‘It doesn’t matter.’ My smile is tightly dismissive. ‘Thanks for the drink.’
I reach for it but, before I can leave, his hand has snaked out, grabbing me around the waist, pulling me back between his legs abruptly.
‘Hold on a second.’
There’s a frown on his face, a look in his eyes I don’t comprehend.
‘Why?’ My heart rate has lifted a notch. I love men, but in a very limited use kind of way. I love their arms and their chins, that little divot I can dip my tongue into, right between the clavicles. I love strong legs and broad chests. I love men who are confident bordering on arrogant, because I am—with no apology—enough of a ball-buster in my work life that when it comes to sex I like a guy who knows what he wants—and how to give me exactly what I need.
Something about his strength as he pulls me towards him fills me with a rush of white-hot need. I swallow past a throat that is dry suddenly.
‘Because I asked you to. Sit down. Talk to me.’
Disappointment bursts inside me.
‘I just told you—’
‘You don’t do “talk”,’ he interrupts—another thing I’m not at all tolerant of in my business life but that, in this moment, with this man, I find strangely erotic. ‘But I do.’
I tilt my head to one side, wondering a little more than I’d like about this man now. Even from a distance I could perceive his natural air of authority but up close, like this, I feel it wrapping around me and I have the strangest impulse to surrender to it.
‘Will you make it worth my while?’
‘And how would I do that...?’
He lets the question hang in the air searchingly, and so I supply my name almost on autopilot. ‘Avery.’
‘Avery.’ Jesus. If I liked the taste of his name in my mouth then the sound of mine coated by his accent, on his lips, is like something out of an erotic fantasy. I close my eyes for a second, absorbing it, enjoying it, appreciating it as a connoisseur might a particularly fine wine.
‘How about this?’ There’s a barstool behind me. I reach around and pull it closer, and then closer still, so that when I do as he’s asked and sit down, my knees are brushing his inner thighs, our bodies as close as it’s possible to be. Around us, the club hums and buzzes and that very busyness gives us a degree of privacy, as though we are in our own little bubble.
I reach for his hand and place it on my thigh, beneath the fabric of my dress.
‘For every question I answer, you’ll move your hand an inch or so higher.’
His Adam’s apple throbs as he swallows.
‘Deal?’
There’s that duality again, like he wants this but he’s also fighting it—fighting me.
‘Deal.’
I relax, a smile curving my lips, lips that his eyes drop to and devour so heat spreads inside me, pooling between my legs.
‘What do you want to talk about then?’
‘What do you do, Avery?’
It’s a boring—yet safe—first question. ‘I’m CEO of my own company.’
‘Impressive. What kind of company?’
I move my gaze pointedly to my legs.
A small laugh, but less robust this time. Almost shaky. He pushes his hand along my leg and a pulse of adrenaline kicks at my side. I want to cheat, to wriggle closer, but I don’t. I know all about delayed gratification and that’s exactly what I’m experiencing. The buzz of anticipation is its own reward.
‘Ever heard of Moatsy?’