Page 12 of Praised
“I don’t do casual encounters.”
“I do,” he said. “But I don’t think I could with you.”
“Also not as strong of an opening as you meant that to be, I don’t think.”
“You know what?” Flynn let go of my hand and I hated it. “I don’t even know what I’m doing with you.”
I scoffed, the sound catching in the back of my throat. I wanted to argue with him because when he had my back against the wall and one of those huge hands of his groping my ass, I was fairly certain he knew exactly what to do with me.
“Thank you for letting me prove my friend wrong,” he said, dipping his chin toward his chest. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“This feels like a consolation prize.”
“I assure you, it’s better than the other option.” Flynn sidestepped away from the table and held his arm out toward the bar. I shrugged and tried not to show any kind of physical response when he settled his hand against the small of my back to guide me toward the other side of the room.
I was still a little sweaty from the club and a lot flustered from the kiss, and while his constant back and forth was giving me whiplash, it also gave me the impression I wasn’t the only one under some sort of aroused and confusing duress.
“You don’t have to buy me a drink,” I said.
“You didn’t have to kiss me.”
We reached the bar and I rolled my eyes, flattening my hands against the sticky bar top so I didn’t do something stupid like grab him by the lapels and go for another round. Not that he was wearing a jacket—he wasn’t. It was that damn dress shirt, all crisp and clean without being starchy and the ridiculous veins in his forearm that peeked out from beneath the rolled cuffs that got me going. Hands on the bar so I didn’t do something stupid like grab him by the shirt sleeves and go another round.
“I enjoyed it,” he whispered in my ear, one arm coming around me so his hand could land just beside mine. He boxed me in and I should have hated it, but it only served to stir the arousal we’d both been fighting since the kiss broke.
“So did I.”
“But we can’t do it again.” As those words left his mouth, the bartender appeared and Flynn ordered a whiskey for himself and a margarita for me.
“How did you know what I was drinking?” I turned around so my back was against the bar. I wanted to see his face, which was a bad idea because it brought half our chests together, his thigh pressing right in all of the most sensitive spots between my own legs.
“I could taste it on you when we kissed. Salt and tequila.”
“And you’re a whiskey drinker?” I asked.
“Scotch, but whiskey will do.”
“Do you have any idea how bougie you sound?” The question came out weak, like a deflating balloon.
“Absolutely.”
Our drinks appeared on the bar and I swiveled away from him, grateful for the reprieve from his intense stare. Flynn had eyes that reminded me of caramel chocolate and they made me want to do all sorts of things that I’d regret in the morning.
“Well,” I said weakly, sliding my drink into his until the glasses clinked. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Thanks for the kiss.”
He didn’t move and neither did I, though it would have been much easier for him to be the one to dislodge our bodies. I would’ve had to squat down and slide out from underneath his arm, which felt almost comical, when all he would have to do is lift his arm and step out of the way.
“Are you going to go?” I asked, raising my drink to my lips.
His breath burned hot against the top of my head with every exhale.
“That feels reasonable.”
“But?”
“I’mnot feeling reasonable,” he said.
