“I don’t know what you think I am,” I say.
He leans closer across the table, his voice only for me. “I think you’re the kind of woman who doesn’t let anyone tell her what she wants.” A beat. “So tell me what you want right now, Elsa. Because I know what I want.”
I know it’s a mistake to ask, but I can’t help myself. “What do you want?” I whisper, breathless.
He leans forward, his lips a breath away from mine. I wait for him to brush them, my breath caught in my chest.
Then he leans back, and I blink in surprise. His eyes skim down, lingering on my chest.
“You know, I think I misjudged this dress,” he says, almost conversationally, throwing me off with his tone.”
Confused at the change in conversation, I look down.
“Umm, thanks, I guess—"
“It would look even better on my bedroom floor,” he says.
A beat of silence, then I throw my head back and laugh. His dark eyes light up with laughter, and a grin spreads across his face.
Through my laughter, I barely manage to get out: “That was a horrible pick-up line.”
His shoulders are shaking with laughter. “It’s only horrible if it doesn’t work.”
I lift my glass in his direction like I’m awarding him something. “It didn’t,” I say, but my smile betrays me. My cheeks are hot, my lungs still full of laughter, and I’m standing here looking at him like he’s the most entertaining man in the room.
In any room.
He leans in again, stepping closer to my side of the table, so his voice slips under the music. “You’re laughing,” he points out, smug.
“I laugh at tragedies,” I tell him, turning and leaning against my elbow to face him, my champagne glass dangling from my other hand. “It’s a coping mechanism.”
“Mm,” he murmurs, eyes tracking my mouth like he wants to memorize the shape of it. “Then cope some more.”
I should roll my eyes. I should tell him to stop. I go to take another sip, but find my glass is empty. He nips it from my hand and sets it on the table behind me.
“You’re very confident for someone using bedroom floor lines,” I say, letting the words drag a little on purpose.
His grin turns slow and dangerous. “You want better?” he asks. “Or do you like it when I’m shameless?”
The question puts a hitch in my breath. I swallow, and he leans forward, just enough to make my answer private. “I think,” I say, voice quiet, “you like seeing how close you can get before I push you away.”
His eyes sharpen, and for a second, the grin fades into something with more intent. “Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I want to see how close I have to get before you pull me closer.”
My pulse stutters. I edge back and find the table pressing snugly against my lower back. When the hell did that happen? I hold his gaze as he puts a hand on the tableon either side of me, caging me in between his arms. Wasn’t the table between us a second ago?
How the hell did he maneuver me here without me even noticing?
“That’s a convenient interpretation,” I say, but my voice is soft, breathless. My eyes are perfectly in line with his defined jaw. His sexy throat.
Sexy throat?
Since when do I find throats sexy? Since a man was tall enough for me to see one, I guess.
He picks up his champagne glass and shoots back what’s left in the cup. My mouth dries, and my brain glazes over as I watch his throat work to swallow the champagne.
Oh my—
I lick my lips, just as he tips his head, gaze dropping again.
