There's a moment of strained silence as Royal blinks stupidly back at me and lets his mouth fall open with shock. It's a strange look to see on a face as confident and handsome as his. I doubt this man's at all used to being shocked by anything.
“Fucking hell,” he murmurs, running his tattooed fingers over his strong jaw. “Pint-Size, is that you?”
I furrow my brows and cross my arms over my chest. I don't think the action is quite as effective as I'd meant it to be. I'm trying to look imposing here, but all I think I've really done is draw Royal's eyes down to the pale swell of my breasts. Crap.
“I have a name, you know?” I say, feeling my cheeks heat and my body quiver beneath that powerful gaze. My God. If the man hadn't just insulted me, there's a good chance that I'd be leaping into his arms right now. How scary is that? “Lyric—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Rentz, I know. I remember you. We only just met this afternoon.” I roll my eyes as Royal flashes me a sultry grin, his teeth white against the dark stubble on his face. “The mayor's daughter. You'd think you'd be here if I hadn't invited you?” His accent is warming up all sorts of places better left cold. Getting involved with this guy—even for a second—would be a very, very bad idea. “I'd been expecting that ugly gray suit jacket of yours. Good God, babe, I didn't even recognize you.”
“Doesn't make what you said any less offensive,” I insert, but I can already see that Royal's moved on. He's circling me like a … well, I hate to make this pun, but like a wolf. I feel like he's studying me with those predator's eyes of his.
I turn with him, refusing to give him an uninterrupted shot of my ass.
“I thought you were a leather lover,” he says, his voice long and drawn out, like he's too caught up in staring at me to think straight. I try to brush the thought away, but it sticks to my mind like a cobweb. Royal … likes what he sees?
“A leather lover?” I ask, blinking back at him as he pauses in front of me. I can smell leather and some sort of rich, deep scent, like wet earth and leaves. I wonder if it's cologne? Aftershave? “What's a leather lover?”
Royal takes a step closer to me, and I fight the urge to step back. I won't let him intimidate me.
“A leather lover,” he begins, reaching over and brushing some of the loose brunette strands of my hair over one ear. I shiver at the touch. “Is what I call the club groupies, the girls who hang around the clubhouse.”
“Groupies?” I ask, my voice sounding strangled and way too naïve. Again, I'm not stupid, but really? “Rock stars have groupies,” I correct, lifting my arms up in an attempt to cover my breasts. Doesn't work. This stupid red dress is too low cut, too stretchy, too tight. I should never have raided my sister's closet. “Not bikers.” I can't help it, but that word slips out with a hint of distaste. Oops.
Royal narrows those dark brown eyes of his, towering over me as his mouth twists down in a slight frown. The expression only lasts for a second, but it freaks me out. This guy … he's got a ruthless streak that I'd like to avoid meeting, thank you very much.
“Hey,” he says, perking up considerably, like it's no effort at all; I can tell it's a technique he's been practicing for years. “To some people, we are rock stars.” Royal smiles at me again. “Don't you watch Sons of Anarchy?”
A slight twitch of my mouth is answer enough.
“Not a fan?” he asks, voice dropping as his gaze catches on my lips, on the bright streak of red that matches my dress. I'm not used to dressing up like this. My usual evening wear consists of a knee-length black dress with cap sleeves, a simple diamond pendant, and some eyeshadow. This is way outside of my comfort zone.
“Not really,” I respond, my breathing deepening as my eyes flick between Royal's mouth and the mischievous little twinkle in his gaze. “Why? Is it an accurate representation of the life?”
Royal laughs again, weaving his fingers together behind his neck and tilting his head at me. I try not to look at his face, thinking that'll help me stay sane around this walking, talking slice of sex, but all it does is put me at eye level with the taut, hard muscles in his chest and abdomen. The tight black fabric of his T-shirt stretches across what's got to be an eight pack. I didn't even know those were real.
“Do you like what you see?” he asks me as I take a quick step back and force my attention back to his face.
“I, uh.” I can't find the words to answer, instead reaching up to catch a stray strand of hair that the wind's tugged free. My non-answer is answer enough.
“Well, I can tell you with complete and utter honesty that I really like what I see. You cut a nice figure, Pint-Size.”