POUNCE ON ME
RIPLEY
Thisneverhappens to me in Darling Springs. I don’t meet men like Banks in my hometown. An interesting, flirty man built like a Mack truck whomaybelistens to Mozart?
Nope.
I hardly meet men there because that’s where I grew up. I know everyone already. Like William, the Irish guy who runs the local bookshop that his Brazilian grandmother gave to him. Or Fox, who moved to Darling Springs from Montreal and now owns the bar and commiserates with me over a game of pool about the price of things.
But meeting a man at a bar and having this kind of zingy chemistry is like being in college all over again.
And the best part of college was sex.
That’s what I want tonight. I want this man to relieve some of the pressure I’m facing by relievinganotherpressure. He’s like ananswered prayer, this tattooed hottie. The sleeves of his button-down shirt are rolled up, revealing muscular forearms with ink coasting up his fair skin, geometric shapes that have me staring at the art and the muscles. How do you even get muscles in your forearms? I squirm a little at the thought of him throwing me around with those strong arms. What do the rest of them look like? How far up does the art go under that button-down shirt I want to rip off?
Soon, you’ll find out soon.
I meet his gaze again. His eyes are intense, but thoughtful too. The look in them—both soulful and filthy—makes my pulse kick up.
Under the low light in this corner booth, anticipation threads through me, spooling through my cells as I wait for him to make the next move. He lifts a big hand and I think he’s going to cup my cheek, but instead, he covers my shoulder, curling his palm over me. Powerfully.
Making me shudder.
He pushes down my hoodie another inch, then slides his thumb along my collarbone.
And that’s…shivery.
I tremble head to toe, then lean in to his hand, mesmerized by the way he travels along my skin. Taking his time, he changes direction, coasting his fingers back then up the side of my neck.
I let out a shuddery breath.
This is…outrageously sexy.
He’s touching me in some kind of slo-mo seduction. His fingers move to my jawline, the pads grazing along my face, then coming toa stop at my chin where he holds me. Roams his thumb right under my lower lip. Breathes out hard, full of wanting.
I am done.
“Just kiss me,” I whisper, already begging.
His lips curve up in the pleased grin of a man who holds the cards. “Patience,” he says, voice deep and in charge.
“I’m not feeling very patient,” I murmur.
“Good,” he says, a lion toying with his prey.
Pounce on me.
I’m caught in his tease. In his talented hands. In his dark eyes. They’re the deepest brown I’ve ever seen. A tempest of colors, like dark chocolate and black coffee. His hair is dark, wavy, the perfect length to hold on to. His nose, strong and Roman. His jaw, square. His lips full, lush, and confident.
And so damn close.
As he gazes down at my mouth, he raises his other hand, then holds my face in both his palms. He hasn’t even kissed me yet, and somehow this warm-up exercise is the hottest moment I’ve experienced in some time. I can’t wait to drag him back to my room. He can take my mind off anything he wants, and he can do it all night long.
If he just kisses me.
But he doesn’t. He looks. He studies. He parts his lips.
And still, I wait.
