“For starters, they are the owners of this establishment. Friends of mine. Rich ones at that. There’s not a night that goes by that they're not pushing women off ’em.”
“Really?” Worry for my friend crawls over me, but from the looks of it, the only thing I should be worrying about is how warm my admirer feels sitting so close. I can practically feel the power radiating off him.
“To know that I guess that means you come here often?” I’m surprised by how casual my voice sounds. Usually, this is about the time I pretend to answer my phone and find the nearest exit. Yet I can't seem to pull myself away from this stranger.
Despite sounding calm and relaxed, shivers climb the length of my spine. And a rush of adrenaline refuels my out-of-control heart pounding its way out of my chest.
I hold his gaze. Maybe it’s his arresting eyes holding me captive. Or the way the dark stranger’s warm, protective hand brushes over my smaller one that has me spellbound.
“I like visiting friends. They are good men in their own way. Something I think yours has picked up on.”
I glance over to see that sure enough, Laila is already sandwiched between three men who appear smitten with her.
“Do you–” my words are cut off when a new crowd of boys my age elbow their way to the bar and I’m forced to move my stool before I catch a blow to my spine. Jerks. But really, the interruptions only save me from my boring chit-chat because really, I could not sound any more boring than a goldfish in a bowl.
Strong hands grip my arms and I’m effortlessly moved onto the stool my stranger occupied while he moves to mine. Only now, we are exceptionally closer. Like I can see the gold flecks in his eyes and smell the sweet scent of tequila on his breath kind of close. And fuck it turns me on big time.
“You were sayin’ baby?” Warm, callused fingers glide across the small patch of skin between the top of my skirt and halter top. Powerful. In control. Almost like he wants me to feel the emanating power of his arousing touch.
His dark eyes stare into mine and I shudder from the tingles of electricity. The move is so smooth, so gentle it’s more of a faint caress than a firm touch.
And it electrifies my insides. I’ve been touched by a man before, but not like this. A whisper of skin on skin has never left me breathless before.
I shake my head. Booming shouts and laughter war with the loud music and it’s impossible to carry on a conversation.
“Reaper, yo man. You got a call. I’ll forward to the upstairs apartment, bro. ‘k?” A man in his late forties waves his arms in our direction and signals toward some doors I didn’t notice before now.
“Reaper? Is that your first or last name?” I tease, leaning in at the same time he does.
Big mistake. Both of us moving closer causes my breasts to brush up against his hard pecs and the sparks are freaking lethal to my nipples. They pucker up into hard tips and there is no way he misses the effect they have on the thick material of my halter top. I can practically chisel a block of ice for all these drinks with how hard they are.
Color me fifty shades of embarrassed.
“Ay Dios,”I groan under my breath.
His hungry, intense gaze roams over my deep cleavage but in a way that makes me feel sexy and desired. Maybe it’s the tequila talking but I did not miss the protective way he shielded me with his body or the gentle caress of his hand over my lower back. As if he needs to feel the connection as much as I do at this moment.
“The name Reaper is nothing more than an unwanted moniker I was saddled with back home. It was a long time ago. My real name is Liam. Liam Black.” His voice is low, smooth and drifts a little toward the end as if his words are weighed by memories. Using his thumb, he twirls the single ring on his right hand giving me the idea his words and that ring are somehow connected.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, though it’s none of my business. Before I do though, he takes my hand in his and steadies me as I slide off the stool. A fast-paced salsa blends into a sultry rumba from the club's live band.
Liam presses his mouth close to my ear. Standing like this his body heat molds to mine. I inhale and Jesus help me. His masculine scent nearly has me begging him to do his worst to me in bed.
And then he speaks and, hand to God, I cream all over the small slip of cloth between my legs. His voice is low, controlled, and dripping with lust. My five hundred and thirty-two-day dry spell is coming to an end and tonight is going to be the kind of night memories are made of.
“Bailar conmigo?”
* * *