Velvet Kisses(4)
He steps in closer, a dark smile twitching on his lips.
God, what am I thinking!
“Look, I’d better go.” I twist my way around Izzy and spot her stopping him just a few feet away, making small talk.
Brilliant! I’ll have to kiss her pretty pink dance shoes for stalling while I make a clean getaway. Next time I see him at the Black Bear, I’ll be sure to take a covert picture to post on all the school’s social media sites (anonymously, of course). Exposing him as the undercover P.I. he is. Everyone knows a man in a suit is litigious in nature. It’s just the way of our society. And I’m sure he’d like to fuck me sideways for legally “defaming him” once I out him as a narc.
An entire litany of inappropriate thoughts runs through my mind. That last scenario has a bit of a dangerous yet painful appeal. And I’m guessing I wouldn’t mind a little pain coming from him in that department.
I thread my way through the crowd, inadvertently rubbing my body along errant arms and chests, the occasional pillowy boobs, and rock hard abs. Lord knows I’ve just had enough action for the entire weekend. The Black Bear is a seaman-like cesspool of people desperate to get laid. I should wear a body length prophylactic the next time I come in just to avoid any contact venereal diseases I might be exposed to.
“Excuse me.” A deep voice, dark and lush as midnight, whispers in my ear from behind. Even with my high rise FMs on, he’s taller than me by a foot. His heated breath falls over my shoulder like a furnace. I don’t need to turn around to confirm that it’s the hottest narc on the planet. And me without a single illegal pill-popping remedy. “Can I buy you a drink?”
I give a short-lived smile before pausing just shy of the entry and swiveling around.
The sight of him in this close proximity is like a swift punch to the gut. He’s good looking and by good looking I’m talking drop to your knees and beg him to shackle you for his enjoyment type of good looking. He’s dressed to kill, with eyes that look as if they want to punish you just for fun. He’s death-threat sexy. No wait, that sounds horribly violent. He’s more of holy-hell-isn’t-it-illegal-to-be-so-damn-good-looking sexy. He must know he’s abnormally attractive. Judging by the hint of a lewd grin that says I know I can have you—I’m most certainly right.
If he is a cop—if he does have handcuffs, I’d gladly let him put them to use.
Those velvet cuffs I bought hoping to use with Will come to mind, and I immediately push them right back out. I let out a dull laugh at the thought of Will. Will who looks like a toothless, disheveled frat boy in comparison with this man whose chest is broad and heavy as a battleship, emitting the warmth of a steam engine as I move in slightly closer.
His lime green eyes sear over mine, and my stomach turns into a fireball that races up my throat, leaving my thighs throbbing for attention. His body, so thick and muscular under that dark navy suit, moves inches from mine causing my mouth to water, my knees to go slack as I try to maintain my composure. His gray and navy striped tie looks sleek and expensive, and it’s all I can do not to run my fingers over it.
“A drink?” I suppose this is where he catches the bartender in an illegal underage transaction, rendering both the Black Bear and my vagina useless for the night. “No thanks.” I flat line. “I’m not thirsty.” I try to force myself to move one foot in front of the other, but my feet are stuck in slow motion because my eyes can’t seem to pull away from his.
“How about a bite? My treat.” He holds up his hand like a Boy Scout, and something about this gesture endears me to him. “At my place.”
And there’s that. He’s gone from Boy Scout to serial killer in a single bound. He’s obviously trying to lure me to his lair so he can hack off my limbs and fry them up in a pan. I just might be the meal in question. But something in his bedroom eyes says no. Or perhaps I am the meal in question but not in the frying pan sense—in the mattress sense—which happens to be just what I’m looking for. Then it hits me.
“Oh, my, God!” I whisper a little too loud. This is it! I cast my net and caught myself a one-night stand. “Wait—are you a cop?” I heard once on TV that if you ask them point blank they’re legally obligated to disclose their true identity, or any arrests they make are totally bogus. At least that’s my weak cable-based defense in the event he decides to book me for little late night harlotry. To my knowledge the only thing that defines prostitution is the passing of a few bucks, and I’m innocent enough to take a ten-dollar bill from him thinking he wants me to pick up a Big Gulp from the Circle K. Of course, that would lead to my infamous hooker nickname, Big Gulp. At least it shows promise, if not productivity.