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I still feel the muscle in his arm tighten beneath my hand.
That’s enough.
“Bar,” I say.
He glances down at me. “What?”
“We’re going to the bar.”
“Are we?”
“Yes.”
* * *
It’s quieter here, away from the main tables. I lean against the bar and catch the bartender’s eye.
“Something sweet and strong, please.”
Cal settles beside me, close enough that his sleeve brushes my bare arm, and lifts his third champagne of the evening. He hasn’t been drinking them so much as holding them, I’ve noticed. Something to do with his hands.
“Ah,” he says. “What you’re looking for is the Callum Fox cocktail.”
I glance at him. “No. I think that one’s bitter and disappointingly small.”
His glass stops halfway to his mouth.
“Small?”
“With an unnecessarily expensive garnish.”
He sets the champagne down.
Slowly.
“Oh, Doc.” He leans one forearm against the bar, turning into me until the space between us becomes noticeably less respectable. “That cock-tail is a lot of things. Small isn’t one of them.”
I tip my head, letting my gaze drift over him with deliberate doubt.
“Hmm. I’m not convinced.”
His teasing smile falls as his eyes fill with lust, dropping briefly to my mouth before coming back to mine.
“No?”
“No,” I manage. I’m playing a dangerous game, and I know it.
He leans closer. Not enough to touch me. Enough that his voice reaches me low and warm beneath the noise of the room.
“Want me to prove it?”
The spot between my legs tingles like crazy.
I keep my expression calm through an act of enormous personal strength.
“Here?”
His gaze flicks toward the crowded ballroom, then returns to me.
