Which is aproblem.
I don’t even know his name. I don’t care what he does. And yet I want to climb him like a palm tree and whisper sins in his ear to see how he reacts.
Eventually, I pull him off the floor, both of us breathless and sweaty. I led him to the bar. It’s quieter there, kind of, enough that I can hear my own pulse again.
I flag the bartender. “Two shots,” I say. “Tequila. Top shelf. No lime.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You don’t strike me as a no-lime girl,” he says.
The bartender slides two shots our way. We lift them.
“You don’t strike me as someone who listens,” I shoot back, smirking. “Cheers.”
We clink glasses.
He watches me knock mine back — no flinch, no chase — and damn if that isn’t the first time a man has looked at me likeI’mthe dangerous one.
“Alright,” I say, setting my empty glass down. “Your turn.”
“To what?” he asks.
“To say something that makes me want to kiss you,” I say, licking salt off the back of my hand slow enough to make his jaw tighten. “You’ve got ten seconds.”
He stares at me — then steps a little closer, voice low, like he knows me, like every inch of me, naked.
“I have a feeling,” he murmurs, “that if I kiss you, I’ll never want to stop.”
And just like that, I’m done for.
I don’t answer right away. I can’t. And his words just hang there between us, thick and charged —“If I kiss you, I’ll never want to stop.”
He says it like a vow. A confession. Like something sacred wrapped in lust and tequila.
And damn it — I believe him.
The music shifts behind us. Slower now. Low and heavy. Like the universe heard what he said and decided to dim the lights for dramatic effect.
I step in. He doesn’t move. He just looks at me like I’m already his, and all he has to do is wait for me to catch up.
I tilt my chin up. Just a little. And then he kisses me.
Not a club kiss. Not sloppy or rushed or drunk. It’s intentional. It’s deep and hot in a way that steals my balance. He has one hand on my cheek, the other at the small of my back, and he’s pulling me in like he’s memorizing all my curves.
It doesn’t feel like the first time. It feels like we’ve done this in every lifetime we’ve ever had, and each time, it’s just as hot.
When we finally break apart, I keep my hand on his chest. His heart is racing like mine. I feel his breath on my lips. Our foreheads touch again — this time soft like a rose petal.
His teammates called him Finn and wanted him to take a shot, but he wiggled out of it forme.
“Finn?” I ask.He nods. Of course, that’s his name; it fits him too well. Strong. Simple. Just enough edge to it to make me wonder what his story is.
“What’s your name?” he whispers. He smiles, as if it’s amusing that we’ve made it this far without even that.
“Kate.”
I nod, tucking his name into my brain like a keepsake. His lips curl at the corners, like he likes the way it sounds in his head.
“Kate,” he repeats, like it’s a prayer.
