Lead Me On. Lauren Hawkeye

      There are eight thousand nerve endings in a clitoris. Though I don’t know the exact figure, I’ll bet there are another few thousand in each nipple. Throw in another heap on the lips, the curve of the neck and the inner thigh, and that’s a whole lot of potential for pleasure.

      The man pinning me to the vinyl bar that was sticky with spilled drinks was wasting it all.

      “You’re so hot.” His breath smelled of the halibut and green beans that had been served at the wedding reception hours earlier. The stench was overlaid with the fumes of five or so rum drinks and a couple of beers to boot, and though he clearly disagreed, it was not going to tickle my nostrils and make me swoon with delight.

      I grimaced as a wandering hand fumbled its way a bit lower on my waist than I appreciated. I prided myself on being an independent woman, on being able to fend for myself, but this guy, whom I’d made the mistake of smiling at earlier, was not budging.

      That alone spoke volumes about how much booze he’d consumed. I wasn’t what anyone with any kind of imagination would call hot. Nor did I think that my prim navy blue suit, out of style by about five years, was sending the wrong message.

      Nope, this guy was just ten sheets to the wind. And lucky me, looked like I’d been voted the one who got to run around like a chicken with my head cut off gathering those sheets and making sure the drunk didn’t drown in his own vomit in a gutter somewhere. And just when I’d thought that the uncomfortable part of the evening was over.

      I’d been more than a little surprised when I’d received an invitation to Suzanne and Nick’s wedding. Though Suze and I had once been quite close, during our tumultuous, hormone-filled high school and university years, we hadn’t spoken much since.

      I was equally surprised by the fact that I’d accepted. I’ve never been much of one for crowds, or parties, or anything that required dressing up, actually. I didn’t really drink, and I wasn’t a good dancer.

      But I’d said yes. Or at least, my hand had, as it had checked off the appropriate box and sent the RSVP card back on its merry way.

      And so here I was. Yep, here I was, feeling frumpy and out of my element, and cursing the fact that I’d agreed to attend this wedding at all—let alone allowed myself to get dragged along to some after party at a sleazy strip bar.

      As Mr. Tall, Dark and Smelly leaned in for a cringe-inducing tongue bath, I was reminded all too clearly of why I didn’t enjoy crowds, parties, alcohol, or even most people.

      Wedging my knee in between Monsieur Inappropriate’s, I prepared to give him a shot to the nuts if he didn’t back off.

      He took the movement the wrong way entirely, and I grimaced as I prepared myself for one hundred eighty pounds of outraged male with a wounded ego. The outrage would be easy enough to handle…the damaged male pride, not so much.

      “There you are, babe.” I blinked and let my knee drop, a bit. That voice, like wildflower honey on a warm day, was nothing like the beery slurs of the man who held me pressed tightly against the bar. I blinked again, rewetting the contact lenses that I hardly ever wore—and regretting having done so today—and a face to match the voice blurred, sharpened and came into focus.

      Holy cow. And what a face. Surprisingly tawny skin under titian hair and wide-set eyes that, though a dark ash in color, were anything but drab. I couldn’t see the entirety of the body because the drunk imbecile’s meaty shoulder was in the way, but what I could see was toned and tasty looking.

      I suspected the rest would be the same.

      Shoving, I pressed against the shoulder that I couldn’t see over. “Move it.”

      He either didn’t hear or misunderstood. “You like it rough, baby? Mmm, me too.” That slimy, protruding tongue approached again. He hadn’t even noticed the redheaded dream standing behind him, looking annoyed. Hell, maybe I’d dreamed him up myself. I couldn’t think of many other reasons that a man that good-looking would be talking to me.

      Red tapped a long finger on buddy’s shoulder, that deep slate meeting the paler, plainer blue-gray of my own eyes as he did so. As my knees wobbled a little and my hormones sat up and began to make their presence known, the drunkie blearily turned around halfway.

      “Don’t be a cock block, man. Go find your own babe.” I snorted outwardly. Babe? He must have been drunk if he thought that I fit into that category. Not that I would break any mirrors, mind you, but I was well aware of my limitations. My eyes were pale, as was my skin, and my strawberry hair was too curly and had a tendency to frizz. I was short and had limbs to match. I tended to purchase clothes that were plain and dark, and had no clue how to go about dressing up for any sort of occasion.

      In fact, beer guy was probably right about in my league. As soon as that thought hit my brain, I shuddered and decided that I’d rather be single.

      I’d hold out for daydreams of Red here. Red, who was tapping on the dude’s shoulder again, this time with a hint of barely restrained violence and fury on his face—emotions that should have scared me, not made the area between my legs grow damp.

      My inebriated friend turned again, tripping over his own large feet as he did so. This left me enough room to squeeze my not-so-slight figure out of the tiny space in which it had been wedged, and to move a few steps aside to watch the proceedings.

      Except there weren’t any. I had to stifle a grin as Red slowly blinked away the violence and made a show of bafflement, shaking his head and clapping the other man on the shoulder. “So sorry, man. My mistake.” Then with a wink in my direction, he moved away, leaving the drunkard to return to empty space instead of me.

      He was so drunk that he turned around in a circle three times, chasing his own tail, trying to figure out where his “babe” had gone.

      Standing on the tips of toes that were aching even though they’d been enclosed all evening in sensible, low-heeled navy pumps, I raked a hand through my tangled yellow-red hair, searching for my saviour.

      He’d disappeared, and I couldn’t blame him. I was no big prize. Still, I’d have liked to thank him for saving me from the inevitable spit polish I’d had coming.

      I

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