Wait…
I touched my ear again. Was the top pointier than usual?
This again?
It was just my imagination. It had to be.
And yet, lately I’d noticed some strange — if subtle —shiftsin my look. Sometimes my ears felt pointier, like this. Sometimes I could swear my sea-green eyes were a bit bluer or greener. Sometimes my dirty blond hair seemed moreblond, or darker than usual. Since I couldn’t explain it, I ignored it, just my mind playing tricks on me.
Right now, whatever my appearance, this man was clearly into me. If he kept looking at me like that, I’d crawl over the bar and lick that brazen smile off his face.
Stop staring!
I didn’t know if I was talking to him or me, since I couldn’t seem to look away either.
Say something.
“What can I get you?” I asked again, turning away, breaking the tension of that gaze, and making a show of wiping a glass with my bar towel.
“Prairie fire,” he said. The silken tones of his voice sent shivers over my skin, every hair standing on end.
Of course a man with cinders for eyes would ask for a prairie fire.
I grabbed the tequila and tabasco and turned back. His fiery eyes were still locked on me… above the neck.
I tipped both bottles at once and measured with my eyes. Even with a reckless twist of my wrist at the end, the pour was exact. As always. Not a single spilled drop. It was my superpower.
I did a quick flip and flourish with the tequila bottle, because apparently I wanted to impress this guy. Then I put the booze away and slid the shot over to him.
He didn’t look at it, still staring at me: my eyes, my ears, my hair.
“What are you doinghere?” he breathed.
Pretty sure no man had ever asked me that with quite the same emphasis. Was I not classy enough for this upscale bar? No, if anything I got the feeling he felt the opposite, like I was too good for this place.
Huh.
That was a bit much. I was okay with flattery, but I got wary when guys started worshiping me. I wasn’t looking for devotion, just a good time.
I took a mental step back, reassessing him… and myself.
Wow.
This guy had done a number on me. My throat was dry and my panties damp. My bra squeezed me in ways I wished his hands would, while my heart pounded so hard I had to be vibrating.
“Pouring drinks,” I said, brushing off his question and turning away.
“But you’re…” In my periphery, I caught his sidelong glance to check if anyone might overhear. “…a nymph, aren’t you?”
Say what now?
Did he mean anympho, like… a sex-addict?
That had not been what I’d expected.
The nerve.
I mean… sure, I’d taken my fair share of men home for a good time, but I didn’tneedto. It was just harmless fun every now and then. And I had standards: no pervs or assholes. Though a few of them seemed to become assholes after the fact, like Jason.
