Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
That’s a good start.
He runs a strong hand down the material, then fingers the end of the fabric. “Glad you like it,” he says, in a smooth, silky voice.
“I do,” I say, and that answer is as promising as his body language.
“Good to know,” the man says as he drinks me in even deeper.
Ding, ding, ding. We have a team player. No straight dude is going to check me out like this man.
His gaze takes a scenic tour of my body. He’s shameless in his travels, covering my whole damn frame before he returns to my face, lingering on my mouth.
I get in on the ogling and spend a moment cataloging him, from the wavy brown hair I want to rope my fingers through, to the chiseled, clean-cut jaw I’d like to sweep my mouth across, and to the fine white shirt that ripples just tightly enough along his biceps. Yep, I think I’ll rip it off him.
I return to those bedroom eyes, which are dark and dreamy and definitely dirty. Curious too—his eyes pause at my forearm, studying the small tattoo on my right wrist.
I could wait for him to ask about my ink, but I’m a take-charge kind of guy. “It’s a cocktail. In case you were wondering.”
He smirks. “Did you think I was? Wondering?”
“Yes,” I say, letting him know what he’s getting into if he wants to take this flirtation a little further.
Or a lot further.
Endorsement deals might befuddle me, but hot men do not.
The man shrugs a strong shoulder. “You caught me, then.”
“Did I, now? Because I like the sound of that,” I say, a low rumble giving away more of my intention.
He takes a moment and blows out a breath, brows furrowed like he’s thinking things over. I get it. Not every man knows what he wants as fast as I do. He can take his time.
A few seconds later, that crease disappears, and he says, “Good to know.” With a tease of a smile, the stranger reaches for his drink. Bourbon or whiskey, from the looks of the amber liquid. He runs a thumb along the edge of the glass. I spark and sizzle—the way he touches the goddamn tumbler is like foreplay. It’s an erotic invitation, his thumb sliding along the rim as his gaze dips back to the tattoo on my forearm.
“It’s a strawberry daiquiri,” I supply.
“I’m familiar with cocktails,” he says, voice dry, his eyes tracing the lines of the cartoon glass, about an inch long, on the inside of my wrist, complete with a silly drink umbrella.
“You don’t like it? I’m wounded,” I say playfully.
“Did I say I disliked it?”
“You didn’t have to. I heard the disdain in your tone.”
“Ha. Well, let’s just say…it’s a choice,” he says, punctuating that last word like a sexy little jab.
“Choice,” I repeat, mulling over that word. “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way,” I say, but yes, give me a hard time, hottie. I like it that way. A little push and pull.
The bartender returns with my scotch, setting the glass on the sleek black counter. “Here you go.”
Before I can put the drink on Vance’s tab, the hot suit raises a finger to catch the bartender’s attention. “I’ll take care of that,” he says, smooth and polished.
And totally fucking hot.
The bartender looks for my approval. “That good for you?”
So damn good. That won’t exactly be how it works in the bedroom, with the suit setting the rules, but there’ll be time to lay out how I want to have him later.
Laid out before me.
“That’ll work for me,” I tell the bartender. I turn to the stranger, lift my drink, and tip it toward his.
He raises his glass, and as we clink, I graze my finger against his strong hand. A soft, barely-there murmur falls from his lips.
He lifts a brow like he’s saying well played.
Then, as I knock back some of the liquor, he watches me, eyes on my lips touching the glass then my throat as I swallow.
Something like frustration flickers in his gaze, but he quickly snuffs it out. Now he’s all heat, staring at me, his fearless intensity turning me on. I hope Vance’s phone call lasts all night. The deal is the furthest thing from my mind.
I set down my glass. “Thanks for that…choice,” I say, nodding to the drink.
“It’s my pleasure.” He lingers on that last word then lifts a hand, tracing the air near my tattoo. “So, if you wouldn’t call this a choice, what would you call it?”
“It’s more like…the payoff.”
“Ah, let me guess,” he says.
I sweep out a hand, inviting him to proceed. “This should be fun. Go for it.”
He scrubs a hand across his jaw. “You went to Cabo with some friends. Drank too many daiquiris. Bet them you could ride a wave. They egged you on, you hopped on a board, and face-planted. Your buddies had a laugh, and you, being the kind of man who makes good on your bets…” He stops talking, bringing his finger closer, maybe an inch from my skin, but no nearer. Such a tease. He won’t touch me, and that drives me a little wild. Finally, he finishes, “You made that choice.”