Page 10 of The Seven Month Itch
Not interested.I roll my eyes. “Justice.”
A brow lifts. His eyes take their sweet time to travel from my open-toed pumps and stall at my hips. “This must be fate, Justice.” He licks his lips. “I’m an attorney, and your name sounds like a case I can close.”
I fold my arms over my chest. What a line. The will to mask how much Warner repulses me disappears with my patience.
Intrigue settles in his gaze. He’s all but drooling when he takes a step into my personal space. It’s clear Warner the Creep wants a conquest, and I would rather run into oncoming traffic and do the Wobble.
Warner rattles off his life story like it’s a bio on an online-dating profile. He’s forty-five, never married, no kids—thank God for favors—and isn’t into committed relationships.
I interrupt his monologue. “You know, I need to get back to my husband.” Ancient forms of torture would be more enjoyable than chatting with this man. Let Jigsaw ride across this bar onhis tricycle to play a game and see how fast I offer a pound of flesh.
His eyes go wide. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Yup. Still married.” I feign innocence and shrug. “I really shouldn’t be here, but what can I say? Open bar.” I hide my left hand to dodge questions about my lack of a wedding ring. As lust would have it, he spots a raven-haired woman and moves on.
Crisis averted.
Now for another drink.
“Well played.”
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand at full attention. A rush of heat courses through my veins. I turn to the voice behind me, a smooth timbre that’s commanded my body on more than one occasion. Terrence leans against the bar with his head tilted and a smirk I want to slap off his beautiful face.
I shake my head and groan.Not tonight. “Don’t you have some woman to try to bed?”
His eyes narrow, and a brow raises. “You make it sound like that would be hard.”
I’m done. He reaches for me when I try to leave. His hand grips my waist, and I swear time stands still. A familiar arousal spreads between my thighs and quickens my pulse. We’re inches apart. Close enough for the hand at my waist to dip below my panties. Panties that are no longer dry, courtesy of his touch.
Terrence is hard to read when one of his go-to grins isn’t in rotation. Like right now. Ithinkthat’s concern on his face, but who knows? He frowns and shakes his empty glass. “Relax, princess. I’m not here to mess up your night. Need a refill.”
A swift motion gets the bartender’s attention. Terrence’s eyes never leave mine, and neither do the fingers splayed across my belly. His gaze is hypnotic, because I’m now back on my stool with quivering hands, an uncontrollable heart rate, and coochie tingles.
This is too much.
He nods in approval and drops his hand to lift my glass for a sniff. “Manhattan? Some things never change.”
“Guess they don’t.” My voice comes out small.
We stare at each other in silence. No words, no smart remarks. Just memories. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I lick my lips. Sweet Christ. How does this man still have this effect on me?
My eyes run over his body. If I’m a naughty librarian, Terrence is a college professor who could spread me wide for an A and play with my back door for extra credit. His white collared shirt peeks out from the navy pullover sweater hugging his frame. Classic denim rests over his muscular thighs and leads down to walnut oxford shoes. He’s the Afro-Dominican Clark Kent in his black-rimmed glasses, and dang it if I don’t want to run to the nearest phone booth and feel his superpowers.
The aroma of his cologne mixed with aftershave sends my senses into such a frenzy I don’t realize I’m leaning closer for a whiff. The perceptive bastard laughs. He gestures in appreciation to the bartender who drops off our drinks, and I’m thankful it’s not West.
No more close encounters of the awkward kind tonight.
Terrence straightens to hold out two manhattans. Electricity passes between us when our fingers touch. West might make me hot for a moment, but Terrence could make me wet for a lifetime.
I bite my lip and look up at him from under my eyelashes.Stop flirting.“Thank you.”
What’s with the Toni Braxton tone? Maybe I do need an intervention.
He gazes down and takes his time exploring my lips on the glass and my throat when I swallow. His eyes darken, and my legs threaten to buckle under the weight of his stare until he clears his throat.
What the hell was that?
“It’s funny to see you use our marriage to get out of conversations,” he says with a chuckle into his drink. “Classic.”
