Page 9 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
His eyes flutter open. “You’repretty,” he says, as though extending an olive branch. “I like your hair. I like short hair on women. Ilike the shape of your head,” he adds, which is an embarrassment of likes, but the unsolicited flattery makes my chest feel mushy. Which I hope I hope Ihopeisn’t a sign of impending vomit.
“You seem very…” He frowns. “Fancy.”
I cast aside any fears of vomiting. “Fancy?”
“Cause of how you talk? Or the dress.”
I beam. “Thank you! I’d been saving it.”
“And your nails,” he adds. I lift my hand from his face, and he cranes his neck to inspect my nails. “They’re very long. How do you use your phone?”
This is a good question. “Carefully?”
He nods, seeming to take this in, then cocks his head. “Do you always clean bathrooms at house parties?”
“Only when there’s a dick on the mirror,” I say, but I’m totally absorbed in this man’s face. His eyes really are amazing. He half smiles, letting me know that I probably just said that “amazing” bit aloud, but I can’t be bothered to be embarrassed because that smidge of a smile makes his eyessparkle!
I lean forward on my knees to look closer, pressing my hands against his very firm and—ooh!—very warm chest—for balance. His eyes are dark gray. Slate. The color of a Weimaraner’s coat. A lesser woman might compare them to storm clouds, but I show tremendous restraint as I study them. Gray, with flecks of gold. Amazing! How does someone even get gray eyes?
“Genetics?”
I blink. That came from the eyes’ mouth. The eyes’owner’smouth. Which—I allow my attention the multi-inch trek required to consider his lips—is very nice.
And very close.Weare very close.
I wonder what his lips feel like. Intrepid explorer queen that I am, I lift a hand from his chest and use my index finger to trace along the line of his jaw, grazing his lower lip. “Soft.”
The lips part slightly, tongue darting to taste where I’d just touched. Ooh,tongue!
I gasp. I’ve just hadthe bestidea! “I’m going to kiss you, if that’s okay,” I tell the lips, already preparing for launch. But as I initiate, the hands at my waist hold me in place, stopping me from making contact.
“Are you drunk?”
I shake my head. Silly question, lips. “I’m notdrunk. I’mEllie.” And I’m the queen. And I’m coy. And kinda sexy. But sad. And maybe a little scared—
Lips frown, the lower one jutting out in the most delectable way. “You’re Ellie and aqueenand you’re coy and sexy, but sad and scared?”
To my horror, my eyes sting with sudden tears. I freeze, my mission to lips forgotten. Because of all of those things, I am mostly the last one.
I amscared.
I force my next breath in slowly, painfully aware of the way it shudders through my chest, like hiccupping sobs in reverse. The stunning eyes I’m staring into soften, the tenderness among the storm clouds threatening to undo every careful bit of scaffolding I’ve erected to keep myself upright this week. The fears press against my defenses.
I push back harder. “AndI’d like to kiss you, Tall Man. Please? Areyoudrunk?” I ask, because it seems like a good question. I’m smiling again. We are so good at questions!
Lips smile back, angling closer. “I’m not drunk, I’m—”
Tumbling forward, I finally make it to his lips. They part upon contact, the tip of his tongue eager and teasing. The hands at my waist slide up my bare back, pulling me closer. The whole front of me is warm and melty and soft, the chest and abdomen of Man Mountain a solid slab of heat. It’s like a hot stone massage at every point of contact, a soothing firmness.
For a second, I’m sure my eye is going to fog up, but I don’t let myself think about that because I am still the queen.
And coy and sexy, but no longer
even a little bit
scared.
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