Ian: It was my pleasure.
I could almost hear the scruff of his voice. As if he were whispering it in my ear. A rough caress. I felt it all the way down into my belly.
My phone buzzed again.
Ian: Actually, let me rephrase that. It should be me thanking you. That haircut was quite . . . memorable. You are good with your hands.
Oh, my goodness. That man went from zero to one hundred in a second flat.
Those hands he was speaking of started shaking, and I felt the flush race up my chest and hit my cheeks. Chewing at my bottom lip, my eyes darted around my room as if I’d just engaged in something illicit or illegal when the only thing we were doing was sharing a casual thank you.
But there wasn’t a single thing about that mesmerizing man that felt casual.
My fingers flew across the keyboard.
Me: Why am I certain that you’re good with yours, too?
Oh, what was I doing? What was I doing?
Begging for trouble, that was what.
I bit down hard on my bottom lip, trying to convince myself not to send it, that I was wading into dangerous, dangerous waters, playing this kind of game with a boy like him.
He’d chew me up and spit me out.
But I loved the way it felt, the erratic racing in my heart when I pushed send.
My racing heart skipped a beat when my phone buzzed again. Oh hell, who was I kidding? It skipped two.
Ian: You can rest assured that I am. Why don’t you let me prove it to you?
I felt those waters lapping up to my thighs.
Steam rising up.
Scalding hot.
It’d been a long, long time since someone talked to me that way.
Brazen and bold.
No restraint.
The man was so arrogant that somehow his words fit him perfectly. Confidence oozing from him like the slow drip of honey.
The more shocking part was what he was conjuring in me.
Desire.
It was almost an unfamiliar sensation that went slip-sliding through my body. That feeling that had been there since the first time I looked over and saw him sitting at the end of the bar.
Bigger and brighter than anything else. Yet, still so obscenely dark.
I guessed I’d taken too long to respond because another message came through while I was sitting there staring at my screen, held captive in some sort of lust-induced haze.
Ian: I can’t stop thinking about you. I have that number now. How about that drink?
Damn him, tempting me.
Me: I already told you that’s a bad idea.
Ian: I think you’re wrong. I think you’re just scared to take the chance. You’re afraid you won’t be the same after I’m finished with you.
My spirit trembled with trepidation, whipped up with need. It was a bitch wanting something when you knew it was going to be bad for you.
On top of that, I wasn’t even sure what it was I wanted. How far I was willing to let this go.
All I knew was I couldn’t stop thinking about him, either. He’d invaded a secret place. A place I’d almost forgotten existed. I was terrified once he removed himself from my life, it was finally going to collapse.
Me: That’s exactly what I’m afraid of . . . that I won’t be the same after you’re finished with me. I’m not exactly one for casual flings. I don’t have any space to be hurt again.
I wasn’t sure why this guy compelled me to cut myself wide open. Why I’d give him anything at all. But I felt hinged, caught up on the intensity of his response when my phone blipped again.
Ian: Why does that make me want to hunt someone down? Makes me crazy . . . knowing that someone hurt you. That you might be hurting. How is that possible?
My chest tightened, desperate for that feeling. To care about someone and for them to care about me.
To give and take.
Rely and provide.
But that was just stupidity. I didn’t even know this guy.
I tapped out a quick reply, needing to get him off the phone. To end this before I said something that I’d regret.
Me: It’s not your problem. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.
I sat gaping at the string of responses that came blipping through, as if he were firing them off, not giving himself time to think his answers through.
Ian: It is a problem, Grace. It’s a fucking problem because I can’t get you off my mind.
Ian: It’s a problem that I met you once and you affected me the way that you did.
Ian: It’s a problem because the only thing I do is casual, and somehow, you have me wanting to say fuck it and see where this goes.
Ian: It’s a fucking problem.
Ian: Tell me what happened that night . . . when you took off.
I didn’t have time to answer before another message came through.