“Drink your whisky, Olive. Behave yourself.” To my delight, she does. “Go on, you can admit it. I was right about the whisky, wasn’t I?”
“It’s not bad,” she concedes with a careless flick of her shoulder. “It’s kind of smoky, not sharp. I like the way it warms as it travels.”
She moves her hand down her neck, her fingers trailing just a little farther south. My own gaze follows as though invited, my head filling with all the ways I’m going to warm her. Make her hot. Heat her blood like a shot of good whisky cannot.
“But I am so not an Olive.” She folds her arms against the table, leaning down onto them.
“Shows what you know. Olive suits you perfectly.”
“Don’t you want to know my real name?” She slides her glass to the side, her eyes following the motion rather than meeting mine. “Or is it that you don’t want to tell me yours?”
Despite her playful delivery, I consider her words as I also consider the lush valley of her cleavage again. It’s an unconscious motion on her part, I think. Not a ploy or a play for me. As for her question, I reach a decision. No harm can come from her knowing my Christian name, and given that she’s leaving tomorrow, I’m not likely to see our names linked in the tabloids. Reaching out, I wrap my fingers around her wrist and encourage her closer with a gentle tug. She slides herself from the other side of the table and along the end until our shoulders are almost touching.
“I already know your name.” Despite the dissonant noise in the place: the music, the hum of voices, the rattle of glasses, and the jarring cackle of laughter from table mates nearer her age than mine, I keep my voice low. Like I’ve a secret to impart or some intrigue that requires her to lean closer. “Holland.” I draw out her name as though it’s a sentence all of its own. I’d thought it an odd name at first. Why would any parent name their child after a region of Europe? Now I’m wondering if it was excellent foresight on their part because she is truly as unique as her name.
She releases a tiny breath, her lips slightly parted and her eyes darkly glistening. “How?”
I watch her lips form the word, wondering how I’ve never noticed how delicate an action it is. How. Pouting and soft, and delightfully inviting. Not for the first time this evening, I imagine what it would feel like to press my mouth against hers. We’re sitting so close, almost leaning into each other at the corner of the table. It would take nothing to make that connection. I’m not at all sure I’d be able to stop at kissing even if I have been thinking about it almost since she dragged me out of the hotel. She isn’t like anyone I’ve ever encountered before and certainly not like any of the women I would ordinarily involve myself with.
Not that I get involved these days.
But getting back to her question, my knowledge of her name isn’t magic or kismet. Just observation. And a little novelty on my part.
“It’s printed on your credit card.” Though her thumb had covered her surname. Not that I feel the need to learn it. “I saw it when you paid for the coffee.”
I don’t believe a woman has ever offered to pay for my coffee before, but to insist otherwise turned out to be futile. She was so determined to get me there, then so insistent it was “her shout”.
She huffs out a tiny incredulous laugh.
“But to me, you will always be Olive.”
“Could that be because you think I’m just a tiny bit salty?” she surmises, measuring a tiny space between her thumb and forefinger.
I don’t have an immediate answer. My mind and body are reluctant to join in as an image flashes quite suddenly in my head. Flashes through my head, then flickers through my body. The heat of her under me, her slick skin against mine as I taste the salt from the indent above the heart-shaped bow mouth.
She’s too young for you, my mind whispers. Fuck it. I’ve likely already booked my seat to hell. What’s a few more sins to add to the cost of it?
“Salty.” The word, when it comes, sounds ragged around the edges and stretched taut with a sudden need. God, yes, I’d like to taste her.
“You know, like the attitude?” She leans forward, her forearms pressed against the table, drawing my attention to the soft rise of her breasts. Once might be an accident. Twice . . .? I don’t think so.
The gentleman that I am, I glance away, and though the sight was fleeting, it leaves a lingering aftereffect. Who am I fooling? The whole two hours and however many minutes we’ve been together, I’ve been cataloguing her movements. How she holds her glass. The way her mouth moves as she speaks. She’s just so fucking delicious. I want to pull her onto my knee and press my nose into her hair because every time she moves, a hint of her perfume seems to travel my way. It makes me want to grab her and inhale greedily. I’m not sure I’d stop there. I want to know if her skin tastes as creamy as it appears. If her lips are as sweet.