I still don’t understand how I let myself get dragged here tonight.
Actually, that’s a lie. I know exactly how.
My friend deployed the ultimate weapon:
“But it’s my birthday, and we never do anything together!”
Half an hour later, the whole group hurled themselves onto the dance floor as if their lives depended on it, while I clung to the bar with the dignity of a shipwreck survivor holding on to her last piece of driftwood.
Every now and then, one of them emerges from the crowd and tries to drag me away from my rock. Each time, I raise my glass and claim I want to finish it before joining them.
A brilliant strategy.
Except that if I keep knocking back cocktails on an empty stomach, they’ll soon have to scrape me off the floor.
Speaking of empty, I’ve been trying to catch the bartender’s attention for a solid five minutes. My excuse won’t hold much longer if one of my friends comes charging over, screaming, “Come on, this is my song!”
I am literally one Britney Spears track away from being forced to dance. It would therefore be wonderful if the man could bring himself to glance in my direction.
But he seems far too busy laughing with a dark-haired guy leaning against the bar.
I straighten on my stool and wave. Nothing. I lean farther over the counter, nearly topple forward, and grab the edge of the bar with all the grace of a newborn fawn.
Unfortunately, that works.
The bartender and the stranger turn toward me at the exact same time.
Mortified, I immediately recover the most dignified posture I can manage and pretend I was merely trying to order another drink. The stranger keeps laughing, pointing at something on the other side of the dance floor.
Then he turns slightly.
Oh, fuck.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so indecently beautiful.
I stare a few seconds too long. The sharp line of his jaw. His insolent mouth. His dark hair catching flashes of blue beneath the club lights.
When he finally meets my gaze, his eyes steal the air from my lungs.
Blue. Deep. Almost too gentle for his face.
I immediately look down, my cheeks burning, suddenly fascinated by whatever might be lurking at the bottom of my glass.
When I dare to glance up again, I jump.
The stranger is standing in front of me.
He watches me with quiet amusement, as though he knows exactly how long I’ve been staring. He signals to the bartender—they are definitely friends—and two fresh drinks appear before us, accompanied by a knowing smile.
Without attempting to speak, which would be pointless in this noise, the stranger raises his glass to me.
His smile could sell toothpaste.
Of course he has dimples.
Fuck’s sake.
Given how attractive I find him, he must be a walking red flag. The kind of man who owns several guitars, says he doesn’t believe in labels, and disappears for three weeks because he “needed time to reconnect with himself.”
And yet his eyes look so kind.
We drink together. One glass, then another. Slowly, I begin to relax.
He moves closer.
At one point, he leans toward my ear to tell me something, but I don’t hear a word. Even if the music weren’t deafening, I doubt I would have understood him anyway.
His scent has emptied my head.
He smells of warm gingerbread and melted caramel.
A rich, sugary fragrance, impossibly comforting. The kind of smell that makes you want to close your eyes and lean closer, even as every instinct you possess whispers that this is precisely what you shouldn’t do.
My pupils must be terribly dilated, because he studies me with a tenderness that almost resembles concern.
His fingers brush a strand of hair away from my cheek.
Then he leans in slowly.
His lips find mine.
My head spins. There is the warmth of his mouth, the taste of mojito on his tongue, and that scent of caramel wrapping itself around me. I slide my arms behind his neck and pull him closer without breaking the kiss.
His hands move over my neck, travel down my back, and settle in the hollow above my hips.
After several long minutes that still feel far too short, he finally pulls away and takes my hand.
He leads me toward an exit.
I search the dance floor for my friends. It has become a writhing mass of bodies and lights, a single creature undulating to the bass. I can’t make out a familiar face anywhere.
He gently squeezes my fingers to get my attention.
You okay? he mouths.
The dimples return.
They’ll be the death of me.
I nod and follow him behind the bar, then through another door that opens onto a narrow dead-end alley.
This is a terrible idea.
I don’t even know his name. I don’t know whether anyone saw us leave together. I wonder if anyone inside would hear me scream over the music.
I should be afraid.
But the cocktails and that damned gingerbread scent have turned my thoughts soft and hazy. My unease drifts away from me like a leaf carried downstream.
He gently presses me against a wall, hidden behind stacks of crates.
What if someone comes?
He kisses me before I can finish the thought.
His tongue is warm. Sweet. It tastes of almonds now.
What if there are cameras?
His hands slide down my hips. They slowly lift my skirt and meet the bare skin of my thighs.
The stroke of his fingers.
His lips against my neck.
The heat of his body.
The intoxicating scent of gingerbread and caramel.
My senses devour what little reason I have left.
I take his face between my hands and crush my mouth against his with an impatient moan.
Then I bite his tongue.
The sweetness is immediately laced with the delicious taste of metal.
He tries to scream.
I swallow the sound greedily.
His nails dig into my thighs. The pain sends a thrill of pleasure racing up my spine.
I smile against his mouth.
Finally.
I gently pull his head back and sink my teeth into his throat.
His skin gives way with exquisite ease.
A broken groan escapes him as hot blood sprays across my face. It runs down my neck, trickles over my chest, and disappears between my breasts.
We sink to the ground in an almost tender embrace.
He tries to breathe, but every gasp breaks into a wet gurgle. Blood slowly fills his lungs. His fingers still reach for me, trying to hold on, before gradually losing their strength.
I stroke his cheek.
His blue eyes stare into mine with heartbreaking incomprehension.
I kiss him one last time, knowing this was only ever going to be a one-night affair. A craving deliciously satisfied. The kind of encounter that leaves you with nothing but a memory.
I rise and straighten my skirt before leaving the dark alley without looking back.
His gaze, however, comes with me.
That endless blue.
So soft.
A gentle press of my tongue against the roof of my mouth produces a tiny pop.
The membrane bursts.
A warm, gelatinous substance floods my mouth.
I was right.
He really did have the most tender eyes.