“Crap beer?” Haru asks.
“Yeah. Blayd’s isn’t known for its beer selection. It has vodka on tap, though.”
Haru raises his eyebrows. “On tap?”
“Yup.” I pretend I’m holding a cup and raise my hand to my lips.
Haru nods. We push our way through to the bar.
“What do you fancy?” I ask.
He stares at me, lips parted for a few seconds, before shaking himself. “A crap beer will be fine, thanks.”
I order two and hand over the money. Once we’ve got our bottles, I take a swig and grimace. It really is awful.
“It’s hot in here,” Haru says.
“It always is. It’s tiny but popular.” I scan the dance floor. Normally, I’d be eyeing up who to dance with.
“So I see.” He tastes the beer. “God, this is awful.”
“I warned you. You won’t notice the taste after you’ve had a couple. Or we could switch to spirits after this.”
He grimaces. “Only if you want to hold my hair while I puke and then carry me home. Spirits and I do not get along. I learnt that the hard way.” He stares at the bottle before having another drink.
“No vodka for you. Got it.”
He shakes his head, puts his bottle on the bar, and unzips his jacket. “It’s too hot to wear this.” He shrugs it off his shoulders.
I gape at him, my feet rooted to the spot. Underneath the jacket, he’s wearing a skin-tight, fishnet T-shirt in black that reveals everything. He has slim shoulders, a slender waist, and a perfectly smooth chest. He must work out because he has the makings of a six-pack and strong pecs. And his V-lines, fuck, I want to lick a path down them. They’re pronounced as they vanish beneath the waistband of his jeans. All the ‘boy next door’ thoughts fly out of my head. I wouldn’t want to introduce him to my parents looking like that.
His nervous smile has gone as he meets my stare. “Are you okay?”
I swallow, nod, and open my mouth to compliment him, but the wrong four words pop out. “Fucking hell, you’re hot.”
CHAPTER5
HARU
I shiver, and it takes me a moment to regain the ability to speak. “Yeah? So are you.”
Kyle is hot. I already knew that from his photos, but being in his presence weakens my knees. He’s bigger than me in every dimension, exactly how I like guys to be. His tight polo shirt is a big help when it comes to appreciating his rugby player muscles. Up close and personal, his nose is a little crooked, as are a few of his teeth. He’s not perfect, which makes him doubly attractive.
We’re caught in awkward silence as if our admissions have gagged us. I press my lips together and squeak. Don’t think of gags right now. Don’t.
I ruffle the back of my hair. “Do you want to dance?”
“Sure.”
I drink my beer and then abandon the bottle on the bar. I never go back to a drink I’ve left alone in a pub or club. In this case, it’s no loss. I tie my jacket around my waist, take Kyle’s hand, and lead him through the throng of sweaty, gyrating bodies to the centre of the dance floor.
It’s impossible not to dance close, which is fine by me. I sway my hips, move in time to the music, raise my arms above my head, and tip my head back, exposing my neck. The beat of the music pulses through me, the base thrumming in my veins. I stand by my declaration that it’s too hot in here. Too many warm, sweaty bodies are packed into too small a space. I’ll need some water soon. Two glasses, one to drink and one to pour over my head. But not yet. I want to savour the experience of dancing with Kyle for as long as possible.
His stare is fixed on me as we dance. He seems comfortable moving his body. Not self-conscious like plenty of people are. The DJ mixes the end of one song into the beginning of another, sometimes so expertly that it’s impossible to tell the music has changed. Impossible to decide I’m going to leave the dance floor at the end of the next song. My pulse races as I lose myself in the music.
Hands settle on my hips from behind, large and possessive. It startles me. I attempt to step out of Grabby Hands’ grasp, but they tighten their grip and pull me back. Lips brush over my ear along with the prickle of a beard.
“What’s up, darling? I want to dance. I love me some pretty femme arse.”
