Prickles run down your neck and continue down my spine. It’s in my legs because I’m transfixed. I can’t move.
I turn. My world tilts.
How many drinks did I have?
Anddamn.
He’s tall. Big. Built like someone who makes a living throwing people into walls andlikesit. His jeans are so tight they should be illegal — painted on, honestly — and clinging to thighs that probably squat small cars. A Maine Maulers Championship tee is stretched across biceps that look like they could carry me through a thunderstorm, a breakup, and a blackout, all at once.
And the face? Mischief and trouble.
Not in the “he lies to his girlfriend” kind of way. No,thisis certified chaos — deep blue eyes, dark messy hair, and that slow, cocky grin like he already knows I’m gonna let him wreck my plans.
I try to look away. Ido.
But then he walks toward me like the rest of the room isn’t even there.
And the worst part?
I let him.
He leans in and gives me an original pick-up line.
He’s too smooth.He’s one of those—the quintessential pickup artist or the hockey player no woman has ever said “no” to.
He has a great pickup line. I sass him, and he seems to like it
I arch a brow, sip my frosted margarita, and give him the only kind of line a man like that deserves, and he chuckles.
I watch his grin widen — not wounded, not offended. Justinterested. Like I passed a test, he was hoping I’d throw something snarky at him.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even stammer. He just smiles like he’s already in too deep.
And what do I do? I grab his hand.
Because I want to know what those jeans look like under strobe lights. I want to see if those biceps can actually dance. And I want to find out exactly what kind of trouble that face gets me into.
Because I have a feeling it will beworth it.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just let me take the lead. It’s a fluid situation, given the banter and vibe. It’s as if we’ve known each other for decades.
The dance floor is packed, sweaty, loud, and lit like a fever dream—but when I pull him in, it’s like the music bends around us. He doesn’t grind. And he’s not all hands, or grabby, like a lot of men who’ve been drinking.
He moves with me like he’s been doing it his whole life. He’s confident, controlled, and letting me set the pace. And oh, my. The man has moves. And when we dance so that there’s no air between us?
He’s packing. I feel how hard he is.
God, he’ssolid. Every part of him. Arms like carved granite. Hands low on my hips, but respectful. And those eyes? Hell, they are locked on me like he can’t look anywhere else.
I spin away and walk to the bar just to see if he’ll follow. He does, but it’s not like a puppy. He doesn’t impress me as a man who follows women out of insecurity.
No, he’s more like a predator, calm and calculating. He’s smiling like he knows I’m testing him, and he likes the challenge. He appears to be a man who knows what he wants.
I can’t help it — I laugh. I can’t believe I’m here, in Vegas, with the hottest man in the room. He has solid competition. It looks like he’s here with his team, celebrating.
He leans in, but says nothing. He presses his forehead to mine for a second, like we’ve already skipped the part where we pretend this doesn’t mean anything.
And just like that, I want to kiss him.
