“Honestly?” We’re practically in each other’s personal space now. If I leaned in a little more, our chests would brush. “I guess I wasn’t interested in having someone shake their ass in my face.”
“Isthatwhat Ron is doing in there?” I ask, eyes wide with false horror. When he laughs and that newly familiar thrill rushes through me, I let the act fall away. “Same, though. I know I talked a big game about loving Thunder from Down Under, but when they actually showed up, I bailed.”
“Such a coward. Are you going to go back and try to be brave?”
“Absolutely the fuck not.”
“Me neither.”
“I’d love to leave,” I admit, sparing a glance down the hallway to make sure no one is about to come drag us back. “But I don’t want to disappoint Janelle by ditching before the night is over.”
She’d understand if I told her it was all too much too soon, but I’m determined to put myself as far out there as I can tolerate. Sticking around is part of that.
“I could get us a private room,” Thomas offers, and as appealing as that sounds, especially with the way his voice pitches a little lower, I shake my head.
“I don’t want to risk missing the others when they leave.” Still, there’s no way I’m going back to the girls and their boy toys. “Let’s grab a booth on the main floor. We can watch whoever’s onstage from a distance instead of having asses shaken directly in our faces.”
The hand he puts on my hip to gently turn me in the right direction sends heat blooming across my body. There’s a layer of fabric between his palm and my skin, and yet it feels searing, daring me to pull away. Instead, I place my own hand on top of his, keeping it there, and match him step for step as we make our way down the hall.
When we turn the corner and move through the archway to the main floor, Thomas’s hand slips out from under mine, but just like I did earlier when he seemed almost disappointed that I’d stopped touching him, he grabs me again. This time, he holds on to my fingers and lifts them to shoulder level as he moves sideways down the steps, carefully ushering me down them like he’s both helping me not trip and showing me off at the same time. There are seminude women on the stage not twenty feet from us, and yet his eyes are on me. It’s such an ego stroke that I nearly shiver.
“Let’s grab a spot over there,” he says once we’re on level ground, nodding to my right.
He keeps a loose grip on my fingers as he walks in front of me, only dropping them when we reach an empty table. Thebanquette around it is curved, allowing us to sit beside each other as we gaze out onto the club’s bustling floor and the stage, drinking it all in before turning back to each other.
The lights are low, colorful strobes passing over us every so often, and I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s a true work of art.
“All right?” Thomas asks, smiling back at me, though there’s a question in his eyes.
Right. Aimlessly staring at someone and not speaking isn’t exactly normal behavior. “Fine,” I answer, and cover up the reason for my silent admiration with a sly, “I was just thinking about how you never told me your type.”
And it’s true. He didn’t. He left it atnot herwhen that beautiful, bubbly woman called him repeatedly. Hopefully he’s turned his phone off, because as nice as her picture made her look, I don’t want to be interrupted. Especially not by someone he clearly has history with. Tonight’s for new beginnings.
Thomas considers the question, eyes drifting to the stage where women with impressive core strength are defying gravity on poles. And yet when he looks back at me, I get the sense that he barely saw them.
“I like confident women,” he says, then corrects it to, “Overconfident women. Cocky women. The ones who don’t hold their tongues. Who know what they’re worth and don’t accept less. Who go after exactly what they want.”
His hand is resting on the leather-upholstered bench in the small space between us, but I swear the side of it brushes my leg as he says the last words. I can’t be sure, because I don’t dare look down.
I heave a disappointed sigh, even though my heart is fluttering. “Shame. That doesn’t sound like me at all.”
The way his mouth quirks up a little more says he knowsI’m joking. He’s right about this too. When I’m at my best, I’m the exact kind of woman he’s describing. I know who I am, what I want, and how to get it. I don’t doubt myself. I don’t hesitate. I take my shots and I rarely miss.
But I’mnotat my best currently. I’m struggling to find my footing. Struggling to make choices without second-guessing. I know I can get back to being the woman who owned any room she walked into, but right now, I’m not going to deny that I need a little external validation. And what do you know, there’s a man in front of me willing to give me exactly that.
“Whatever you say,” he murmurs. “But now that you know my type, I feel it’s only fair you tell me yours.”
If he really likes women who don’t hold their tongues, then I’m not going to. I’m not fully sure what I’m looking for tonight, but I do know that I don’t want it to end without him touching me again.
“I won’t lie to you, Thomas,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear me over the music. “Right now, my type is Formula 1 drivers with posh accents who are clearly resisting the urge to feel me up.”
His gaze goes molten, some of that infectious humor fading away. “Is that an invitation?”
I shrug, delighting in the way his eyes follow the motion, sliding down my shoulder and back up again. I feel like a cat basking in the sun, soaking it in. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”
This time, I know I’m not imagining the way his fingertips brush back and forth against my thigh. “I don’t play with consent. You either tell me enthusiastically what you want, or I do nothing.” His fingers stop moving and I immediately long for the contact. “I think it’s time for you to decide whether this is real or just for show, Stella.”
He’s done letting me toy with him, and I can’t blame him. I’ve pushed us past the point of harmless flirting into something heavier. Something I find myself wanting to explore.
