Page 13 of The Promise Of You

And he says, in a soft and low rumble, “I was hoping to make small talk with you, get to know you a little, see if maybe you were on the same page with your friend as to what you should do with your night, but duty called.” He extends a hand to a spot right above my shoulder and touches a strand of hair. Not tucking it behind my ear like he’s trying to fix my appearance, not pulling on it like he’s just an overgrown kid. No, he just touches it like it’s the first time he’s seen hair, and he’s amazed by it. Like he can’t believe his eyes and is calling his hands to the rescue. “And instead of leaving, or chatting with any of the other customers, you followed my every move with your gorgeous, deep-blue eyes, gave me a smile when I needed one, and just stayed there in my corner when I had no clue how many rules I was actually breaking for helping a guy in need and how much trouble I might get into.”

I swallow with difficulty. And then I confess, “It was a real pleasure,” as raw desire zings through me.

His voice is coarse as he says, “So… What are you doing with the rest of your night?” He extends a hand to me as if inviting me to dance. “And whatever it is, can I join you?”

He’s pulling my leg. He has to be. “I… I was going to go to bed,” I blurt out.

How did I think this could possibly mean "No thank you"?

“Perfect,” he whispers, his eyes getting deliciously dark. “Let’s go.”

I straighten my spine. “That’s… that’s not what I meant,” I stammer.

His face does the falling apart thing again, like it did when I asked to settle my bill, right before he closed the whole bar to be with me.

“How about I join you…” he starts.

My eyes bulge but my body… oh… my body is all in.

And maybe parts of my brain too.

“… in the elevator,” he finishes with a smirk.

That’s more like it. He was kidding. Or was he? But what would a guy like him possibly want with a girl like me?

The elevators are far down the hall. I’ll have time for an executive session with myself on the way there. “Okay,” I whisper, but stay glued to the bar stool.

“However, your friend has a point.”

“Yeah?”

He takes my hand between his fingers, like he’s afraid to break it, and with the pad of his thumb draws circles on my palm that send ripples of pleasure through my core, down to my toes, and back up to my scalp.

God. He has no right being that good with just his fingers being just on my hands.

“Nothing to lose,” he adds.

My pride. My dignity. A good night sleep, if he’s a tool in bed. Which I’m sure he’s not, if whatever it is he’s doing to my hand is anything to go by.

“I’ve never had complaints.”

Shit. Is my face so expressive?

He chuckles, a bitter sound.

Then lets go of my hand as his face does the falling apart thing again.

And he walks out of the bar, long purposeful strides taking him toward the elevators, his hair like a halo, his shoulders rolling, his muscular frame filling the whole space by his mere presence.

I’ve never been with a man like him. Built like he works outside. Strong and confident.

This is a one-time opportunity, Chloe.

I jump down from the bar stool and run after him, my heels clack-clacking on the marble floors.

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t slow down. He just extends his hand, and I slip mine in, and he clasps it around and tugs me to him.

Panties on fire.

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