with a grimace. I may be enjoying her company, but that is the limit to this experience.
“Biting? Really?”
“Better to bite than suck, in this instance.” Sager words were never said.
Her gaze dips to the abandoned straw. I think I might have stunned her.
“Did it really taste that bad?”
“Worse.” I try and fail to suppress a shudder. Syrupy and sickly sweet, the concoction has the artificial aftertaste of a childhood medicine, thanks to a maraschino cherry garnish. But it was worth it because as I lick the sticky coating from my lips, I note her eyes following the path of my tongue. Eyes that I’d thought were green but are actually hazel. Green-rimmed, tawny at the centre. “Remind me, what was it called again?”
“Oh, no. No action replays,” she replies with a dirty laugh that is countermanded by the stripe of pink that instantly brands her cheeks. “You’re not getting me to say that again.”
Understandable really, because my cocktail is called a suck, bang, and blow.
“Do I need to point out that I wasn’t the one who ordered it?”
“That kind of backfired on me,” she answers, wrinkling her nose.
“I don’t know. I certainly enjoyed hearing you do so.”
“You get to order the next round of drinks,” she blusters, her eyes darting away.
“But you ordered it so delightfully. And with only the hint of a stutter.” And bonny pink cheeks.
“Oh, my God.” Her words fall in a rush as she leans across the table, her fingers grasping my wrist to look at my watch, providing me with a perfect view of her cleavage. Like my jacket, her blazer is draped over the back of the bench. I’d almost swallowed my tongue when she’d slipped it off, her tight sleeveless T-shirt revealing not only toned and tanned arms but also the perfect handfuls of breasts. “Are your two hours up yet?”
“You said one or two hours.” My attention flickers down to my Breitling because it doesn’t do to stare. Before she can pull away, my free hand makes a manacle of her wrist. “I make it two hours and twelve minutes, and though I’ve suffered the pink drink, I’ve still yet to see a hint of those shackles.”