“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe?”
I watch him, enjoying his discomfort. “Do you want to find out?”
His mouth goes dry. I see the way his tongue presses against his teeth as he desperately tries to swallow. He doesn’t look away. “Are you offering?”
I smile, slow and wicked. “Maybe.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “I’venever—”
I raise a hand. “I know.”
He’s silent, waiting.
I lean in, my mouth a whisper from his ear. “I could teach you.”
He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t look scared, either. “Would you be gentle?”
I almost laugh, but it would break the mood. “I don’t do gentle,” I say, nipping at his ear. “But I do honest.”
He shivers, and the sight of it is enough to make me want to keep him forever.
“Do you want this?” I ask, voice low.
He nods, quick, the smallest movement.
“Say it,” I order.
He licks his lips, then, barely audible, says, “I want you.”
It’s so honest, so raw, that for a second I forget to breathe.
I let the moment build, not wanting to shatter it, then pull back, studying his face. He’s not afraid. Not even a little.
I stand, slow, and grin. “Let me pour you a proper drink. You’re gonna need it.”
The bar cart is one of those modern atrocities, brushed steel and smoked glass, but it does the job. I move to it, not looking back, knowing the weight of my presence is enough to keep Landon rooted. I pour two drinks—vodka cranberry, three shots—and the color is electric under the pendant lights.
“Do you want ice?” I ask.
He nods, but I can tell it’s more habitthan preference.
I drop a single cube in each glass, the sound a neat, satisfying crack. The first one I hand to him. His fingers are cool when they meet mine, but the glass trembles a little as he takes it. I let my hand linger a fraction longer than necessary, enough that he has to process the contact before he can process the drink.
I down half my own in a swallow. He watches, then copies, but chokes on the burn. “It’s strong,” he says, voice shredded with surprise.
I watch the flush bloom up his neck, over the tips of his ears. “You’ll get used to it.”
He looks at the glass as if it’s a problem to solve, then sips again, this time slower.
I set the playlist from my phone. The speakers are hidden, but the effect is tantric—a low, pulsing rhythm, something electronic but not aggressive, the kind of music that doesn’t demand attention so much as infiltrate the atmosphere. It matches the city outside: restless, hungry.
I return to the couch, this time sitting closer, close enough that our knees almost touch. He looks at his drink, then at me, then away.
“Relax,” I say. “Do you want to dance?”
He tries to relax, but his body isn’t convinced. “I don’t really dance.”
I take another swallow. “You will.”
