“Heute abend war erstaunlich,” I whisper.
He holds my eyes, impressed. “You’re right, tonight was amazing. You speak French and German. That’s unheard of nowadays.”
“My mom’s from the Alsace region in France. They speak both of those languages. I also know a little Spanish, but that’s more of a work in progress.”
“Jules?” He turns his head suddenly, giving me all his attention.
I match his position, leaning my head back on his arm, letting my cheek quickly rub against him, and it takes everything in my drunk lust power not to purr against him like a cat.
He takes a breath. “How old are you?”
I don’t want to answer this.
“Twenty-four.” I cringe.
“What?” His eyes bulge, and he sits up straight. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m thirty-eight. You’re fourteen years younger than me. I’m too old to be hanging out with you like this.”
Of course, I already knew how old he was, but when he says it out loud, it does sound old. But the hell if I care.
He’s too handsome and smart for me to give a shit about something so trivial. And the attraction…there is no denying it. Age doesn’t matter.
I shrug. “I don’t mind it.”
“You should,” he mumbles, then leans back, and I place my head back on his arm.
We’re both quiet for a beat longer than I like.
“Jules.” He sighs.
“Don’t, Harrison. Don’t ruin a spectacular night over something so insignificant. Who cares?”
He takes a big gulp of his drink. “I should.”
I smile wide and position my head closer to his. “But you don’t.” I turn and kiss his arm.
His breath hitches, and he leans over and whispers, “Do you want to dance?” against my ear.
I frown, not particularly.
Glancing over to the other side of the room, I notice the crowded dance floor. I don’t want to share him with anyone else.
Luckily, Becks has wanted to spend time with Matteo, so I’ve been spoiled all night with it being just us.
“Not there…here.” He stands and holds out his hands for me. “Just me and you.”
Excitement runs through me. I place my hand in his, and he helps me stand. “Yes, me and you sound perfect.”
More than I’d like to admit.
My breathing is loud and labored; his pupils are blown, and we’re both completely turned on. Why isn’t he making a move?
We’ve been dancing to countless songs, neither of us ready to stop. It’s the perfect excuse to run our hands all over one another and have it be completely appropriate-ish.
“Harrison,” I moan and squeeze his large, muscular biceps, then run my palms over his broad shoulders.
