Page 76 of My Wedding Night Massacre

He's still looking at me. Hasn't looked away once.

Heat spreads lower, settles between my legs. I shift on the bar stool and feel it—wetness. Actual wetness soaking into my underwear, and I haven't even spoken to him. Haven't heard his voice. Don't know his name. But my body's responding like he just whispered every filthy thing he wants to do to me directly into my ear.

I should look away. Should act like I don't care, like I haven't noticed him noticing me. But I can't. It's like we're having a conversation without words, and I'm saying I see you and he's saying I know and underneath it all there's this question neither of us is asking out loud.

What would happen if we stopped pretending we're not doing this?

"How old do you think he is?" Tiana whispers.

"Old enough to know what he's doing," Chloe answers. "Unlike every fumbling idiot you've dated."

"I should look away."

"You really should."

I don't.

He shifts, just slightly, leans back in his seat like he's got all the time in the world. There's something about the way he moves—controlled, deliberate. Like a predator who's never had to chase anything because everything comes to him eventually. The jacket pulls tight across his chest, and even from here I can see he's built. Not gym-rat built, but the kind of solid muscle that comes from actual work, actual violence.

He looks like he could break someone in half and not break a sweat doing it.

The thought should scare me.

Instead, I get wetter.

What is wrong with me?

The woman next to him says something, touches his arm. He doesn't even glance at her. Just keeps those dark eyes on me, and there's something in them now—heat, hunger, the kind of raw want that makes my thighs clench together.

I'm throbbing. Actually throbbing, pulse beating between my legs like a second heartbeat, and all he's done is look at me. If he touched me right now, I think I'd come apart. Just disintegrate into a puddle of need and shame and holy-shit-is-this-what-I've-been-missing.

"You're blushing," Tiana says, delighted.

"I'm not—"

"You are definitely blushing. I don't think I've ever seen you blush. Not even when Marcus tried to serenade you."

"That's because Marcus made me want to die, not—" I stop myself, grab my drink, drain the rest of it. The vodka doesn't help. If anything, it makes the heat worse, makes me brave and stupid and dangerously close to doing something insane like walking up there and climbing into his lap.

Chloe's grinning like Christmas came early. "Rory. Hey. Look at me."

I tear my eyes away from him, and it's actually painful. Chloe's face is pure mischief.

"Go talk to him."

"What? No."

"Why not?"

"Because I—because that's not—" I flounder, trying to find a reason that doesn't sound completely insane. "I don't just walk up to strange men in clubs."

"You've never had a reason to before. Now you do?"

"He could be anyone. A serial killer. A—"

"A really hot older guy who's been eye-fucking you for the past five minutes?" Chloe supplies. "Yeah. Terrible fate. However, will you survive."

My phone buzzes. All three of us jump, then laugh, nerves turning into something lighter. I check the screen. Dad. Of course.