“Practically live here when I’m on campus,” I say with a grin, stepping closer so my knee brushes his thigh when the crowd shifts again. “Hence the nickname.”
Silas stills. Just a fraction. But I feel it.
“On campus,” he repeats, eyes sharpening a notch. “You go to school around here?”
There it is. The curiosity that normally comes with these types of hook-ups. The inch he wants to take.
I don’t give it to him.
I shrug, easy and careless, fingers sliding up to the edge of his sleeve instead. “Something like that.”
His gaze holds mine, assessing. “College?”
I smile like I’m humoring him, not answering. “Does it matter? I’m legal.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. He knows exactly what I’m doing—dodging, deflecting, keeping it light.
“No,” he says after a beat. “I suppose not.” Then he adds quieter, “Mejorasí.”
I don’t know what it means, but I know I like the way it sounds. Something about hearing him slip into another language without apology makes my pulse kick harder.
My stomach tightens in a way that has nothing to do with tequila.
“Good,” I reply, shifting so I’m half facing the table again and tracing the rim of his glass with my thumb before pulling back. “Because I’m not here to trade resumes.”
Something settles in his expression then. Acceptance. Maybe even relief.
“Fair,” he says quietly.
I grin, already turning my body toward the exit, shoulder brushing his chest as I pass. “Now,” I add, glancing back at him, “are you going to keep interrogating me… or are we going to pretend to dance while grinding our bodies against each other like everyone else in this place?”
And just like that, I’ve made my intentions very clear.
TWO
SILAS
Luke doesn’t waitfor my answer.
He turns, the crowd already swallowing him, and looks back over his shoulder as if he knows I’ll follow. No asking, just confident enough to assume I will.
I do.
Without the jacket, there’s nothing to soften the effect. The mesh crop top clings to his chest and stomach, sheer enough that the lights catch skin and muscle every time he moves. It leaves him exposed in a way that’s deliberate—taunting without being careless. The black jeans are skin-tight, molded to his thighs and ass as though they were poured on, every step drawing attention he doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t want.
He moves like he’s aware of every eye on him. And like he enjoys it.
The boots give him weight, balance, a solid confidence beneath all that sharp edge. Nothing about this is accidental. This is a man who dresses to be touched, to be followed, to be chosen.
He glances back once more, mouth curved in a smile.
I follow him onto the dance floor, already aware that tonight is going to test my restraint more than I planned.
People notice him.
It’s impossible not to. Heads turn as Luke slips deeper into the crowd. Conversations stutter. A couple of guys openly track his movement, eyes dragging over him without shame. Someone reaches out like they might touch, then thinks better of it when Luke keeps moving.
Bueno.
