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So I nod, make a noncommittal murmur, and toss back the rest of my whiskey just to have something to do. It’s a large swallow, making my throat bob, and maybe a waste of fine whiskey, so I close my eyes to savor it. I should probably go after this. Just out of pure caution.
But when I open my eyes again, I’m painfully aware that I have Declan’s full attention. And that his eyes are burning.
What have I done? I feel like I’m pinned in my seat when he takes the decanter and tips more of the liquid into my glass. What elicited this particular reaction from him?
“What kind of whiskey do you typically drink?” he asks, confirming that whatever I’m drinking right now is far out of my price range.
“Oh, any kind,” I say. “I’m not a connoisseur. I don’t play favorites. Or pay attention to labels. All I know is what I like. I mean, it’s not like I can try whatever I want.”
That gray gaze is darkening in a dangerous way, and I’m still not sure what game we’re playing. Or what’s happening.
“I could help you with that,” he says, his voice low, and he shifts a little in his seat. Like he’s the one who’s uncomfortable. He spreads his legs a little, and I swallow carefully. He seems hungry. A little wild. Like a feral animal who’s just seen something he wants to eat.
“Tell me what you like,” he continues, watching me carefully. Like I might try to run away. “The tastes. Describe them.”
The air is too hot. The room. This chair. The whiskey. My face. My core. All Declan’s asked me about is whiskey, but I can’t help but read deeper into it. Do I want it to be deeper? Maybe. It feels like something else, so maybe it is.
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice shaking just a little bit. I wonder if he notices. Wonder if anything gets by him. “I guess I like when everything plays well together, if that makes sense? I mean, I don’t like flavors. Like honey whiskey? No, thank you. Give it to me strong. Bold. That’s what whiskey’s about. When you can taste the care that was taken in making it, but the smoothness too. Like a caress. Like a signature. But there needs to be fire. It can’t be too nice. It still needs to burn.”
The air crackles between us as Declan digests that. I have no idea whether I gave him the right answer. Or the answer he was looking for. Or if there even is a right answer to this kind of thing.
“You had a date tonight,” he says finally, and I lean back in my chair, a little surprised that he’s taken this abrupt pivot in our conversation. Or maybe it isn’t so abrupt after all, really. “How was it?”
“It was okay.” My flat voice tells me everything that my heart was telling me earlier. That David, as nice as he is, just isn’t for me. That there won’t be a second date.
Declan’s face has barely changed except for a small lift in the corner of his mouth. A sly, satisfied half-smile. “What made it just ‘okay?’”
This is dangerous. Oh, so dangerous. But the blood is singing through my veins, my heart hammering in my chest.
“It didn’t burn,” I tell him. “There wasn’t a fire.”
Now we’re both certain that it was never about the whiskey, our conversation. I’m the one shifting in my chair, trying to get comfortable—or relieve some of the pressure steadily building in my body. I’m turned on. Terrified, but turned on.
Because maybe all of this is inevitable. We’re not even touching each other, and already Declan is making me feel things that I haven’t felt since San Francisco.
“Have you fucked anyone since me?” he asks, as if he’s reading my mind. No, he doesn’t have to be able to read my mind. All he has to do is read the room. Read my face. My body.
“Yes,” I manage to admit. “I have.”
It’s not the wrong answer, but he hates it all the same. His jaw clenches, and a muscle in his stubble-covered cheek jumps. Like he’s angry, but not at me. At the other men. Jealous, even. Possessive, absolutely.
“Did any of them manage to make you come like that night?” he demands.
I take a breath and wonder if I’m dreaming. If any of this is happening. If I’ll suddenly blink awake at my alarm, in my own bed, back in my apartment, ready to start the day. I hope not. I don’t want to wake up from this fantasy. Because I’m already right on the edge of what feels like everything. If just his look and his words can do this to me, I can only imagine—and anticipate—what his touch will do.
His hands. His mouth. His…
“Sophie.” My name is a growl in his throat.
“No,” I answer, my voice husky.
“No, what?”
“No, nobody has ever made me come like you did that night,” I say. Having that admission hanging in the air between us has done nothing to alleviate the pressure building in me. If anything, it’s worse. I’m so freaking turned on right now that it’s something of a miracle that I can even see straight.
That’s the right answer, though, apparently. It’s enough to make Declan smile darkly and lean back in his chair, studying me over the edge of his glass.
I take a sip too. My hand is shaking very noticeably. I have to steady the glass with both of them.
