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My lips part, but no words come out. He’s treating me like a stranger. Like he’s Gray but Not Gray. And I remember the text. Head for the bar. Hot blond dude will be there. Let him say hello first. Not “let me say hello,” but him.
Flutters fill my belly. I think about the sexual fantasy I told him that lazy morning in bed.
His eyes meet mine, and a look flickers there: Is this all right? Do you want to play?
It’s a struggle not to grin, not to fling myself on him and kiss the hell out of him. I lower my lids and turn my attention to the bartender instead, pretending that my insides aren’t a mass of nerves and anticipation.
“I’m waiting for my friends,” I tell Not Gray, which is how I choose to think of him now, my tone standoffish.
“Sure you are,” he murmurs.
Mellow music softly plays, highlighting the quiet between us. His tanned forearm rests against the bar. A thick steel sports watch is on his wrist. I’ve never seen it before. Or seen him drink Scotch. That strong arm lifts as he takes a drink. The peaty scent of whiskey fills the air between us.
I order a citrus martini and try to ignore Not Gray, because he’s doing his best to unnerve me, standing close enough that the light hairs on his sun-kissed forearm tickle my arm. Close enough that I feel his stare.
It’s strange, knowing that this is Gray eyeing me like I’m some cheap conquest. I should be appalled. But no one on earth turns me on the way he does. That he’s acting this out for me, has me growing wet and breathless already. And he hasn’t even touched me.
Vodka sloshes over the sides of my glass and slides cold over my fingers as I take a sip. I lick my wet lips, tasting the tart sweetness, and Gray grunts deep within his chest.
“I’d like to do that,” he says to me in a low voice.
My throat goes dry. I keep my gaze on the bar. “Do what?”
He’s closer, his shoulder pressing mine. “Lick those lips.”
Playing the shy girl, I look the other way as if I’m shocked. It doesn’t deter him.
My skin shivers at the soft brush of his lips against the shell of my ear.
“When I’m done with your lips, I’ll lick the tips of those sweet little nipples perking up beneath your top. They’re begging for it, aren’t they, sweetness?” Warm breath gusts down my neck as he exhales. “To be licked and licked.”
Heat snakes down my body, clenches in my belly.
He keeps talking in that low, rumbly way. “I’ll get you nice and wet playing with those little buds. So fucking wet that when I finally lick your plump pussy, you’ll come on my tongue at the first taste.”
A strangled sound leaves me, and I have to lean against the bar, my knees have gone so weak. My heart pounds against my chest, so hard I wonder if he can see it.
The tips of his fingers take my elbow, a light but steady grip. “Come with me.”
I’m breathless, my voice faint. “No. I... My friends...”
“We won’t be long,” he says against my neck before taking a taste with a flick of his tongue. “Come on, sweetness. No one will know. It will be our little secret.”
Oh, God, I know it’s an act, but my body shakes with illicit lust. I can barely nod. But he sees it, makes a sound of satisfaction. Then I’m being led to the back of the club, the sound of my blood whooshing through my ears. No one stops him or even looks our way. Not even when he opens the door to a small supply room and closes us inside.
Not Gray leans against the door and simply watches me. Bathed in the light of one dingy bulb that hangs overhead, his big body seems larger, looming and taut with tension. It’s so strange seeing him this way, dressed like a stranger, acting like one, that it’s easy to slip into the role, lose myself to it.
“What do you want?” I ask him, plucking at the folds of my skirt as my heart races.
A small, calculating smile. “Oh, I think you know, sweetness.”
Sweetness. Gray never calls me that. Never uses that slightly smarmy tone. It only serves to make him more foreign, more dangerous.
It’s almost too easy, the way he backs me up, guiding me to a low counter that runs along one wall. His hands settle on my hips and he lifts me onto its cool surface. It brings us eye to eye. Grasping the edges of the counter, he crowds me, his gaze hot and roaming.
“There,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”
“I should get back to the bar.” A weak protest.
