Hot & Heavy

Chapter 1

Sage

I’m bored. Like, really bored. I’ve spent most of the night at this ridiculous bachelorette party with people I barely know, and I’m so ready for it to be over. Normally, I have a strict only go to the parties of people I care about rule, but what was I supposed to do when Skye invited me to this thing? Say no?

Not super impressive considering we work together. Even less impressive considering, while my mom is off trying to reaffirm who she is by practicing spiritual meditation in India, I’m the boss. And the boss can’t blow off an employee invitation, no matter how much he or she wants to. Not when the business is as small and close-knit as ours is.

Which is why I’m sitting here in the middle of this ridiculously upscale bar watching women in penis hats swill drinks and talk dirty about whatever man happens to pass by the table . . . It’s my own personal version of hell, and I’m pretty sure I’m doing a lousy job disguising that fact.

Then again, I’m not sure it matters considering I’m the only sober one at the table right now—which is obvious by both my lack of penis hat and my ability to keep my mouth shut no matter who walks by. Being the boss means I had to come to this little shindig. But there’s no boss or girl code in the world that says I have to wear a dick on my head or drink out of a straw shaped like one. And even if there was . . . well, that’s one code I’d have no trouble breaking.

“You need another drink,” Autumn—one of the other instructors at my mom’s yoga studio—tells me with a giggle.

“Come on. Let’s go to the bar.”

I don’t want to go to the bar. And I sure as hell don’t want another drink. Even though Skye has a limo booked tonight, which means that even though I drove myself here I don’t have to drive myself home, I still have a two-drink limit when I’m at a bar. Any bar. If I’ve learned anything through the years, it’s that everything’s easier when you’re stone-cold sober—which is why it’s been an hour since I’ve had anything to drink but water.

Still, I follow her. It’s not that hard of a choice, considering the rest of our party has just started singing dick songs. Because why not? It’s not enough to drink out of a dick and eat dick cake and whistle at every dick that walks by while wearing a giant dick on their heads. They need to sing an homage to the damn things, too.

Maybe it’s time to say to hell with the limo and get out of here instead . . . except Autumn’s grabbed on to my arm and a lifetime of yoga has rendered her a lot stronger than she looks. With a sigh, I acknowledge that I’m not going anywhere until she releases me.

We’re halfway to the bar when I see him. I’m so annoyed that I almost don’t pay attention, but—let’s be honest—I’d have to be dead not to notice this guy. Notice him, hell, just knowing he’s in the room is suddenly taking up all the oxygen.

Or maybe it’s just that I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

But can you blame me? With a fallen angel face, eyes that glitter like black diamonds, and a stubble-covered jaw that’s sharp enough I can feel the cut from here, he’s the hottest thing in this place. Maybe the hottest thing anywhere. Tall, dark and drop-dead freaking gorgeous. And that’s before you take into account the shoulders wider than my zip code and the biceps to die for.

Is it wrong that I want to lick him? I wonder as I shift to get a better look. Because I do. I really, really do. Those narrow hips. That silky-looking, too long hair. Those big hands that wrap all the way around his glass and then some. No wonder it feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of this place. He’s like a personal playground designed especially for me.

And that’s before he glances up, his eyes meeting mine across the dimly lit bar.

Normally, I’d look away. I’m not the type to eye-flirt a stranger in a bar. Or anywhere else, for that matter. But the moment our gazes lock, I forget about normal. Forget about usual. And instead try to keep my panties from dropping straight to the floor.

It’s harder than it should be, especially considering I’m wearing pants.

I press my legs together, just to be on the safe side. And that’s when he smiles, a wide, come-hither kind of grin that hits me straight in the feels . . . plus a few other, oh-so-memorable parts. He shifts a little, rests his elbows behind him on the bar. Stretches his long, long, looooong legs out in front of him. And looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And like he expects me to approach him.

Which is so totally not going to happen. I’ve already made prolonged eye contact with the guy. Actually walking up to him—a gorgeous stranger who obviously has an ego to match—is so not in the cards. I mean, it’s not that I’m ugly or anything. I have a reasonable amount of confidence in my own attractiveness. But there’s attractive and then there’s whatever that guy is, and I am honest enough to admit I’m not in his class. Hell, I’m not even sure he has a class . . . he might be the only one of his kind on the planet.

“What do you want to drink, Sage?” Autumn asks, and there’s a hint of impatience in her voice, like she’s asked the question a few times. It snaps me out of my trance—I swear, it’s like I’ve been dickmatized or something—and I decide what the hell.

“I’ll have another lemon drop,” I tell her, breaking my self-imposed limit just this once. It’s already been an hour since I had a drink—one more won’t do any real damage. I’ll still be the most sober woman at the party. Plus, if I’m going to let a rule slide tonight, the two-drink limit is a better rule to break than the don’t-screw-a-hot-stranger-in-a-public-bathroom one.

One more drink, I decide, just to loosen me up a little bit. Not enough to be okay wearing a penis hat by any means, but maybe just enough to make flirty eyes with the hottest guy in the place.

Maybe.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m back at my table and doing just that. All around me, the others are getting steadily drunker—so drunk, in fact, that Skye just crowned another instructor Priscilla, Queen of the Dicksert. I have no idea where the title comes from considering the woman’s name is Lela, but it’s not like I’m about to ask. I don’t want to know what goes on in these women’s minds on the best days, let alone right now.

Across the bar from me, Mr. Tall, Dark and So Fucking Hot I Get Burned Just Looking at Him is obviously amused. Whether by my attempts to flirt with him when he’s so clearly out of my league or by my table’s increasingly ridiculous antics, I’m not sure. I tell myself it’s the latter as I bat my eyes at him, but the truth is I just don’t know.

“Whoaaaaa,” Autumn says after drunkenly circling the table and plopping down in the empty seat beside mine. “Who. Is. That?”

“Who?” I ask, but she’s not buying the whole me-playing-dumb thing. Then again, I wouldn’t if I was in her position, either.

“The guy I would totally have noticed earlier if I wasn’t sitting on the other side of the table,” she tells me. “You know, the hottie over there who can’t take his eyes off of you.”

“I think you’re confused.”

“Really?” She raises one skeptical brow. “Because from where I’m sitting, that man looks like he wants to eat you alive. In a very, very good way.”

“Yeah, well, I, he, just, we, umm…” I stutter through a totally unintelligible list of words before finally just shutting up and reaching for my drink. I down what’s left in one long swallow.

She laughs. Cackles, actually, and all but rubs her hands together in glee. She might be the nicest person I know, but right now she looks like a Disney villain hatching her evil plot. “You should go talk to him.”

“I’m not going to go talk to him.”

“But you should. It’s obvious he wants you.”

“It’s not the least bit obvious,” I tell her. If it was, wouldn’t he be over here already?

“You should totally go over there. Right, Skye?” she asks, raising her voice to enlist the help of tonight’s bride-to-be.

“Absolutely,” Skye says without even asking what Autumn is talking about.

“See?” she says, turning back to me. “Skye agrees and so does everyone else. Right, everyone?”

“Right,” choruses one of Skye’s other friends, whose name I don’t even know.

“They have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, we do!” Skye says, and she’s so happily drunk that she’s bouncing up and down in her seat. “You need another drink.”

“I don’t—”

“You do!” she interrupts, raising her hand to signal our waitress. When she doesn’t get immediate attention, she pushes at her own drink, sliding it down the table to me. “Here, drink this one.”

I stare at the bright blue concoction distrustfully. “No, thanks—”

“Come on,” she says, whining a little in the way only happy drunk people can. “Drink it.”

“I’m not really interested in another—”

“Drink it!” she squawks, loudly enough to have not just the people at our table staring at me, but everyone around us, too.

“Okay, okay.” I accept the thing to avoid causing any more of a scene than we already have, then take a cautious sip. Despite its electric color, it’s actually quite smooth and I take a second sip, then a third.

I don’t finish it because I know my limits, but I can feel my muscles relaxing a little more. Feel my normal inhibitions growing just a little less rigid. And that’s when Autumn moves in for the kill.

“He’s still looking at you,” she hisses with a less than subtle chin jerk at Mr. Tall, Dark and So Fucking Hot I Get Burned Just Looking at Him (who will henceforth be called Hot Stuff because the rest is a mouthful even in my own head). He’s still kicked back on the barstool, his long well-muscled legs spread out in front of him as he chats casually with the man next to him. A man who is also sexy as hell, I realize, when I finally manage to pull my gaze away from Hot Stuff’s broad shoulders and tight abs.

“Maybe he’s looking at you,” I answer, doing my best to ignore the flutter way down deep inside of me.

“Yeah, right,” she says with a snort. “If that was the case, married woman or not, I’d already be sitting on his very delectable lap. But he is one hundred percent looking at you. If you don’t do something about it, I am never going to forgive you.”

“I guess I’m just going to have to live with that, because—”

“Live with what?” Skye interjects loudly. Suddenly, everyone at the table is looking at me.

“Live with the fact that that very hot guy over there obviously wants to get to know her,” Autumn answers in a stage whisper so loud I’m afraid it can be heard in the entire bar, despite the eighties music emanating from the upscale jukebox in the corner.

“What guy?” Skye asks, her voice going even louder as she starts looking over the bar. “Where is—oh. There he is.” Her eyes go wide.

“He sure is,” echoes Dawn, the woman sitting across from her. “Wowza.”

Wowza? Seriously? I feel like I’ve slipped into an alternate universe or a bad porn movie, especially when the entire table—all ten women—turn around to stare at him. Because that’s not obvious at all.

Our gazes lock again, and this time he’s wearing a full-blown smirk, one that says he knows very well we’ve been talking about him—and that he’s totally okay with that fact. My cheeks start to heat, along with the rest of me, and I don’t know whether I’m going to die of embarrassment or spontaneously combust from unrealized desire right here in the middle of the bar. And when he raises his glass in a silent toast that’s obviously meant for me, I almost swallow my tongue.

As does every other woman at my table.

“Do something!” Autumn hisses out of the corner of her hugely smiling mouth.

“Do what?” I demand just as Skye kicks me.

“Strip naked. Dance on the table. Who cares?” chimes in Karen, the receptionist at the yoga studio. “Because if you don’t, I definitely will!”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll get arrested if I do either of those things,” I answer, but my heart is beating more quickly with every second that he continues to look at me.

Suddenly, I’m thinking of saying to hell with the fact that he’s an eleven, maybe a fifteen, and I’m an eight on a very good day.

Thinking of going for it since I have nine women telling me that he’s very definitely interested.

Thinking of breaking all my rules.

I’m a little tipsy, a little aroused and there doesn’t seem a better time or a better reason to just go for it.

And that’s when he turns away, not only breaking our eye contact but going so far as to swivel his stool around to face the other direction.

And just like that he’s another missed opportunity. The story of my damned life.

Chapter 2

Shawn

Clay’s squawking in my ear about training camp starting in a few weeks, and I know I should be paying attention. But it’s pretty hard to make sense of the words coming out of his mouth when all I can think about is the brunette on the other side of the bar.

She’s been looking my way all night with those big hazel eyes of hers, so I know she’s noticed me, too. I just can’t figure out why she’s still over there instead of sitting on my lap where she so obviously belongs.

Not to be arrogant or anything, but that’s how these things usually go. The fact that this one isn’t…

When my favorite running back and good friend finally pauses to take a breath, I ask, “Am I losing it?”

“Losing what?” he answers, baffled.

“Why hasn’t she come over here yet?”

“She…Are you even listening to me, Shawn? We’ve got camp starting in two weeks and—”

“And you’re worried Coach is going to second-string you because of your knee. Don’t be. I’m the one who’s been working out with you nearly every day for the last six weeks. You’re ready.”

“You really think so? It feels good, but I’m still a couple seconds off last season’s time—”

“That’s because last season you could have given Usain Bolt a run for his money. Trust me, the fact that you’re a couple seconds off what was as close to Olympic record time as anyone will ever see on a football field doesn’t matter. You’re good.”

He thinks about it for a second, then nods. “Yeah, okay.”

“So can we talk about my problem now?”

“What problem is that? The fact that you’re too big a pussy to go over there and ask that woman out? Or the fact that training camp is in two weeks and your back still ain’t recovered from that little incident down in Acapulco that we’re not supposed to talk about?”

“My back is just fine. And there was no incident in Acapulco as I was never in Acapulco.”

“Oh, is that how you’re planning on playing it to Coach? By pretending it never happened?”

It’s exactly how I’m planning on playing it. They’ve already fined me close to four hundred thousand dollars this year. I’m done paying the team for stuff I do in the off-season when they should mind their own damn business. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That’s what I figured.” He shoots me the most obnoxious smirk I’ve ever seen. “And I notice you haven’t denied the fact that you’re being a pussy.”

“I am not a pussy.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why is it you’re sitting here talking to me instead of cuddling up to Bambi over there?”

“Because you wouldn’t shut up and I was trying to be polite.” I take a long sip of my whiskey, watch as Clay does the same from his chocolate martini. The man really is an embarrassment to the Y chromosome everywhere. “And I’m pretty sure her name isn’t Bambi.”

“Probably not, but with those eyes it should be,” he says after polishing off what has to be the most girly drink in the bar—which is saying something considering the bachelorette party currently going on. “And bullshit you were being polite. You’re just chicken.”

“No, I’m not. Dude, you’ve been playing pro ball for seven years. Don’t tell me you don’t know that there’s a certain order to how these things are done.”

“By certain order I assume you mean you show up and women trip over themselves trying to get to you and that ridiculous face of yours.”

It sounds conceited as fuck when he puts it like that. But…“Yes. That is the order I’m referring to.”

Clay hoots, long and loud. “Dude, you’re interested in the girl. Man up and make the move.”

“She’s with the bachelorette party. The last thing I want is to be the creep who comes over and starts hassling her when she just wants to have a good time with her friends.”

He makes a clucking sound under his breath. It gets to me, even though I know that’s the whole reason he’s doing it. But damn it, it’s not that I’m afraid to make “the move.” It’s just that for as long as I can remember, women have always made the move for me. Even before I played pro ball, all I’ve ever had to do was show up.

The fact that that’s not enough for Bambi, as Clay calls her, intrigues me. It also makes me want to force her hand. Makes me want to see what it will take to get her to come to me.

“You call me a chicken, but I don’t see you moving in on the hot redhead beside her even though she’s been giving you the signal for the past half an hour.”

“Yeah, well.” He shifts uncomfortably. “That’s because I’m on hiatus.”

I nearly choke on my drink. “On hiatus? What the hell does that even mean?”

He shoots me his best choirboy look, which is patently ridiculous coming from someone as rough looking as Clay. Not as ridiculous as the flavored martinis he drinks by the half dozen, but still pretty damn absurd. “A hiatus is a pause or a lull in a—”

“I know what a damn hiatus is, Clay!”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I never thought the day would come when the biggest man-whore on the team took a break from women. What brought this on?”

“I’m doing a cleanse.”

“Of your dick?”

He rolls his eyes. “Of my soul. You should try it sometime.”

I take another swig of my drink. “My soul’s just fine, thanks.”

“You sure?” He raises a hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Maybe if you did a cleanse every now and then you wouldn’t feel the need to try and kill yourself jumping off cliffs every chance you get.”

“Cliff diving is a legitimate sport, I’ll have you know.”

He snorts. “Yeah, so is flipping snowmobiles and surfing volcanoes, but you don’t see sane people doing that shit, do you? Especially not when they have an NFL contract that forbids them from engaging in physically dangerous activities off the field.”

Before I can figure out a comeback, the bartender stops by and asks, “Another round, gentlemen?”

“Absolutely,” Clay answers. “Can I go with the white chocolate martini this time, just to shake things up?”

I’m pretty sure the only thing keeping the bartender from laughing at the complete absurdity of that whole statement is the twenty-dollar tip he gets every round.

“How about you, sir?” he asks, nodding to my almost empty glass. “Can I get you another Lagavulin?”

“Actually, I’ve got something else in mind. Can you send a round of top-shelf old-fashioneds to the bachelorette party over there?”

His eyebrows go up, the first sign of surprise he’s shown since Clay ordered his first chocolate martini two hours ago. “Old-fashioneds? Not something more…festive, like sex on the beach?”

I look back at the doe-eyed brunette, at her sheer, high-collared black blouse and the cameo nestled at her throat. “No, definitely old-fashioneds.”

“There’s the move,” Clay crows, slapping me on the back as he settles down with his white chocolate monstrosity. “I knew you had it in you.”

“Says the man taking a hiatus from women.” I tip my glass back, take the last swallow of whiskey.

“Hey, Lucinda was crazy. Hot and smart, but totally and completely batshit crazy. After that wild ride, a man’s entitled to a little peace and solitude.”

I can’t fault him there, having borne witness to more than a few of the tantrums thrown by the lovely but exceptionally high maintenance Lucinda. Tantrums I’m pretty sure the woman across the way—with her very practical pixie cut and even more practical lack of penis attire—wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to throw. I’m not going to lie, after eight years in the NFL, a low-maintenance woman is an appealing thought.

And she is an appealing woman. Very, very appealing.

The bartender brings me a fresh whiskey right before the waitress picks up the tray of old-fashioneds and heads toward the bachelorette party. The bride-to-be squeals when the drinks arrive, and then the entire table is staring at Clay and me, all wide eyes and interested faces as they nudge my girl.

Which is, of course, the number one reason not to make a move on a woman when she’s out with her friends. Even when they’re feeling supportive of the match, it’s like running a gauntlet to get to her. It’s an awful lot of effort for a one-night stand.

Still, something about this woman tells me she’s worth it.

I grin at her as I raise my glass in a silent toast to the bride. Then take a sip before turning back to the bar and waiting for her to come to me, like a moth to a flame.

I can’t wait to burn right along with her.

But long seconds tick by and she still doesn’t come over. Which…I don’t get it. I’ve shown my interest. I’ve even made the first move, which I normally don’t have to do. I’ve included her friends in that first move…this should be an easy run to the end zone.

I want to turn around, want to see what she’s doing. But I’m not that desperate, no matter how much I want to lick my way inside those perfect lips of hers.

Except, it turns out I am that desperate because as Clay prattles on about God only knows what, I can’t help glancing over my shoulder. Our eyes meet and my heart jumps to my throat. Because instead of looking interested or flattered or any of the other reactions I expected, she looks pale, stricken.

It makes no sense, and I can’t help wondering if something else happened in the last couple of minutes. But no, she’s looking straight at me, and for a second, just a second, it looks like there are tears in her eyes.

Then she’s scooting her chair back, breaking eye contact and all but running for the restrooms at the back of the bar.

What. The. Hell?

Chapter 3

Sage

I’m an idiot. A total and complete moron and I have no one to blame but myself.

What was I thinking, imagining even for a second, that he was flirting with me? Worse, that he was interested in me? Men like him don’t look twice at women like me. I learned that a long time ago, and nothing that’s happened in the last ten years has proven me wrong.

I almost died when he sent over that round of old-fashioneds. Almost fell right through the floor. Most of the other women were charmed by what they called “such a classy drink,” but it was hard to miss that he was making fun of me. That he was calling me old-fashioned and probably uptight, too.

I mean, who wears a high-collared blouse and wide-legged pants to a bachelorette party? Who refuses to engage in ridiculous, dick-themed revelry? Who is so lame that she doesn’t have more than three drinks in an evening, even when there’s a hired driver?

A square like me.

I’ve heard the same old refrain my whole life, starting with my mom, who thinks I am the most boring person on the planet. Normally it doesn’t bother me—in fact, I like it. The world needs squares like me to balance out the more undefined edges of people like my mother. We keep the bills paid and the lights on when everything around us is going to hell on a flying yoga mat.

I’m proud of my normalcy, proud that despite the most flighty, woo-woo, run-off-to-India-to-find-her-guru mother in the world, I’ve managed to grow into a responsible, respectable person.

But there’s nothing exciting about responsible and respectable. Nothing sexy about it. I know that. I’ve always known that. Still tonight, just for a minute, I thought maybe Hot Stuff was actually interested in me. Thought for once, that maybe he saw more than the boring old square—or if that was all he saw, maybe he didn’t care that that’s who I was. And then he went and sent those drinks to make fun of me.

Asshole.

To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m talking to myself or to him. I’m the one who looked back at him, after all. I’m the one who batted her eyes at him all night. And I’m the one who was stupid enough to let herself believe that a guy like that—a guy who has risk-taker written all over him—might want more from her than a good laugh.

Yeah, I’m definitely the asshole in this equation.

For a moment, just a moment, hot tears burn against the backs of my eyes. I swipe them away impatiently, then make a beeline for the bathroom so I can get a little privacy. I just need a minute to put myself back together, a minute to remember that I don’t care what Hot Stuff thinks of me. Or what any of the women at that bachelorette party think of me. I’m the only reason most of them have jobs. If I left the studio in my mother’s so-not-capable hands, it would have gone under a long time ago.

I’m almost to the bathroom, almost to safety, when someone takes hold of my elbow. Expecting it to be Autumn, or maybe Skye, I’m a little surprised by the strong grip—even before I turn around and find myself looking up, up, up into the most beautiful bittersweet chocolate colored eyes I’ve ever seen.

Holy shit, I can’t help thinking as I stare up at Hot Stuff.

Holy shit, he followed me from the bar.

Holy shit, he’s even hotter up close.

Holy shit, his hand feels way better on my elbow than it has any right to.

I start to pull away, but his grip tightens just a little. Not enough to hurt, by any means, but enough to keep me where I am. Then again, that could be the way his thumb is softly stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of my elbow.

It feels good—surprisingly good—and for a second I feel myself relaxing despite myself. But then I remember who he is and why he’s the last person I should relax with. I narrow my eyes, straighten my spine and say, “I’m fine, thank you.” Frost drips from every word.

One eyebrow goes up at the tone. “You sure? You didn’t drink your drink.”

“Is that really why you followed me? Because you want to rub it in?”

His second eyebrow joins the first. “Exactly what am I rubbing in?”

“You don’t need to play stupid. I get it. I promise, I won’t look your way again tonight.”

“Well, that would be a shame,” he says, moving a step closer. Maybe two. “Considering I’ve been trying to get you to do more than look my way all night.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Obviously.” He leans down—and I admit I’m a little weak in the knees just from that. I’m five eleven barefoot, six foot two in the heels I’m wearing tonight. I’m not going to lie. The fact that he still has to look down on me is a total freaking turn-on.

His face is only a couple inches from mine now, his body less than that. I should feel threatened by his proximity—not only is he taller than me, but he outweighs me by a good seventy-five pounds. But even though he’s crowding me, it doesn’t feel bad. Maybe because there’s plenty of open space behind me if I decide to step back? Or maybe because for all his size and nearness, the only place he’s touching me continues to be those feather-light strokes against the inside of my elbow.

They feel good. Too good, which is why I yank my arm away. The last thing I want to do is melt into a puddle at the feet of a guy who thinks I’m old-fashioned and dull.

“I need to get back to the party.”

“This is way harder than I remember,” he mutters under his breath, so low that I’m not sure I heard him correctly.

“What?” I demand, certain that he’s insulting me.

But he just shakes his head as he steps back, gestures for me to pass.

I don’t move.

Which makes absolutely no sense. It’s what I’ve wanted since the moment he took my arm. But now that he’s no longer in my way, all I can do is continue staring up at him. Continue staring into those crazy, black magic eyes of his.

He smiles a little then, as if he understands his effect on me. Then again, he probably does. He’s the kind of man women fling their panties at—while they’re still wearing them.

More seconds tick by and I don’t move. I don’t know why, except he’s big and warm and standing this close to him makes me feel strangely safe. Maybe because he’s so willing to let me go, so determined to make sure I don’t feel trapped with him in this narrow hallway.

Either that or that third drink I had really did a number on my inhibitions. Either way, when he asks, “What’s your name, sweetheart?” in a deep voice gone gravelly in all the right ways, I can’t help but answer.

“Sage.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sage.” He takes my hand in what could be called a handshake but feels more like a caress. “I’m Shawn.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

I watch wide-eyed as he brings my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss right in the center of my palm. My heart goes wild, and my brain starts screaming DANGER at me in blinking red lights. And still I don’t pull away. Still I let him keep ahold of my hand even after he’s lifted his lips from my skin.

“Why did you order old-fashioneds for the table?” I ask, partly to remind myself of what drove me back here in the first place and partly because I have to know if my assumptions were right.

He looks surprised. “As opposed to ordering one just for you?”

“As opposed to ordering some other drink!”

Now he just looks confused, but I’m more than okay with that. About time he joined the club.

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” he says after a few seconds. “I guess I ordered them because they remind me of you.”

“Old-fashioned?” I ask, the indignation starting to flood back now that I’m no longer mesmerized by his Hot Stuff demeanor.

“A little,” he agrees, toying with the cameo at my throat. “And classy. Smooth.” He touches my bottom lip with one calloused finger. “Delicious.”

I nearly swallow my tongue.

“You okay?” he asks again, and this time it’s almost a whisper.

Then again, this time he leans forward so that his mouth is very, very close to my ear. So close that I can feel his breath hot against my cheek.

I nod a little jerkily, because it’s dawning on me he wasn’t trying to insult me with that drink. He was trying to seduce me. My legs—hell, my whole lower body—go liquid at the thought, and it’s all I can do to remain upright. I try to hide it, but Shawn sees it. Or maybe he just senses it. Either way, his pupils widen and his breath catches in his throat, as if the sudden molten warmth making its way through my body is also working its way through his.

His fingers slide up from my cameo, skimming the hollow of my throat, the line of my jaw, the curve of my ear. I gasp a little as he gently pinches my earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. Gasp again as he cups my jaw in his large, rough palm and strokes his thumb across my bottom lip. Once, twice, then again and again.

It feels shockingly, incredibly good.

So good that I sway a little where I stand.

So good that I grab on to his shoulders to steady myself…and to feel the heat of his body under my palms.

So good that I lean forward until our bodies are just barely touching from shoulder to thigh.

He groans. It’s a soft, under the breath thing but it’s definitely a groan. His breath starts coming faster, but then again, so does mine as he slowly, slowly, slowly, pulls me forward until I’m standing between the deep V of his legs. As he slowly, slowly, slowly closes the distance between our mouths.

As he slowly, slowly, slowly presses his lips against mine.

Fireworks go off deep inside me. There’s no other word to describe the explosion that shakes me to my core. That has my hands tightening in the silky fabric of his shirt and my body arching against his. That has me pressing my lips more firmly against his and opening my mouth to welcome the dark heat of his.

A part of me—a small part—feels like it’s standing off to the side, gaping at me and what I am currently doing. I’m not the kind of girl to flirt with a guy at a bar, let alone kiss him. Let alone press herself up against him in a desperate bid for more.

But that’s exactly what I’m doing here, and I don’t even feel bad about it. How can I when his mouth, his touch, his body feels so incredibly good pressed against me?

His free hand moves to my hip, and I gasp a little at the unexpected touch—at how good it feels and how warm his hand is. Shawn lifts his head at the sound, his dark eyes searching mine for one long second, two, as if assuring himself that I’m still on board.

I am. I shouldn’t be, but oh God, I am.

I wrap a hand around his neck and tug him close, until our lips once again meet.

He smiles then. I can’t see it, but I can feel the upward curve of his mouth against mine right before he sweeps his tongue along the outside of my lower lip.

Heat sparks deep inside me and I gasp again. But this time, Shawn doesn’t lift his head. Instead he takes instant advantage and delves inside, his tongue stroking sensuously against mine.