They sat close together at a high-top bar table. The conversation between him and Alex was stilted at first, the tension from their parking lot altercation lingering.
Why are you in town?
For business. Do you like working at the repair shop?
Yes.
But now that they were both well lubed, Alex’s cheeks were rosy and Spencer’s blood was thrumming in his veins and the assortment of greasy pub food they’d ordered sat between them mostly untouched.
Which should have been the first sign that his night was going to end up fucked.
And now, Spencer wasn’t hungry anymore. At least, not for food. All he could think about was Alex’s knee pressed against his under the table, the way her bare arm brushed the hair on his forearm. The way she leaned close, those red lips wet and tempting.
She reminded him a little of the women back home, the ones he grew up with. A little rough around the edges, where lately, he’d dated nothing but smooth.
Alex, though . . . well, he wasn’t sure she was like any woman he’d ever met, even the ones he knew in England all those years ago. She had this inner sexual confidence radiating from her, a promise that she’d be the best he’d had in a long time, if not ever.
He tried to remember why he was here, why it was important to keep his mind on his work, but it was bloody difficult with the alcohol coursing through him, fuzzing his head, and the heat of Alex’s body next to his.
“How long you in town?” Alex asked.
“I leave tomorrow. Been here several days.”
She tilted her head. “And then where’s home?”
“New York.”
Alex hummed under her breath. “Of course Posh is from the city. I bet you live in a penthouse with a pet tiger and a baby grand piano.”
Her assumptions were so hyperbolic that he knew she was taking the piss. “Leopard.”
“Excuse me?”
“My pet is a leopard. Leopold the leopard.”
She paused for a minute as what he said soaked through her own alcohol haze, then she threw back her head and laughed. “Gold leash?”
“Nothing less than twenty-four karat.”
“I don’t even have a fish. Well, I used to, but then my niece thought it needed a burger. I think it tried to eat it and choked and died. Sad day.”
The picture in the truck must have been her sister and niece then. He appreciated the bread crumbs that were helping him form the whole picture of his sprite.
“I’m sorry about your fish.” He could feel his London accent slipping a little with the alcohol, his Manchester roots showing as he drew out his vowels a bit more than usual. This always happened when he didn’t have the mental capacity to keep up the ruse of a more posh accent, which was why he tended not to drink and excused himself from company before he grew too tired. But he didn’t think Alex would notice—or care.
And maybe, the thin glass of Leslie Michael Spencer’s façade was starting to crack.
Alex drained the rest of her beer and met his gaze steadily. She hadn’t moved away when he said he was leaving tomorrow. If anything, she had drawn closer, as if the time limit was exactly what she wanted.
And really, why not? Why the fuck not, if they were both offering and they both knew the score?
No heavy feelings, no complications, just heavy breathing and fun.
Sitting in this bar with this intriguing woman, he wondered when the last time was he’d done anything he could classify as fun.
Chapter Two
SOMETHING WAS HAPPENING, and Alex wasn’t even sure what it was. But Posh had settled a bit, his accent changing slightly as the beer in his glass had been drained.
She couldn’t stop staring at his hands. Right now, one was resting casually on the scarred tabletop, tapping along with the classic rock from the old jukebox in the corner. His other hand was rubbing his full lower lip back and forth. Back and forth.
She wanted that finger to be hers. She wanted to feel those lips on the pad of her thumb, on her own lips.
The last time she’d been with a man was . . . well, not too incredibly long ago. Ever since him, she relegated herself to casual, one-time hookups. Because while she liked the intimacy, she preferred it stay purely physical. She’d entwined her life with another man’s to the point it’d nearly broken her. She wasn’t the Alex she’d been before, and she knew now that she never would be. But she was okay with who she was now.
And never again would she let a man change that.
But this . . . this was perfect. Spencer’s voice was deep, and he was drawing out his words now, almost to the point she didn’t understand what he was saying, but what did it matter? He was here for one more night.
She’d only ever been with men who were just like her—worked with their hands, wore jeans and boots to work. Rough around the edges. Posh wasn’t rough. He was smooth and slightly untouchable with his pressed suit and shiny shoes and silver watch that probably cost more than her truck.
But he was looking at her like he’d pawn his watch in a second to get into her pants. Well, he wasn’t going to have to pawn anything, because she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.
He paid for her dinner—even though she barely ate anything—as a thank-you, and she let him, watching those long tapered fingers flick a credit card out of his wallet and the efficient way he scribbled his name on the receipt. There were a couple of looped scratchings, then a big S followed by a squiggly line.
“What’s your name?” She craned her neck and squinted at his signature, which was more like a doodle.
He lifted his eyebrows at her. “Spencer.”
“Yeah, but you got some chicken scratches before that big S there.”
“I go by Spencer.”
“Is that a British thing to go by your last name? Because—”
“The initials are L. M. For my first and middle name.” He was slipping into Haughty Posh, but she wasn’t intimidated.
She cocked her head. “What does L. M. stand for?”
He hesitated. “Leslie Michael.”
She made a strangled sound in her throat, trying not to laugh. “Leslie.”
His scowl held no heat. “Leslie is a perfectly proper British name—”
“I picture a little redheaded girl with pigtails and freckles when I hear the name Leslie.”
He turned in his chair. “Are you quite done making fun of my name?”
“Why do you go by Spencer?” She was poking him like a sore tooth, but she wanted to know just a little bit about the man she planned to get on her knees for. If he let her.
His tongue snaked out to the corner of his mouth. “I’m not fond of Leslie.”
“Good call, Posh.” She drained her beer. “Let’s go with Spencer. Not sure I could let a dude named Leslie stick his hand up my shirt.” She stood up, ignoring his widened eyes. “Ready?”
He followed her outside, the clack of his expensive shoes a contrast to the clomp of her boots. She was hyperaware of his gaze on her back, like fingers down her spine. When they got to her truck, she reached out to open the door but the next second, a hand spun her around and a body pressed her up against the side of her truck.
She looked up, up into the face of one turned-on Brit. Her knees nearly buckled.
When they’d arrived at the bar, the sun was still setting, so she hadn’t thought to worry about where she parked. Now she realized she’d chosen a spot that the dim lights outside the bar didn’t reach. They were mostly in darkness, and she probably should have been afraid. Spencer was much taller than her, broader. His forearms were muscular, and she could see the roundness of his biceps under his shirt.
But for some reason, she wasn’t worried. The only part of him that touched her was his chest brushing along hers. She’d worn a push-up bra today, and she cursed the padding that was separating her from rubbing her hardened nipples against him.
His hand was braced on the side of the truck, the other hanging at his side in a loose fist. His entire body was tense as he stared down into her eyes.
Slowly, very slowly, he lifted the hand at his side and settled it on her hip. Her tank top had ridden up so a strip of skin was bared between it and the top of her jeans. He ran his thumb along that strip of skin, watching her face. She got the impression he was waiting for her to say stop, or keep going, and she appreciated that.
Although what did she expect from a man named Leslie Michael Spencer?
She curled her tongue around her top teeth and lifted her chin. “You too posh to take what you want?” she whispered.
He barked out a laugh. “I have to make the first move, do I?”
She swallowed. “I’m pretty sure my invitation to stick your hand up my shirt was the first move.” She was proud of her chest, always had been. Dawn girls were blessed in the boob department, that was for sure, despite their small statures.
His eyes dipped to her chest, then back up. “Hmm, I guess you’re right.”
“Your move, then, Posh.”
“This was my move. Not letting you get in the car, pressing my body to yours, showing you that I want you.” He emphasized that with a slight roll of his hips. “So, actually, it’s now your move, Sprite.”
There were a lot of things about a man’s body Alex liked. Hands were one. Legs and asses were others. She’d seen glimpses of the muscles in his thighs flexing in his pants, the perfect shape of his ass, so now she decided she needed to feel too. She reached down with both hands, running her fingers up the back of his thighs, then cupped his ass. She pressed his hips to her, and he exhaled roughly. “Your move now,” she whispered.