Page 79 of Take What You Want

“Stop calling her my girlfriend.”

“Well, since your little debut at your show, that’s what she is.”

“Jane,” he chides, “stop acting like it’s something more than it is when you know for a fact it’s a ploy.”

“It doesn’t look like a ploy.”

“Well, I had to get your attention somehow.”

I rear back.

“And clearly it worked,” he continues. “I mean, how else was I supposed to get you to admit to yourself that you don’t want me with anyone else but you?” Vulnerability and arrogance mix in his voice, creating a dangerous combination that sets my heart racing.

“I…You?—”

He bites the inside of his cheek, choking down laughter at my inability to respond. I blame the alcohol.

“We can discuss this at a later time,” I conclude, sweeping my hair over to one side. Cool air hits my exposed shoulder and back and I breathe a sigh of relief. “This is not a discussion for a night out.”

He nods. “But this is a conversation we’re going to have. You’re not going to run from it.”

I scoff. “I’m not the one who runs from hard conversations, Nikolai.” Regret coats my tongue the moment I see the flash of hurt in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I deserved that.”

He does, but also he doesn’t. I just can’t help it when the wounds he left me with reopen themselves when he gives me glimmers of hope that maybe there’s still a future for us.

“Are you going to buy me a drink?” I slap the counter top.

He cocks his head, grinning, before he turns his attention toward one of the bartenders. “I appreciate the bluntness. Let’s get fucked up.”

We alternate between talking and people watching as one drink turns to two turns to three. A strong buzz sits at the front of my mind but I know it has nothing to do with the way that I’m more relaxed. It’s Nikolai.

The way he squeezes my thighs absentmindedly as we talk and how his eyes soften at the corners when he listens to me. They sometimes dip down to check out the rest of my body but instead of the movement causing me to get inside my head, it gives me a boost because when he chews on his lip and meets my gaze again, I know he likes what he sees.

And my view isn’t too bad either. His long legs are encased in dark jeans that I know he tailored to fit him just right and I’m grateful that he takes the time to do that because I get the benefit of seeing them. He’s dressed in a simple white T-shirt, but he makes it look expensive.

I catch myself staring more than a few times at the veins in his arms and hands as he sips from his drink or pushes his loose hair from his forehead. God, he looks fucking effortless with each move. A silver necklace matches his favorite watch, along with a few rings on each hand. When he catches me drooling over his hands, I deflect and compliment him on them. He doesn’t buy it, but he also doesn’t call me out either.

The bartender drops off two tequila shots and Nikolai immediately pushes one my way.

“When did you order these?” I hadn’t noticed and I’m not drunk enough to have missed that.

“Telepathy,” he jokes and grabs the salt shaker. He scoots forward, leaning in until barely any space is between us and I’m overwhelmed by his familiar cologne. I’d recognize it anywhereand more often than I’d like to admit, I’ve gone into his bedroom when he’s gone just to smell the bottle.

The heat from his body radiates over me in waves and my breathing deepens. Sweat clings to the back of my neck and my hair sticks to it like glue. His eyes lock onto mine, holding them as captive as he has with my heart for nine years, and grabs my hand.

Time slows down, the thumping music fades out, and my vision tunnels in on him as he raises my hand to his mouth and licks a slow, long line across the top of it. I feel the movement echoing between my thighs.

My lips part on a gasp. What the hell is happening right now?

He pulls back and then sprinkles salt across the area he just utterly burned with his tongue. A smirk pulls up the side of his mouth as he watches me, too stunned and turned on to speak.

Without breaking my gaze, he once again licks my hand, this time picking up the line of salt as he goes, tosses back the shot, and then sucks on a lime wedge. Not a single flinch from the burn of the liquor or the sourness of the lime.

He’s calm, cool, and collected and it’s so fucking hot. A drop of tequila clings to his bottom lip and I lean forward, needing to wipe it away with my tongue and taste it from him.

But the asshole instead squeezes my legs and then pushes back, rising to his feet.

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