Page 14 of Jaded

But I know, even as the words drift after me, that I will. Have to, right, because this deviation, small as it was, can’t happen again. Distractions are dangerous, make you think you desire other things. Take time, take energy, take focus, away from the things I really want—the only thing I’ve ever wanted.

So I slip through the bar towards the door with no plans to return. Or to find out what thisIce Outis or whyNatgoes.

Outside, the brisk night air kisses my cheeks with sharp tongues of clarity. Clearing my head. Straightening out my thoughts.

“Already done flirting?”

I freeze as the low murmur scrapes across my skin like a physical touch, a caress of sound. Warm. Soft. Gentle.

Tantalizing.

Oh, I’m doing the poetry thing again, aren’t I? That voice warrants it, though; I’ve a feeling it’ll inspire all my poetry in the coming weeks.

I turn.

The subject of my distraction—the beautiful one I am trying to run from—leans against the wall beside the door of the bar. The cool-guy position you use if you’re in an 80s film smoking a cigarette waiting for your leather-clad biker brethren or the hot chick in the pink dress still inside.

But I see no leather-clad bikers or hot chicks in pink dresses. And his gaze focuses on me, his eyes intense over the fragile puffs that escape his parted lips.

“Yeah, got to work early tomorrow.” I step to the side as the bar door opens behind me to admit two more patrons into the night, and it puts me closer to him than I intended. Close enough for me to feel the heat of his body, smell the soft brush of his cologne. Close enough that the ghost of my breath merges into the fluttering white cloud of his.

He doesn’t move away.

His eyes slide lower, scraping along my cheekbones, lingering over my lips. Making the fog of my exhalations stutter into stunted puffs of uncertainty. My own gaze dips to his arched lips, the hint of white teeth behind. I wonder what they would feel like, those lips pressed to mine.

Which is a little surprising, for a guy who identifies as demi.

But here I am, looking at that mouth, fantasizing about the taste of his tongue. A stranger. I start to step back. “I should go . . .”

“Aw, leaving so soon?” His brow lifts again, in a delicate, playful arch, one that has my stomach turning somersaults. “I thought we were having fun.”

“Well.” I ease my weight onto my left leg to shift a modicum closer to his soft warmth. “I was. But I don’t make it a habit to hit on people who aren’t interested.”

His lips curve upwards ever so slightly. “Who says I’m not?”

“Straight guys usually aren’t.” I recognize the challenge in my voice. He’s still staring at my mouth, and I at his. “But you seem . . . curious.”

This whole thing is a game tenser than a loaded, cocked gun.

I love it.

“I am,” he murmurs, and his eyes never lift from my lips. My pulse thuds against my eardrums under that vivid, piercing gaze. “You’re . . . interesting.”

No man as hot as him has ever called me interesting.

“You’ve no idea.” I shift half a step closer, so the space between us is a crevasse of quiet, negligible inches. He could move away, broaden that distance with a simple slide down the wall.

He doesn’t.

Without warning his fingers leap up to brush across my cheek, halting me in my tracks. A wave of tingling sensation flares over my skin: shock and heat, wonder. Want. He straightens off the brick, bringing his body, his warmth, his presence, closer, so his palm curves over my jaw.

Rough. Callused. Gentle.

I hardly dare to breathe, for fear I’ll shatter this fragile moment. This dream. It’s a dream. Gotta be.

This can’t be real. This man, this beautiful, inked-up, jaded man, can’t be standing here beside me, his hand on my cheek, his bright green eyes still focused on my mouth. This can’t be—

“What would you think,” he murmurs, so the words trail across my cheeks like the softest caress of gentle fingers, “if I kissed you?”

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