Page 69 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

He leans forward at that, his drink still in hand but forgotten for the moment, his eyes darkening just slightly. “You want a list?”

Panties = 50%

Wait, no= 52%

“Depends,” I reply, lifting my glass to my lips to cover the slight hitch in my breath. “Is it alonglist?”

His grin widens, the expression both lazy and predatory. “Very.”

God help me he’s one sexy motherfucker.

I set my drink down, fingers lightly brushing the rim of the wine glass as I try to hold onto some semblance of control.

“Well,” I say, forcing a steady tone. “I guess I’m asking for the highlight reel.”

He doesn’t respond right away, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make me fidget. Studies me, tilting his head and tapping the side of his cocktail glass with his thumb.

“I’m good with my hands,” he says at long last before raising it to his lips again. I can’t help but watch the way his Adam’s apple moves up and down in his throat as he swallows.

Why is that hot?

My mouth feels suddenly dry, and I grab my wine glass totake a sip, the cool liquid doing little to steady the racing of my heart.

I shift in my seat, ankles crossing and uncrossing under the table, the fabric of my dress brushing against my skin in a way that only adds to the heat simmering between us.

Squirm some more.

“What else?” I ask, my entire body practically burning up.

Gio takes another swig of his drink before swirling the amber liquid lazily as he studies me, the giant ice cube inside clinking side-to-side.

“Well. I’m good at reading people,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in a knowing smirk. “Like right now, for example.”

I take another sip of my wine, desperately trying to compose myself, but the way he’s looking at me, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, makes it nearly impossible.

He wants me to ask and I oblige, because what else is there for me to say except: “What about me? What am I thinking?”

He tilts his head slightly, studying me with that same penetrating gaze, and for a moment, the silence stretches, thick and heavy, until I’m readjusting myself in my seat.

“You’re wondering,” he continues, his voice dipping even lower, “if my hands would be as good as I said they are.”

My eyes lower to his hands again, still gripping that glass, thumb stroking the side of it.

Up.

Down.

Up…

Down.

The rhythmic motion is maddening. Fascinating. Hypnotic. I can’t look away. I can’t stop thinking about that thumb running back and forth over my cli?—

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re staring,” he points out, his tone teasing, though there’s an unmistakable heat behind it.

“So?” No point in denying it; doing so would only make him more impossible. “Was I not supposed to look?”

---