But I also know what it says if I leave this dance floor while he’s staring at me like this and when I’m well aware that he’s suffering from a massive hard-on, and you know what?
Yes.
Yes, I’m ready for the message that sends.
A satisfied smirk tilts one side of his mouth up without me saying a word, and he subtly reaches between us and adjusts himself, which should not be hot, but is.
“Good seeing you,” he says to Nick, then nods to Kami. “Nice to meet you too, ma’am.”
“Call me before you leave for London,” Kami says to me. Her eyes are dancing as much as everyone around us now that the song has changed to an upbeat number.
I open my mouth to promise I will, but Fletcher grabs my hand and drags me off the floor before I can make my tongue work.
And then we’re strolling—quickly—out of the reception as if we have somewhere we desperately need to be, where we’ll be tearing each other’s clothes off the minute we get there.
Will we?
Will we?
I would. I absolutely would.
We hustle through the gardens toward the exit, and I realize there’s something wrong.
Fletcher keeps jerking his shoulder or shaking his hip about every third step.
I slow and look at him.
He tugs me along.
Then does a weird hip thrust that doesn’t look sexual at all. I’ve seen guys cope with walking with erections, and this isnotthat walk.
This walk says there’s something wrong with his pants.
“Why are you walking weird?” It’s the first thing I’ve said since we left the dance floor surrounded by a haze of lust—on my part—and whatever the hell is going through his head and hormones, which I honestly can’t quite guess now.
“I’m not walking weird.” He takes three more steps, twisting at the torso and grimacing on the third step.
“You look like Jack Sparrow.”
He doesn’tsmelldrunk.
Quite the opposite, actually. He smells like he bathed in the forest ofall good man thingsand finished it off with a spritz ofbonus, he’s not the type to smack your ass just because.
His facial muscles contort like he’s having an internal battle with himself. Or possibly like he’s regretting telling me we had to kiss and everything that came after and just can’t freakingsay so.
“I’m bloody brilliant. All fine.”
I stop in the middle of the walkway beside a large red hibiscus plant and cross my arms. “If the game’s over and you’re done, say so. No need to get weird.”
“I have a rash, okay?” he mutters.
Hello, left turn. “What kind of rash?”
“This is the best date conversation I’ve ever had.”
“Fletcher.”
“I ate a food I’m allergic to and my skin is paying the price.”
