TWO HANDS GRAB THE COUNTER either side of my waist.
A pinch of surprise comes first, but the pleasant smell of Conor’s cologne douses any unease I might have felt. I recognize it immediately. Spicy but fresh, a hint of citrus and something mildly sweet. Unmistakable. No other man I know uses cologne, let alone one this pungent.
“You really are a hoverfly,” I say, keeping my voice steady though I can’t deny my heart flutters and stomach cramps. This is the last place I’d expect to see Conor. “How did you find me here?”
“That guy who…” He trails off, fingers gouging the hardwood counter hard enough to snap a piece away, “…touched you earlier… is that what you’re looking for?” He dips his head lower, the taut muscles of his jaw sweeping my cheek. The jealousy resounding in every word he speaks heats my skin. “A puppy who’ll wag his tail whenever you look at him?”
Maintaining my composure around him is almost impossible on a normal day, and tonight I’ve got three drinks in my bloodstream, making the task that much harder. I’m flattered, turned on, and apprehensive all at once.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, shifting my thoughts away from the heat radiating from his chest hovering over my back.
I shouldn’t have let Abby pour the drinks. Had I known I’d bump into Conor, I’d have told her to take it easy with the gin, but I didn’t, so my courage is justified. Artificial but justified.
“I think this is stalking,” I add, internally cursing my best friend for making gin and tonic half-an-half.
The band’s not helping either, playing “Work Song” by Hozier, the melody and words caressing my mind the same way Conor’s caressing my body.
He takes half a step forward, trapping me further as if encouraged by how I curl myself into him, his breath hot against my ear. “You like the chase.”
A fit of shivers tingles along my spine. Damn it. He’s not wrong… the hot and cold, the run and chase… This undeniable attraction between us is growing at an alarming pace.
In moments like this, when it’s just us, his intentions are clear. ‘He wants me.’ Whether the date is a speedbump he thinks has to be conquered head-on before we fuck, or sex isn’t his end-game, I can’t tell.
It hardly matters right now. I’m drunk enough to let Conor have his way with me if he makes a move.
I turn around, still graceful enough that I don’t force him to step back. I doubt he would. He’s not offering me more space, his gaze piercing into mine.
“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or scared,” I admit, but instead of flirty, it comes out stern.
Damn the gin.
“Never scared, Little Bee.” He lifts his hand to touch my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. “Not with me.”
My skin ignites, and blood runs a fever, pulsing in the right place as if he found a nerve on my cheek directly connected to my clit. I swallow hard, dazed by the loaded look flooding his eyes, caught in the stacking tension.
A group of drunken guys elbow their way over and knock me out of the moment. One of them rams Conor’s back so hard he crushes me into the bar, the hard edge digging into my shoulder blades.
Conor curls one arm around me, hand firmly pressed against the small of my back. Plastering me to his chest in one swift, tender move, he simultaneously shoves aside the guy who just rested his elbows on the counter.
His head whips our way, eyes narrowed as he sizes Conor up and down. “You got a problem, man?” he asks, the words slurred.
“Not yet.” Conor shifts me to his side, using his body as a shield. “But you’re begging to have your jaw dislocated.”
The guy’s eyes flash as he looks me over, a self-assured smirk spreading across his face. “What are you drinking, babe?”
Conor takes a fistful of my dress, molding me into him, his grip like a vice. The music thumps in my ears, a backdrop to the brewing confrontation.
“Getting there,” Conor says, a hint of danger layering his voice. “Before you open your mouth again, take a second to decide if pissing me off is worth spending the rest of the night in the emergency room.” He looms closer to him, towering over the guy by a good five inches. “See, I don’t throw my fists often, but when I do, I don’t hold back.”
The guy snorts, toughing out his wavering confidence. He glances over his shoulders, probably searching for backup. Instead of his friends, a group of girls stands there, giggling and swaying to the music. Before he turns to Conor, the bartender comes over, one eyebrow raised in silent question.
“Five bottles of Corona, and…” Conor’s expectant gaze lands on me. “What are you having?”
“Separate bill,” I tell the bartender. “A bottle of champagne and two glasses, please.” I shove my hand in my purse, ignoring the way Conor’s jaw tenses. “Don’t even think about paying.”
He swallows hard, like it’s physically painful to watch me whip a fifty from my purse.
“How do you expect to keep the bottle secure while you’re dancing?” he asks, grabbing the tray with beers. “Anyone can slip something inside the moment you look the other way.”
“This isn’t that kind of place. We come here a lot, and nothing ever happened.”
“It doesn’t mean it won’t, Little Bee.” His eyes narrow as he curls his fingers under my chin, tilting my head toward the light. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”
“What?”
“You’re either tipsy or horny. Which one is it?”
‘Both.’ “Neither.”
“It can’t be both and neither, Vee.”
A blush creeps onto my cheeks flushing to my neck and stiff-peaked nipples strain against the tight fit of my blouse. “I said it out loud?”
That’s not a novelty. I talk to myself all the time, but I’d rather keep my no-filter mind away from Conor’s ears.
“You did.” His hand moves higher, tracing the outline of my lips. “You’re drunk and not mine yet, so no orgasms tonight.”
I bite back a smile. “Yet?”
“Yet,” he emphasizes. “It’s been two weeks since I kissed you, and not an hour goes by that I don’t think about it.”
My breath catches in my throat, eyes widening. Something in his voice makes my head reel. Never in a million years would I expect a man to be so… honest.
“Two weeks, Little Bee,” he repeats, his thumb glossing my bottom lip. “Two fucking weeks, and we’re still at zero dates.” He pulls his eyes from my mouth, pupils blown. “I want that date, but you’re tipsy tonight. Any answer will be tainted by alcohol, so I’m not asking you out, but know this…” He leans in just a little, enough that his warm breath fans my skin. “I’ll be watching you all night. That bottle of champagne and your flute better land on my table whenever you go dancing. I want you safe, Vee.”
I’m at a loss for words. He sounds so sincere. So caring. And at the same time, he stares like he’s barely holding back from ripping my clothes off and fucking me right here, right now.
What’s worse, my resolve is stumbling. I’m submitting to the pull, rational thinking be damned.
I shouldn’t have had those three drinks… Conor’s right. I’m tipsy. Everything I feel and think is a byproduct of that. I can’t trust my body’s reactions or the little devil sitting on my shoulder whispering, what if you let him take you out?
Yeah, what if?
I grit my teeth, shaking the weakness off my limbs as I look up. “I am safe.”
“You are if I’ve got my eyes on you,” he confirms. “Now go join your friends, baby. It’s taking more restraint than I’ve got not to kiss you, and I’m not doing that while you’re tipsy.”
Disappointment swells behind my ribs, but there’s more. A sense of calm. He cares about consent. Or me. Or maybe both to an extent. He cares enough that he wants me one hundred percent in control of my mind before he makes another move.
It’s unexpected.
Most guys would seize the opportunity. After all, I’m not wasted, just tipsy. Happy, mellow.
“Okay,” I say on an exhale. “Thank you.”
His features soften, despite his jaw clamping tighter. “I still want that date, Vee.” He runs a gentle hand over my cheek, briefly glancing at my lips. “Think about it.”
With that, he turns, and within three steps, he’s swallowed by the thick crowd.
