Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
But I’m not the only one staring. From the looks of it, my companion is drinking it all in too.
When we reach the dance floor, since we have to cross it to leave, he stops, grabs my arm, and tips his chin toward the bar.
“Drink?” If he doesn’t want to leave yet, I am here for it. I’m here for a lot of things.
Mark nods.
Yeah, baby. “Hey, Banks? Who’s the driver?”
“I was going to order a soda,” he yells over the throbbing music. “I wouldn’t drink and drive.”
“Yeah, I know. But how about I order a soda and you order whatever you want. A soda. A Shirley Temple . . .” His eyes narrow, so I rush on. “A shot of Jack. A kilo of heroin.” I wink. “If you feel like letting loose, I’ll drive home. Your call.”
Something shifts behind his eyes when I say letting loose. His expression is still intense. And determined. I’m lost in that hungry blue gaze when he abruptly turns away, slicing through the crowd toward the bar.
Mark edges his way past guys in leather, guys in dresses, guys in nearly nothing, and he’s totally unfazed. Maybe he’s even, dare I say, in his element?
I hurry to keep up.
When I reach his side, Mark has already captured the bartender’s attention with his Jedi skills. The man behind the bar puts one LaCroix on the bar. And? A shot glass of tequila.
Then? Mark hands me the soda.
It’s so on.
And when he tips the shot glass back and downs the liquor, I see it. The heat in his eyes, followed by that hitch in his breath. I can’t hear it over the music. But this time, since we’re inches away, I can feel it. His breath ghosting near my neck. The low hiss of a murmur. And, I let myself feel it, too, in my body as I fully enjoy the possibility of him.
Oh yes, I want you, Mark Banks.
Because it’s not math, and it’s not logic.
And I am not a math person. I’m all about instinct. Instinct on the field from my playing days, and instinct behind the lens now as a photographer.
I don’t operate according to lists or numbers, columns or rows.
I go with my gut.
And my gut, which has a direct connection to my favorite body part, knows that Mark Banks wants what I offered.
Desperately.
There’s no mistaking his interest.
So there’s a reason he said no.
And my gut has the answer.
Actually, my cock has figured this one out. My interest in being the car Mark takes out for a test drive simply wasn’t clear enough for the hot nerd who lives in his head.
The guy doesn’t know how to listen to his body.
So I’ll show him with mine.
15
DIRTY DANCING IS NOW ON THE LIST
MARK
The tequila burns going down.
But it also burns off more of the noise in my head. The did-he-mean-it-didn’t-he-mean-it seesaw my mind has been riding for the last hour.
Or maybe this place has worked its dark and dirty magic. So many of my own fantasies are unfolding in front of me. Other men living out loud, putting their desires on the line with each other.
I haven’t made space in my life for the things I crave. But maybe I can have some of those things. Just for tonight.
But I might need one more drink to get there.
Like he can read my mind, Asher mouths want another? the second I set down the glass.
“Yes,” I say.
“I’ll get this one,” he says, then turns to the bartender, motions for a second shot with his left hand, and sets his right hand on my back.
Oh, fuck.
In a hot second, I go up in flames.
We’re facing the bar, and his hand slides across my lower back, and there is no way that should feel like the promise of dirty things to come.
But it does. Oh yes, it does.
Sparks fly everywhere. Along my skin. Under my skin. Ten thousand fires start in my goddamn cells.
He doesn’t take his palm off me either. He travels his fingers across the fabric of my shirt, and I can’t move.
My body lights up from this simple touch. He says nothing, doesn’t even meet my gaze, and I’m grateful for that.
I just need to exist in the thrill of this contact a few seconds longer. I swallow roughly, let out a low and smoky sigh. I doubt he can hear me, but that doesn’t seem to matter. He knows what he’s doing to me.
I stare at the liquor bottles behind the bar, but I can barely see anything, and it’s not because of my twenty-eighty vision. My world is simply narrowing to his hand exploring my back. Asher slides his palm around me, traveling to my hip, covering it with his hand, sending another jolt of pleasure through me as the shot arrives.