Blurry shots with bad light did not hide a thing—that raw hotness. Him brooding, him glancing up, that ghost of a smirk... every frame hooked me hard.
I stared, and my heart revved.
His fingers on my chin burned in my mind, that gravelly voice echoed, and the chokehold closeness lingered...
I shook my head, and I tried to ditch the haze. It was not the time.
But the shots blurred by, they stayed meaningless—only him stuck, vines wrapping my brain.
I let go of the mouse, I slumped in the chair with a sigh, and I craned back at the ceiling mold for ages. Finally, I dragged up, I fished the card from my bag.
The wrinkled card from my death grip still screamed money.
My fingers traced the number, smooth and warm-feeling.
He was a dangerous dude. It was crystal clear.
But... what if just a chat? It could make this lame night less lonely?
I fixed on those digits, and his face flooded back—eyes, grin, that loaded glance over his shoulder.
My cheeks grew hotter.
My pulse sped faster.
On autopilot, I grabbed my phone, and I punched in the number digit by digit off the card.
The cursor blinked empty in the chat. My thumb hovered over send—my last gasp of sanity yelled, Anna, you are nuts! Who is this guy? Mess with him, and you are toast.
But the pull crashed over it. I craved that breathless tug again, and I craved the thrill of teetering on the edge.
I tapped.
"Message sent."
My heart slammed.
I glued to the screen, nerves and hype twisted.
Would he bite? Or was I delusional? Maybe he—
The phone buzzed. It came in the next second.
I skipped a beat. That quick?
I took a deep breath, I held it, and I tapped the new text—
"Up late?"
My lips curved despite myself. I fired back: "Still working."
It came quick as hell: "One a.m.? Thought at this hour, you'd only dream of me."
Blunt words loaded with that heart-racing tease.
I bit my lip, I stared forever, and my belly heated up like fire.
"So, 'work' done?" Another ping came—I could hear the low, mocking drawl.
