She releases a tiny breath, her lips slightly parted and her eyes darkly glistening. “How?”
I watch her lips form the word, wondering how I’ve never noticed how delicate an action it is. How. Pouting and soft, and delightfully inviting. Not for the first time this evening, I imagine what it would feel like to press my mouth against hers. We’re sitting so close, almost leaning into each other at the corner of the table. It would take nothing to make that connection. I’m not at all sure I’d be able to stop at kissing even if I have been thinking about it almost since she dragged me out of the hotel. She isn’t like anyone I’ve ever encountered before and certainly not like any of the women I would ordinarily involve myself with.
Not that I get involved these days.
But getting back to her question, my knowledge of her name isn’t magic or kismet. Just observation. And a little novelty on my part.
“It’s printed on your credit card.” Though her thumb had covered her surname. Not that I feel the need to learn it. “I saw it when you paid for the coffee.”
I don’t believe a woman has ever offered to pay for my coffee before, but to insist otherwise turned out to be futile. She was so determined to get me there, then so insistent it was “her shout”.
She huffs out a tiny incredulous laugh.
“But to me, you will always be Olive.”
“Could that be because you think I’m just a tiny bit salty?” she surmises, measuring a tiny space between her thumb and forefinger.
I don’t have an immediate answer. My mind and body are reluctant to join in as an image flashes quite suddenly in my head. Flashes through my head, then flickers through my body. The heat of her under me, her slick skin against mine as I taste the salt from the indent above the heart-shaped bow mouth.
She’s too young for you, my mind whispers. Fuck it. I’ve likely already booked my seat to hell. What’s a few more sins to add to the cost of it?
“Salty.” The word, when it comes, sounds ragged around the edges and stretched taut with a sudden need. God, yes, I’d like to taste her.
“You know, like the attitude?” She leans forward, her forearms pressed against the table, drawing my attention to the soft rise of her breasts. Once might be an accident. Twice . . .? I don’t think so.
The gentleman that I am, I glance away, and though the sight was fleeting, it leaves a lingering aftereffect. Who am I fooling? The whole two hours and however many minutes we’ve been together, I’ve been cataloguing her movements. How she holds her glass. The way her mouth moves as she speaks. She’s just so fucking delicious. I want to pull her onto my knee and press my nose into her hair because every time she moves, a hint of her perfume seems to travel my way. It makes me want to grab her and inhale greedily. I’m not sure I’d stop there. I want to know if her skin tastes as creamy as it appears. If her lips are as sweet.
Jesus Christ, I must be having a midlife crisis. My friends have been trying to convince me life begins at forty. They never once mentioned that dementia might set in.
“Have I got something . . .?” Holland swipes a finger to the corner of her mouth, her brow puckered in a tiny frown.
My gaze lingers on her mouth a beat longer before I reach out and trace my finger across the deep bow of her lip. “Paprika,” I lie. There’s a tiny dish of chickpeas and pumpkin seeds sitting between us. She’d helped herself to it earlier.
“Am I salty?” Her eyes lift, her voice huskier now.
I find myself staring down at the offending finger before bringing it to my lips, regardless of whether it was or wasn’t an invitation and irrespective of how the way she’s looking at me, the pit of my balls tighten, and my cock twitches. “Like a Manzanilla olive.” I manage to make my voice sound at odds with how I feel.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had one.”
They’re a little sweeter, round, and ripe. The perfect accompaniment to a martini and almost the exact colour of her eyes earlier in the sunlight. But I don’t say any of that, opting for instead, “You look like a girl from Andalucía.”
“Like someone you know?” Her mouth twists, unimpressed.
I shake my head. “Manzanilla olives are grown in Andalucía.” I only referred to her colouring. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Since when have I been so awkward? Since when have I forgotten to just go for what I want? Could it be because you have a hard-on for a woman at least fifteen years your junior? my mind unhelpfully supplies.
“That’s just great, Lyle. I remind you of some girl you met in Spain. Is that why you agreed to keep me company?” Her tone is bantering but sharp.
“Agreed to? I wasn’t aware I had a choice.”
“I’m not holding you hostage.”
“Oh, but you are, Holland. Your sparring wit and lovely face have me absolutely captive.”
“Even if you haven’t offered me your name.” She sends me a look from beneath her lashes, part tease, part seriousness. And totally beguiling.
“It’s Alexander,” I offer reluctantly because she intuited my thoughts perfectly. I would prefer not to give her my name. Alexander is one of my names, though not one I’m called in my family circle.
“Alexander,” she repeats with a slow nod of her head. “I like it. Do you go by Alex?”
I shake my head.
“Can I call you Alex?”
“Not if you want me to answer.”
“How about Al?” she continues to bait, causing my mouth to twist with a show of annoyance even though I’m more entertained.
“Zander?”
“I think I’d prefer Cousin Lyle.”
“You two are so cute together!” This is suddenly offered by a woman from the other side of the table as she slides into the seat recently vacated by Holland. “Have you been together long?”
“Oh, we’re not dating,” Holland replies. “We’re family, right, Lyle?” Her gaze slides to me, full of mischief. “Cousins,” she further clarifies.
Perhaps the kissing kind.
“Oh, really?” I drag my gaze from Holland’s when the woman’s eyes meet mine, her attention unsubtly raking over me. “I’m Nikki, and this is Lewis.” A languid finger flicks to her right. “Mind if we join you?”
4
Alexander
“You’re sure you’re just cousins?”
As the idiot arse sitting next to me speaks, I refuse to offer him even a glance as I continue to turn the glass of amber liquid in my hand.
“Only, the way you’re watching her, it’s not like she’s family. Unless you’re a close family. Like a really close family.”
My fingers tap against the tabletop as I try not to bite out my response. “I’m sure if you cast your mind back thirty minutes or so, you’ll recall what Holland said.”
“I know what she said, and I know what I see,” he mutters under his breath. Before I can decide whether I want to answer, punch, or ignore him, he begins to move. “I’m gonna take a leak.”
A part of me wonders what I’m still doing here. In telling the other woman we were cousins, did Holland think she was protecting herself? Perhaps she doesn’t like me in that way, as childish as that sounds.