Page 16 of Bottles & Blades
In a tiny studio apartment in a semi-decent part of town with no fucking security or doorman.
I was able to walk right up to the door, to knock, to be let into her space.
A space that’s cluttered, but clean beneath the smattering of books and pens and notecards and laundry and dishes in the sink. It’s warm and bright and homey—the space of someone who cares.
And who likes her school supplies.
My mouth tips up as I glance at the pencils and pens I picked up from the floor. I take in the writing, crisp and neat and clean, before what’s really on the card catches my focus. I pause for a moment, studying the eclectic mishmash of words emblazoned on the notecards—French and German and…Japanese? Korean? I’m not as familiar with Asian languages, but I’ve studied a little bit in preparation and during meetings in the countries. Not enough to be fluent, but like I began when I started learning German—wanting to know how to navigate the country when I traveled there, knowing it would give me an edge if I can pick up some words when the people I’m negotiating with don’t think I can read or speak it.
This mix she has, though, is an interesting smattering.
“What’s in the bag?” she blurts, and I freeze, my eyes going to hers, all thoughts of language left behind.
God, she’s pretty.
Kissable lips, gentle curves, deep chocolate eyes that draw a man’s focus. Not to mention that flush from her shower spreading out into a blush on her cheeks, trailing along her throat.
Tempting, so fucking tempting.
To drag my mouth down her neck, to spread the fabric of her robe, to?—
“What’ll you give to find out?” I ask, my voice a rasp.
“Wh-what?”
Her brows draw together and she looks so young, so innocent.
While I’m sitting here, lusting after her.
And I feel like a sick fuck all over again.
She’s just a couple of years older than my daughter, Chrissy. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be thinking this shit.
I’m a decade and a half older than her.
It’s fucking despicable.
And yet, I don’t get up and leave.
Something in me makes it so Ican’t.
Instead, I repeat, “What will you give to find out?”
Confusion in those deep chocolate eyes. “What will I g-give?”
She’s close enough for me to spot the golden flecks in her irises, to smell the soft floral scent of her shampoo, and the urge to see more than just the sliver of skin bared by her robe parting is intense. I want to push the fabric further apart, expose that lush thigh, the full trail of freckles leading higher, calling for my fingers and lips and…my tongue.
“Yeah, buttercup, what will you give?”
I want to kiss that befuddled look off her face.
Instead, I extend a hand in her direction, helping her to her feet, snagging the bag—and the bottle—on our way up.
I don’t release her hand as I walk to the tiny kitchen that’s really just a slip of countertop, a fridge, range-microwave combination, and the…sink full of dishes.
It’s not that many dishes.
The sink is tiny.
