Dios mío, even as my gut twists and my dick strains against my pants, I try not to brood.
Don’t fucking do it.
No.
Do it.
Now’s your time, Logan.
Don’t.
Dios mío, I need another drink.
I take a step forward, ready to close the distance, to do something—anything—but I’m jostled by a small group of women, their laughter breaking my focus.
By the time I steady myself, Mac is already reaching for her drink, oblivious to the storm raging inside me.
I exhale slowly, forcing it down.
Forcing myself to remember that tonight, at least, she’s still here.
Still with me.
Two more nights.
That’s all I get.
That’s all I deserve.
The bass thrums through the floor, through my bones—through her.
The air is thick, charged, filled with bodies moving to the music, but I only see Mac.
The crowd disperses after a few pleasantries, and I find her watching me, drinks in hand. Her teeth graze her lower lip, a nervous habit. Is she hesitating? Unsure about stepping forward, seeing me surrounded by others clamoring for my attention?
They mean nothing.
Only Mac.
I push past, tossing out a few polite goodnights, ignoring the moans and whines as I leave them behind. Five steps. Four. Three. And then she’s right there, her breathing just slightly uneven.
She looks at me like the world around us doesn’t exist. Like the chaos of the club—the guys making a scene, the couples pressed together, swaying to the rhythm—fades into nothing.
I smile, reaching for the beer in her hand. She releases it, a shiver rolling through her.
That look.
That look of surrender.
It’s fucking adorable. How can she be even more so? Maybe it’s my mind, my libido hiking things up, but I feel drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and I want her to burn me up.
She already knows how this night will end.
The thought makes my blood run hotter.
We make our way to a reserved booth, slipping inside as the music shifts. Neither of us speaks. We don’t have to. She sets her drink down without breaking eye contact.
An invitation.