Page 4 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
"Sounds like freedom," I correct.
He doesn't argue, but something in the set of his shoulders suggests he doesn't agree.
Colum's toast reaches a crescendo, something about quarterly earnings and the power of friendship, and the remaining crowd erupts into applause. Ridge raises his glass in a half-hearted salute.
"I should probably go," I say, even though I don't move.
"Probably," Ridge agrees. Also not moving.
The string lights flicker. Someone cranks the jukebox. The night smells like summer and gasoline and the sharp green notes of cut grass from the field beyond the parking lot.
"Can I ask you something?" Ridge's voice drops lower, and I have to lean in to hear him.
"Sure."
"Why'd you come tonight? If you're not staying, if you barely know Colum, why show up?"
I think about my answer. About cereal dinners and plastic bins and the way my hands always smell faintly of vanilla and mica powder.
"Free poppers," I say lightly.
He smiles again. Doesn't believe me for a second.
"Fair enough."
The music shifts again, something slower now with a bassline that thrums through the soles of my boots. The patio's nearly empty, just Colum still holding court with a few stragglers, and Ridge and me, still perched on our barstools like we're waiting for something.
We are waiting for something.
The realization hits me like a shot. My skin feels too tight, my lips buzzing from the lime and the way Ridge's thigh keepsbrushing mine every time he shifts on his stool. He's close enough that I can see the faint green undertones in his olive skin, the way his tattoos catch the string lights when he moves.
I want to trace them with my tongue.
Oh, hell.
I finish my drink in one long pull, the ice clinking against my teeth. Ridge watches me, his expression unreadable behind those damn sunglasses, but his body language is all heat and tension.
"Dance with me," I say, because if I don't do something with this energy, I'm going to combust.
He blinks. "What?"
I grab his hand and tug him toward the small patch of open space near the jukebox. "Dance. Now. Before I change my mind."
For a second, I think he'll resist. Then he follows, his fingers warm around mine, his body moving with surprising grace for someone so broad.
The song's a slow, bluesy number with a lot of slide guitar and a beat that's more suggestion than structure. Perfect. I step into Ridge's space, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. His hands settle on my hips, tentative at first, then firmer as I sway against him.
"You're good at this," I murmur.
"Beginner's luck." His voice is rough, and I can feel the vibration of it through his chest where it presses against mine.
I laugh, low and breathy. "Liar."
His hands flex on my hips, pulling me closer. The leather of his jacket creaks. "Guilty."
We move together, slow and deliberate, our bodies finding a rhythm that's all heat and friction. His thighs part mine with every step, and I can feel the hard ridge of him through his jeans, through the thin fabric of my dress. My breath catches.
Oh, God.
