chemistry can’t be faked—and right now the chemistry bubbling between us is practically giving me an orgasm on the spot.
And don’t I want that?
Don’t I deserve that?
There’s been no one since Jeremy and I ache for what I think Ethan Ash could do to me. But then what? Am I really ready? How do you know when you are?
I shake my head slowly, not quite meeting his eyes. ‘I think that would be a bad idea.’ The words are thick, as though my mouth is coated in honey.
‘Go on. Live dangerously.’
His wink is the last word in delicious desire.
‘Are you dangerous?’ I ask.
‘I think I could be around you.’
There are cars zipping past and people moving quickly around us, and yet it is just him and me, and the air around us seems to throb with awareness and the heaviness of need.
A shiver runs down my spine, but it’s not a shiver of darkness or danger so much as one of anticipation. Oh, God. I’m done for.
‘Isn’t that a good reason to stay away?’ I say. My brain makes a valiant last-ditch effort to keep my decision in place.
‘Depends.’
He moves infinitesimally closer and I breathe in deeply, tasting his masculine fragrance and letting it roll through my blood.
‘On what?’
And then he does it again. Just the lightest touch on the back of my hand, but for longer this time, so that I have time to register the contact and enjoy the sensation of desire that resonates through my body.
‘On whether you like to live dangerously.’
‘Not generally,’ I respond quickly, my lips flicking with a tight smile.
‘That surprises me.’
‘Why? You don’t know anything about me.’
He drops his hand away. The absence of touch leaves me feeling bereft.
‘Don’t I?’
‘How could you? We just met.’
‘Mmm...’
God, just that single throaty sound of acknowledgement sends a riot tumbling through my veins.
‘I know you have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen.’
I’ve heard that line before. Why do men feel the need to compliment hair? Mine is striking more than beautiful, but I’ve long ago given up feeling self-conscious about the thick rust-coloured mane that was the bane of my middle school existence, when my white skin, freckled nose and fire-engine-red hair led to almost daily teasing.
Yes, I’ve heard the line before, but it’s never made my stomach flip like this. I’ve never believed the line.
Thanks to the pioneering efforts of Christina Hendricks, right around the time I was hitting college, I made a kind of peace with my peaches and cream complexion, voluptuous figure and rusty hair, but I still never bought the pick-up lines. The guys who told me they loved my curves and dimples.
How easy it is to ignore flattery! But there’s something in his eyes, his face and his voice that renders me incapable of being dismissive now.
‘I know that your eyes show me everything you’re feeling and that your skin is like salt-water pearls.’
My laugh is a hoarse sound in the swirling atmosphere of need. ‘That’s all very cheesy.’
It’s not. It’s really not. Maybe it’s the fact he writes and sings some of the most famous love songs of all time, but he can totally pull this off. This guy, and this guy alone, can make those lines sound like they’re being spoken for the first time ever.
His laugh answers mine, and I’m smiling even as I want to acquiesce to his flirtation and do as he bids—live dangerously.
‘Even if it’s true?’
My breath catches in my throat and I look away—straight into the curious eyes of a woman a few feet away. She’s studying us and her cell phone is in her hand.
Strange how quickly I have forgotten that Ethan Ash is a celebrity. Heat spreads through my cheeks and he follows my gaze, quickly assessing the reason for it. Now he touches me with more urgency, placing a hand in the small of my back and leading me further down the street.
‘So?’
‘So what?’
I toss a look over my shoulder. The woman is still there, cell phone still in hand. Busybody! I guess this is par for the course for him, but I can’t imagine that. Being watched and observed all the time. Having people think they have a right to pry into your life, crack the lid off it whenever it suits them. No thanks.
‘Want to take a walk on the wild side?’
‘I...’ My footing stumbles a little as my eyes skid to his and all sense of gravity and order tips off balance. ‘I’m not sure.’
I look away.
‘How about we start with your name and you can make your mind up over a quiet drink?’
‘I...’
I’m struck dumb. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me in my whole life. Acknowledging that brings a smile to my face.
‘I think I’d like that.’
His smile shines bright light and heat into every microscopic corner of my world.
‘Then let’s get going.’
WE’RE SHEPHERDED INTO the obviously incredibly exclusive bar with a degree of fanfare that might make even the Queen of England envious. At the bar around the corner from our flat, with its neon lights and pumping songs, it was easy to miss the degree of Ethan Ash’s celebrity. Not to ignore the fact that he’s unique and different and special, but that these are qualities he has independent of his fame.
Here the deference is marked and reverent, his celebrity obvious and noteworthy. He is treated like the Second Coming, and some of that glory deflects nicely on to me, as his obvious companion.
And it is obvious. He kept his hand in the small of my back the whole way here, and he stays close by me as we weave our way through the establishment. I like him being close.
Close enough that I can smell his fragrance and enjoy his warmth.
Close enough that I can slip into the fantasy of what it would be like—will be like?—to touch his body all over.
