“Talk?” I smirk, knowing damn well that he doesn’t only want to talk.
His blue eyes are shining as he holds his hands up in surrender in front of him and nods his head once with a smile like he is about to cross his heart and hope to die, “Talk.”
It’s a gorgeous smile, if not a little overconfident, light crow’s feet line the tan skin around his eyes and soften his face with a warmth that pulls me in. The reddish brown beard hedging his lips is a little scraggly, but I can see the straight lines from where he usually keeps it cut.
“Okay, but just for a few minutes, I’m leaving soon,” I lie with a confidence that I don’t have and pick up the drink that I don’t really want.
He stands from his stool and my head tips back, he’s easily over six feet with strong, broad shoulders under a long sleeve henley that molds to every dip and bulge of muscle across his chest. His waist tapers into his jeans in the perfect upper body V.
Holy hell, he’s like a Greek statue or something. My heart just skipped a beat and the urge to lay my palm on his chest tosee just how hard the muscles are makes me curl my fingers and press the pads to my palm.
Turning to lead the way back to my table, I’m glad he can’t see the heat that has lit up my cheeks. I can feel his eyes on me and it makes me feel sexy. In my twenty-six years, I don’t think a man has ever made me feel sexy. Pretty maybe, but not sexy.
Picking up my book to put it away, I sit in my seat and watch him sit in the seat across from me, he almost looks too big for the small dining chair.
He sets his beer on the table and leans forward, his forearms on each side of the bottle. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and a smorgasbord of muscle, veins, and masculinity is laid out on the table in front of me and my heart beats a little faster.
The most notable is the size of his wrists, they are large and I almost laugh out loud in embarrassment and shock when I imagine holding his wrists in my hands while I ride him and lick the dips and curves of his chest. I’ve never considered myself a wrist girl, in fact it’s not something that I really notice, but his large hands and wrists could make any girl feel protected.
Everything about him is large, strong, and hard.
Oh, God, thoughts of what I want him to do to me are coming to mind so fast that they are pushing each other out of the way to be first.
I know I’m blushing when I lift my eyes to his and the smirk on his face says he caught me checking him out. Tit-for-tat I guess, I saw him looking at my boobs earlier. I shake off my feelings of embarrassment and try to feign confidence even though I feel like I’m way out of my dept.
I clear my throat and push my hair behind my ear, “So, what do you want to talk about?”
He links his fingers around his beer and leans further overthe table, closer to me, “You.” His confident smile is back and showing straight, white teeth. “Are you from around here?”
Oh.
It’s a simple, innocent question. It’s a question that any man would ask any woman in a normal situation when they first meet. My heart sinks.
I’ve never been good at lying, according to my parents when I was growing up, I’m a terrible liar and I show my every thought on my face. So how do I navigate the question?
Yes, I’m from Tulsa but I’m on the run from some guys that my brother sold me to and, oh, by the way, I might have killed one of them. I ran away before I found out if the scissors I plunged into his neck made him bleed out.
I’ve never been a one-night stand type of girl, in fact, I stick to the three-date rule, but who knows when I will ever get to date again? After the past two years, who knows if I will ever feel this attracted to a man again?
No sane person wants to get involved with a woman with the type of baggage I come with - the kind that could get him killed - right?
Maybe in another life I could sit and make small talk and enjoy his company, and eventually during the evening enjoy the giddy feeling in my stomach of giving him my number and hopefully seeing him again. But that’s not going to happen, it’s now or never.
Letting my eyes drop to those strong arms and hands again, I wonder how it would feel to be touched and held by them and realize what I need to do. I’ve never been the aggressor before and hope I don’t make a fool of myself trying.
Lifting my eyes back up to meet his, I guzzle half of my drink. I think it may be stronger than the last one. His eyebrow cocks up as he waits for me to answer the question. My heart starts to beat faster as I think about how aggressive women come on to a man.
I decide to half answer his question to give myself a minute to get my courage up.
Chicken shit.
Clearing my throat, I set my hand on the table close to his, “Uhm, yeah, born and raised in Oklahoma.” I cringe as I hear the nervous uncertainty in my voice.
Smooth.
Before he has a chance to ask me another question, I lower my eyes and extend my finger to softly slide the pad across the back of his fisted hand on the table. I saw that move on a show once and thought it was sexy.
He opens his big hand and pulls my fingers into his grasp, softly squeezing. His rough thumb slides across the backs of my fingers and a wave of warmth travels up my arm and swirls around my chest before making a nose dive to my lower belly. His hand is warm but rough on my fingers and I lift my eyes to meet his.
