I pushed back gently, climbing off his lap, the loss of his warmth immediate and jarring. My knees felt shaky as I sat down beside him, my body still pressed against his as I tried to reign myself back in. His hand landed on my bare thigh, a silent reassurance that he wasn’t pulling away.
It was also a reminder that no matter how many deep breaths I took, my arousal wasn’t going away.
Shit.
I had never reacted this way to a man, and I didn’t know how to deal with the fact that he gave my pussy its own pulse.
“I…” I trailed off, unsure of how to explain the mess of emotions tangled in my chest. My walls felt paper thin, the armor I’d spent years building barely holding together under the weight of his attention.
His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile, and my stomach flipped. “Don’t overthink it,” he said softly, his voice like velvet against my frayed nerves. That Scottish accent of his would be the death of me. It was whiskey-smooth and somehow still rough-edged, capable of dismantling every goddamn defense I had in place.
I gave a shaky laugh, leaning back in my seat. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one trying to recover from whatever the fuck that just was.”
“Oh, I know exactly what just happened,” he replied, his smirk turning into a beautiful full-blown grin. “But if you need time to catch up, I’m happy to wait. Or would you rather tell me in your native tongue?”
The bastard. He was enjoying this. And yet, I couldn’t be mad.
I narrowed my eyes, pretending to be offended. “Is my English that bad? Is that why you keep making comments?”
He blinked, caught. “No—no, it’s fucking perfect.” His voice dropped, softer now. “It’syouspeaking in French that does me in.”
Oh.
My pulse skipped, and for a moment, neither of us moved.
“Then maybe you should stop pretending you don’t understand me,” I purred, leaning toward him, almost daringly. “Because I’m starting to think you do.”
His hand slid higher, fingers curling tighter around my thigh. “Jecomprendsbeaucoupplusde choses quetune crois, Auri.”
I shivered.
I was so,sofucked. This would be so much easier if he wasn’t speaking French. Couldn’t he haveone fucking thingwrong with him?
I squirmed, trying to move so his fingers could graze my clit. I just needed… a little bit… higher…
I reached for my glass, taking a slow sip of the remaining smoky bourbon. It didn’t steady me, not with the way his eyes followed the movement.
“What do you want?” The words escaped before I could stop them—bare, reckless, the kind of question that could wreck us both.
“Tonight? I want you to stop fighting whatever this is between us. Just for one night.”
My heart stuttered, and I set the glass down carefully, my fingers trembling against the cool surface. His hand was under the short hem of my skirt again, and I could feel the back of my neck start to sweat as my body reached a feverish temperature. “And tomorrow?”
He tilted his head, studying me like I was a particularly challenging corner on the track. “Tomorrow’s a different story. Let’s not ruin tonight by worrying about it.”
I hated how easily he disarmed me, how his words melted the stress and replaced it with something softer, something reckless.
I licked my lips, the room feeling too warm, the bourbon and tequila building a slow, heady fire in my bloodstream. “Alright,” I said, my voice lower now, almost daring. “But let’s make it interesting.”
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “I’m listening.”
“Back to the question game. And the first one to get uncomfortable loses,” I said, a sly smile tugging at my lips.
“What happens to the loser?”
I considered his question for a moment, my eyes locked on the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he waited. “The loser has to admit they’re wrong about…us,” I said cautiously, testing the waters.
He chuckled, a deep rumble that sent shivers down my spine. “You think there’s anything between us other than fierce competition and unbridled lust?”
