Page 13 of The Last Good Man

For a few moments there, my phone lies on its back, my conversation with Thomas on full display while I cling to the man’s strong arms, my cashmere coat against his zippered motorcycle jacket, my heels tucked between his boots.

I’m not too tall––or too shortfor that matter––and he is still a few good inches taller than me, so when I lift my gaze, my eyes go to his arched lips first.

A crooked smile barely holds the cigarette in place.

It takes a second to flick my gaze up, and just as fast, I lose sight of his face as he leisurely reaches to the floor and picks up my phone.

His eyes are trained on the words, amusement growing on his face.

His arm hasn’t freed me yet, and my hands still rest on his biceps as weboth study something.

He seems engrossed in the text messages on my phone, having no problem reading them, while I peruse his tattooed neck, tight jawline, high cheekbones, and tousled dark hair.

A little voice inside my head tells me his tattoos spread lower than his pecs and may have a meaning.

His skin suggests he’s spent some time outside, working, perhaps, although there haven’t been many sunny days this month.

His hands feel like they are used to handling bigger things than me, and as I dip my eyes, I learn his knuckles have intricate ink on them as well.

The voice inside my head gets all excited, but not in a good way.

‘Abort, abort,'the voice screams as I put two and two together and realize he must be Aretha Stenson’s‘pro bono’work.

No way. Him?

“Who’re you, sweetheart?” he asks around his cigarette in a dark, smoky voice that gives me goosebumps.

Is this man for real?

“It’s none of your business,” I snap in mynot–so–ominous way, struggling to yank my phone from his grip.

He jerks the hand latched onto my phone away from me, and shifts his eyes to me.

Collecting his cigarette, he talks, a shit-eating grin on his face, yet hiswords slide past my ears as Isink mygaze into the orbs between his lashes.

I’ve seen deep, dark waters and cocktails in expensive tall glasses looking incredibly green like that.

The man seems perfectly aware of his eyes' effect on me as he holds me tight, soaking in every bit of mesmerized reaction on my face.

He stops talking as we stare into each other eyes, his lips curled into a lazy smile, my hands stiff on his chest this time, the air electrified as if a clap of thunder is about to happen.

His eyes tear away from mine and move tenderly across my face and lips, warming my skin.

When he starts talking with his eyes centered on my mouth, I foolishly almost forget to breathe.

“Who is this 'Thomas guy’, babe? And why are you in a therapist’s office because of him?”

I ponder a dignifying answer.

“First off…” I croak, my throat dry as hay.

He tips his head to the side, smiling, the glint in his eyes making me jolt back again, horrified.

His grip isstrong, so my attempt to free myself fails, and I remain stuck in his hold.

“What now?” he chuckles.

Hoping to distract him, I make another try to remove my phone from his hand.

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