Page 71 of Because I Liked A Boy
Hunter opened my door with a flourish, his hand steady at my back as he guided me toward the neon glow. The bass thumped underfoot, laughter spilling into the night.
No Turning Back
Inside, the warmth and noise wrapped around me, thick with beer and perfume. A week ago this place had felt like freedom. Tonight it felt like something else entirely — like possibility.
Hunter leaned close, lips brushing my ear. “What’s going through that head of yours, princess?”
“Just remembering last time,” I said honestly. “And how much I don’t want to throw up in your arms again.”
His laugh rumbled low. “Didn’t mind. You’re cute when you’re wrecked.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Relax.” He squeezed my hand. “Tonight’s different.”
And somehow I believed him.
We moved to the bar where Dean polished a glass. He looked up, surprised. “Well, well. Didn’t expect to see you two back so soon. Together.” His eyes flicked to our linked hands.
Heat rose in my cheeks, but Hunter didn’t flinch. He leaned on the counter, tattoos flexing. “Pour us something decent, Dean. None of that watered-down crap you gave her last time.”
Dean smirked. “Somebody’s got opinions now. I heard you were sick last time from your date.” His gaze slid to me, then to Hunter.
“I really don’t want to talk about that,” I muttered.
“She’s fine,” Hunter said. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Dean reached for bottles. I surprised myself. “Actually, I want a cocktail.”
“Any particular one?” he asked.
“Surprise me,” I said.
“Brave.” He tossed the shaker and slid a pale pink drink across. “French Martini. Vodka, Chambord, pineapple. Smooth. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
Sweet at first, then the vodka hit. Danger dressed up pretty. I licked the foam from my lip. Hunter’s eyes tracked the motion, his smirk darkening.
“Good?” he asked as if he already knew.
“Very,” I breathed.
His hand found my thigh beneath the bar. “Good girl,” he murmured.
He grabbed a beer, then tugged me through the crowd to a booth in the back. Quieter. Dimmer. Ours. He stretched his arm along the back and I curled into the space.
“Not bad, princess. Looks classy on you,” he said, eyeing my glass.
“And you?” I arched a brow. “Beer isn’t exactly refined.”
He lifted the bottle for a slow pull. “Beer’s honest. No pretence. You know exactly what you’re getting.” His eyes dragged over me, deliberate and slow.
Heat spread low as I sipped again, feeling watched in the best possible way. His fingers brushed the bare skin at my shoulder. Every light graze sent my pulse stuttering.
“You know,” he murmured, voice low, “this feels dangerous.”
“What does?” I asked, keeping my hands steady around the stem.
“Sitting here. You, dressed like sin. Me, pretending to care about anything else in this bar.” His thumb traced the shell of my shoulder, raising goosebumps. “Feels like I’m one wrong move away from starting something I won’t stop.”
