Page 7 of Fair Trade
Her big brown eyes are feathered by long lashes. Full lips that send every sinful thought rushing to the forefront of my brain. Lush brown skin that I’m itching to kiss every delectable inch of and long wavy black hair cascading down her back, stopping right above her ass. The same ass my eyes locked on to like a heat-seeking missile when she walked past me to take her seat.
She’s dressed modestly, but even the respectable neckline does nothing to hide the full breasts I’m sure would feel heavenly in my calloused hands.
“Are you having dirty thoughts about me right now?” She finally speaks, and from her tone, I can tell she has regained her footing.
“Yes.”
Her jaw drops. “Oh, wow. Not even going to deny it?”
I shake my head. “I don’t lie. It’s a waste of time, and I don’t make a habit of being inefficient.”
She faces me as she crosses her arms over her chest. “The first thing that came out of your mouth was something about not having sex with me. Have I already caught you in a lie?” She clicks her tongue.
My lips twitch. “Actually, the first thing I said was ‘You don’t have to show me your tits.’” She raises an unamused brow and I chuckle. “When I said I wasn’t fucking you, that was to ease the sting of having to deal with so many incompetent men in one night. I thought I was being a good Samaritan by taking myself off the table. For your sake, of course.”
“Oh, so is this some charity dick you’re offering? Can you claim it as a tax write-off or…”
The laugh that bursts out of me is so unexpected, I have to place a hand over my chest to make sure it’s real.
I didn’t know I was capable of it, given the wringer I’ve been put through, but it seems this woman might be exactly what I need tonight.
I regain my composure and lower my voice. “Give me your name.”
She smiles as she takes a sip of water. “No.”
“No?”
“No names,” she confirms.
Apprehension begins to build within my mind. This woman must be too good to be true. And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been targeted because of who I am. “What game are you playing at?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “No game,” she assures. Then she raises her index finger and points at me. “But I do feel like it’s my responsibility to ask whether you’re a serial killer.”
I give her a flat look. “I sincerely hope that asking straight-up isn’t your complete vetting process.”
“Oh, of course not. I seamlessly weave questions about any childhood fascination with fire or harming small animals into the conversation. Usually before appetizers arrive. Gives me a good idea of whether I should stick around for dessert.” She winks, and I roll my eyes at the absurdity of this conversation. And the absurdity of how much fun I’m having. So much fun, infact, that I almost forget that I’m in a constant state of arousal being this close to her.
“Quite the exciting dating life. Never know if you’re going to meet Mr. Right, or Mr. I-just-landed-my-own-dateline-episode,” I deadpan.
She throws her head back in laughter. The sight has my own lips twitching, wanting to join in on her unabashed joy. But my focus is pulled elsewhere when her hand lands on my forearm.
I stiffen momentarily at the electricity that buzzes through our point of contact. How is that even possible when there’s a suit jacket and dress shirt between her skin and mine?
She must notice my change in demeanor and mistake it for discomfort, because she frowns. So I put my free hand on top of hers before she tries to pull away.
And there it is again. That unexplainable jolt that makes my body awaken with painful awareness.
She looks down at our hands, then back up at me before she blurts, “I don’t date.”
“Unless it’s a potential serial killer, I presume?”
She shakes her head. “No, as in I don’t have an exciting dating life… because I don’t date.” She straightens, taking her hand with her, and for a second, I have to bite back an absurd demand for her to give it back. “I don’t have time to date. So I don’t even bother,” she clarifies.
I take a gulp of water. That statement has me needing to cool down. “So that enlightening chat you were having with that loser moments ago… that was you looking to make a new friend?” I eye her skeptically.
She pauses for longer than she has throughout our whole conversation, but I don’t dare make a move to rush her. She leans on the bar, mimicking my stance, not breaking eye contact when she says, “I was considering having sex with him.”
Fucking hell.
