Page 2 of One More Night
“You okay?” she asks.
“He just looked right at me,” I whisper-yell. Hella intense.
The bitch breaks into peals of laughter. “Told you you’re broken.” Her face softens as she takes in my clear panic. “Oh, babe. It’s okay. We’ll get you fixed in no time.” She looks across the floor for a moment before pointing out a safer looking guy in a sensible gray button-down with dark jeans. “What about him? Start low and work your way up.”
I crinkle my nose at the college boy. Sarah tips her head to the side while she joins me in watching him make an ass of himself on the dance floor.
“I don’t think he’s my type,” I shout loud enough for her to hear over the bass that’s dropped.
“What would be your type?” Goosebumps skitter across my flesh in the wake of his words.
I daren’t move; his head is right there over my left shoulder. Sarah takes a step back; eyes wide as I slowly pull my head to the right and twist my neck to look at him.
My booth-candy lifts one dark eyebrow, face inches from mine. “Well?”
I let go of the breath I didn’t realize I’d held. He moves away, only to wedge himself between the bar and me. If I thought the man was potent from across the room, I had no idea what I’d be in for when he’s within reach. My entire body sparks to life, and to my utter horror my panties become noticeably damp when his leg brushes mine.
It seems my body has a mind of its own when he’s involved.
Then again, five months of orgasms by your own hand will do that to a woman.
Sarah’s right; I’m totally broken.
“You startled the hell out of me,” I mutter.
“You still haven’t answered my question.” He rests both elbows on the glossy surface behind him and showcases his wide, muscular chest. The black dress shirt holds on by the grace of four tiny buttons, the strain unbelievable.
“It’s complex,” I bluff, reaching around him to set my empty cocktail glass down. “I can’t explain my type in a few words.”
Dark eyes trace my every move as I step back, painfully aware I now have nothing to do with my hands. Damn it.
He glances at Sarah, and then back at me, before jerking his chin toward the booth where his friends wait. “If you have the time, I’d love to hear you break it down for me.” He looks to Sarah again. “We could use the company.”
I eyeball her, pleading silently for her to go along with this. The way my heart races, I don’t think I could cope with going alone.
“Sure,” she says with a twitch of her brow. “Why not?”
“Excellent.” Our host slides away from the bar and promptly wraps one hand around my upper arm. “Come on, then.”
I should probably pull away, demand he lets me go and treats me with some semblance of respect, but oh my God, his freaking hand is on my arm. I squeal on the inside and mentally jump up and down while on the outside I remain cool, calm, and collected as I follow across the floor to his table.
“Cyrus,” he says, pointing to the biker guy, “and Perry.” His hand shifts to the assumed Irish mafia before he sets it on my lower back and pushes me toward the seat. “They won’t bite … much.”
The men chuckle, their dark laughter washing over me like a warning. And yet I stay.
Perry presses himself against the wall, leaving the smallest amount of room for me to squeeze past him and into the middle of the booth seat. He sets a hand on my ass as I wriggle past, seemingly guiding me, although I wasn’t raised a fool.
“Enjoy yourself?” I sass as I take my seat where Mr. Mysterious previously sat.
He lifts a pierced eyebrow and smiles. “Aye.”
Sarah catches one whiff of his accent and damn near flings herself at his side. It seems she’s not all that worried about possible connections.
Cyrus slides out of his seat to let my dark, and most definitely dangerous, host take his spot beside me. “Jordan.”
“Thank you.” Jordan tips his head to the older man as he takes his place.
“I’ll catch up with you Tuesday, yeah?” Cyrus retrieves his keys from a chain on his belt loop.