Page 8 of One Night with the Werewolf
I glance at Harry, who clearly has tried hard, but Arin is too sweetly dense.
“I’ll walk you to your Uber,” he says, almost morose, as Arin calls one.
Roscoe’s surprised when he gets back to find the table is now empty of everyone but me.
“Your friends left?” he asks.
“Yeah. Tired. It’s late.”
“Pssh.” Roscoe rolls his eyes. “It’s barely one in the morning. The night is young. I thought the youths stayed out later than this.”
I like that he’s, well, not vanilla at all. He clearly was a party guy in his day. Maybe still is. It’s not like your life ends at forty.
As we drink our beers, I can’t help feeling like this night has become almost a date. But I’m here trying to forget about Jason, not get busy with his dad.
Still, as the night goes on and we abandon our empty plastic cups to head out into the throng of dancers again, I start to notice things—how he moves with such strength hidden beneath his skin. How he puts an arm out to protect me as we work our way through the crowd. How he smells? A tantalizing mixture of plain soap and plain deodorant and his own delicious scent.
As we start dancing again, his arm around me and our other hands linked, I could simply lick the sweat off his neck.
Yes, he’s hot. He’s definitely hot, and he’s also definitely pulling me closer as we dance until my cheek is resting against his chest and his chin is perched on top of my head. He holds me like that to the beat of a wild song, as if the bright-colored world around us doesn’t matter at all.
I could simply sink into him like a soft mattress. His heart is beating much faster than his smooth movements give away, and I wonder if I’m doing to him anything like what he’s doing to me. I want to bury my face in his armpit, he smells so good. I want to see what he looks like underneath that leather jacket and plain white Fruit of the Loom shirt.
This is my ex-boyfriend’s dad we’re talking about, and we’re pressing ourselves even closer together, our hips gently brushing up against each other. I almost don’t give a shit, and that should frighten me, but the beer has gone right to my brain and I’m happy and loose and nobody else is evenhere. It’s just me and Roscoe, alone, surrounded by strangers.
I peek up at him, wanting to see what’s on his face, if it might give away how he’s feeling about this. When I do… I see yellow.
Yellow eyes peering back at me. The green is now wholly gone, and the bright yellow glows in the dim light on the dance floor.
“Whoa,” I say, not sure what I’m looking at. Immediately, the yellow fades, and his eyes return to green again.
Did I just imagine that? Does he have some kind of contacts in?
Roscoe licks his lips, his gaze darting away from mine nervously, then back again. “Do you want this?”
“Want what? To dance with you?” I pull him closer. “Yes.” And then, because I’m horny and feeling bold, I rub my crotch against his.
Roscoe’s eyes practically roll back in his head, and his hands grip my hips.
“Emelia,” he rasps. “That’s dangerous territory.”
“Is it?” Now I’m feeling a bit coy and sassy, too. That’s not usually me, but right now… “Does it make you want to do dangerous things to me?”
His answering expression of shock almost shuts me down, but I remain firm in my question. Slowly, Roscoe nods.
“Yes.” He leans his head down, and his voice is most certainly agrowlin my ear. “Yes, it does.”
His hand coasts from my hip to my back, then down over my ass. He inhales sharply, his hips jerking in a way that seems entirely involuntary. The friction is welcome, and I want hishand to keep traveling south, down between my legs. I’m warm there—sowarm—and all I need is for him to touch me. He pauses where it is, though, and then he squeezes with his firm fingers. Reflexively, I grind against him, and Roscoe grunts.
“You’re drunk,” he says, though he squeezes again as if his mouth and his hands belong to two separate people. “We shouldn’t.”
“You’re drunk, too. And who says?” I trail my hands up his chest. “Nobody’s here who would judge us.”
If he turns me down, I’ll probably cry like a baby. I can’t handle two rejections in one night.
“True.” Roscoe curls his other arm around me, keeping our lower bodies rooted together as we sway to the music. It’s quite noticeable when his erection nudges me, and I make sure to rub myself over it, hopefully tantalizing him under his pants.
When his hold on me tightens, I think I’ve succeeded.
