Page 22 of The Photo
The cab driver slams on the breaks as she slides my hand beneath her dress. “Alright, guys. That’ll be fifteen dollars.”
Ten
Noah stares at me for longer than a few erratic heartbeats, then thanks the driver and removes his hand from my mid-thigh. For that second, I willed those long fingers to journey higher with one mission.
I quickly busy myself, pretending to rummage through my purse for a lip balm. My mind is spinning, and I need something else to focus on other than the maddening pressure building in my panties. If he catches a whiff of my desperation, he’ll think I’m just like those women and this night will be over before I can say peanuts. I swear, the excitement fizzing in my groin from the touch of his short fingernails is about to blow my libido into oblivion. It’s totally crazy how unbearably turned on I’ve become.
Truthfully, I’m not searching for a chapstick, I’m piecing together my composure.
“You ready, Rowan?” Noah climbs out, pivots and sticks his hand into the cab for me to grab.
Skin on skin sparks a shiver through me again. He helps me out of the vehicle, and then his hand falls away to close the door behind us. I take the reprieve to study his biker jacket. Soft creases make me think it’s his favorite, as it molds to broad shoulders for both warmth and uncomplicated style. It lays open, revealing a black tee that isn’t too tight but smooths over his chest with a comfortable fit. His thick dark hair is kept in place with minimal product, like it sits naturally. He’s so tall and dominant. Never mind the intoxicating scent of cologne that permeated the cab for the short journey. That masculine smell has me on the edge and in a constant state of awareness.
His palm moves to my back, and I twist into him, lulled in by his manly magnetism. Chelsea bounces out of the cab that parks in the spot where ours just left. “This place looks expensive.” She’s all legs and hair spray.
Sam rakes ringed fingers through mid-length hair and nods in agreement. “Sure does. I hope Ontario doesn’t disappoint.” He grins, walking ahead of us.
Noah hangs back. I think he purposefully lets them go first, like he wants us to be alone. A DJ wearing massive headphones bops about in the far corner. We get shown to a table by a lanky male with a thin ponytail and stretched earlobes.
Eden feels cramped and intimate, so when I sit, Noah’s hip presses tight to mine. It’s not ideal for my already exhilarated libido, but I’ll happily make the sacrifice.
“So Noah.” Sam pulls in his chair. “Canadian women. I’m sure you’ve had a few.”
A graceful waitress joins the table, pausing for our order.
“Not that many.” Noah rolls his shoulders and orders an orange soda, keeping his interaction with the waitress brief.
“Seriously? A male model with your looks.” Sam shakes his head. “You’re joking, right?”
“Why would I joke?” Noah shrugs.
“He likes Cuban women, Sam.” Chelsea swats his arm.
The waitress lingers and Sam notices where her gaze falls - we all see her smiling at Noah. “I’m sure women come on to you all the time.” His brows jiggle like there’s a secret.
Chelsea asks for a beer. “Make that two,” Sam adds with a not-so-subtle wink.
“Same here.” I lift my palm so she sees me.
The waitress nods without meeting my eye. She thinks better of flirting with the gorgeous model in our company when she finds his arm around my shoulder. Yeah, he’s mine. Well, not really. He didn’t exactly spell it out as a date. He said he would be our tour guide, and he kissed me. So that’s a claim for the evening - isn’t it? I’m useless at this. And reading the sex signs has never been my forte. A kiss always leads to sex, right? I sure hope so, or my vagina will close over. It’s been fourteen months since it had any sort of action.
Light tugs catapult tingles through my hair as fingers weave through my hair. A shuddered breath brings my eyes to his. They’re dark and dangerous. So very tempting.
“I have a thing for Irish girls,” Noah says with a flirtatious smile.
A gulp of saliva bobs in my throat. I drop my hand under the table, lightly touching his thigh. It’s a daring thing for me to do. I’m not used to making the first move or any move for that matter. This is unquestionably a move, if not a tame one.
Those glorious thick lashes of his lower. It’s remarkable how naturally black they are. Women tint, extend and curl their lashes, whereas he just flutters those eyelids effortlessly, and it’s downright sexy.
He sits back in the chair and glances to his lap where my adventurous fingers roam.
“I’m sure there aren’t many Irish girls in Ontario?” I declare with a smirk.
“I haven’t noticed. I don’t date much.”
“You don’t?” My voice rises, shocked by the statement. His lips curl at my surprise, and I lower my tone. “Oh, you don’t date much. Me either. I’m terrible at it, if I’m honest. I’m too picky. I’m sure you don’t have that problem.” What the fuck am I saying? Of course he’s selective. “I didn’t mean you'd date any old thing. I’m sure the women who approach you are gorgeous.”
He smiles, and I see a slight dimple dent his cheek. I think he’s amused. “I’m too busy to date women.”
