His fingers move slowly, grazing mine as he asks, “Which part? To feel in control? Or to let go of it?”
The idea of both has me squeezing my thighs in response. What would that feel like? To take control and then to lose it, with him.
He looks down at his fingers, curving them upwards and drawing them along my palm that’s been hovering above his. On an exhale, his gaze travels back up, and the confident man with the cocky smile slips as something vulnerable settles across his brow.
A wave of panic rushes through me—there’s no leaving here with him. He can’t know that the ranch he asked about when he first stopped in here is where I call home. Maybe this is where it ends. Soft touches and a fantasy to play out later.
“You can’t come home with me,” I say quietly, hating how much I’m enjoying the way his fingers tease along my palm. I focus on the way his lips tilt up as if what I’ve just said is amusing.
“I don’t remember asking if I could,” he volleys back. “But I like that you’re thinking about being alone somewhere else with me.” He leans in, close to my ear, and the scruff of his beard scratches along my cheek, sending a shiver throughout my body. “What would you do with me?” His lips skate along my earlobe. “To me?” he breathes. “For me?”
I swallow audibly, breathing faster as he pulls back. Grabbing a rocks glass, I pour a finger of whiskey and toss it back. I don’t taste a thing, only the welcome burn of courage that travels to my chest, off setting the thrum of anticipation at what I’m about to say.
You’re in your mid-thirties, single, and wildly attracted to this man. Woman-up, Wyn.
Closing my eyes, I stand from the bar stool. What I’m going to say could lead to the bravest thing I’ve done in a long time.
He watches and waits, like he knows what’s coming.
With one more steadying breath, I tilt my head toward the dimly lit hall across the bar and say, “Then, there’s something I’d like to show you.”
Chapter Four
Naomi
The red glowof the exit sign is enough light to see him follow as I look back over my shoulder. My stomach flutters, and sheer excitement courses through my veins.Who do I think I am right now?I’ve never put myself in a situation where this would be on the table. My sisters? Probably. My mother? Most definitely.
I didn’t wake up this morning and think to myself,I’m going to hook up with a stranger at the bar today.I’ve absolutely fantasized about all the ways I could enjoy the man looking at me as he grabs my hand, stopping my steps. I just haven’t considered it becoming a reality, never mind seeing him again. He steps closer, and I catch the faintest smell of mint and something masculine and warm as his body presses againstmine. It sends a shiver through me that shuts off any further internal questioning.I want this.
“What did you want to show me?” he asks, leaning in, his words vibrating along my skin as one of his hands moves to my hip.
“I lied,” I say, taking two steps back.
Eyebrow quirking slightly, he takes one step forward.
“I don’t think I mind,” he says with a smirk as he continues to slowly follow me.
Why does his height make him even sexier?
“Tell me something that isn’t a lie then,” he says as I move back a few more steps.
“I searched for you,” I confess. My back hits the wall next to the exit, and the coolness from the door’s draft seeps into my skin. “I searched your name to see who you are and find out more about...you and what you do.”
“You must have liked what you found, considering you didn’t tell me to get lost when you saw me tonight,” he says, seemingly amused by this.
“It’s impressive—your art, the things you’ve made, what you’ve accomplished. No social media. Plenty of pictures of you at events and red carpets with models and a few celebrities.”
“Clients. All the pictures you likely found were of people who paid me for my work,” he says, like he doesn’t want me to get the wrong idea. Lifting his hand, his fingers cuff the dark strands of my hair behind my ear and then linger as they move down to the cropped ends. He rubs the piece between his thumb and forefinger. “Did you find what you were looking for, Naomi?”
I keep my eyes locked with his, trying to read his reaction, but he gives me nothing. There’s no smile or teasing tone this time.
“No.” I swallow, tipping my head back. “Not everything.” What I don’t say is that I wanted to know that his presence wasa coincidence and not trouble. But instead, I settle on something trivial that I remember. “Your middle name. It only listed ‘T’ as the initial. What’s your?—”
“It’s just T,” he answers and shifts closer, cutting off my question. His fingers let go of the hair he’d been playing with, and on their descent, they graze along my shoulder, brush down my arm, his knuckles ghosting the side of my breast. The light touch leaves tingles in its wake, and I look back up at him, my head pressing into the wall I’m up against. He keeps watching the path he’s drawing, his knuckles now brushing against the waist of my jeans. The lightness mixed with intention spikes my pulse and has me holding my breath, wanting more.
“What does ‘T’ stand for?” I ask as I exhale, my voice coming out too breathy for the topic we’re discussing.
The corner of his mouth tips up. A beat later, he says, “It was a line from a movie. A woman asks a man what the ‘T’ stood for, and he saidtrustworthy. My mom loved the movie, and my dad loved my mom, which awarded me with that letter as my middle name.”
