Page 43 of The Best Men
But it does. Oh yes, it does.
Sparks fly everywhere. Along my skin. Under my skin. Ten thousand fires start in my goddamn cells.
He doesn’t take his palm off me either. He travels his fingers across the fabric of my shirt, and I can’t move.
My body lights up from this simple touch. He says nothing, doesn’t even meet my gaze, and I’m grateful for that.
I just need to exist in the thrill of this contact a few seconds longer. I swallow roughly, let out a low and smoky sigh. I doubt he can hear me, but that doesn’t seem to matter. He knows what he’s doing to me.
I stare at the liquor bottles behind the bar, but I can barely see anything, and it’s not because of my twenty-eighty vision. My world is simply narrowing to his hand exploring my back. Asher slides his palm around me, traveling to my hip, covering it with his hand, sending another jolt of pleasure through me as the shot arrives.
“Here you go,” says the bartender.
Yeah, here he goes, all right.
I don’t even grab the glass yet. I just stay like this, since it’s the best I’ve felt in ages. Curling his hand tighter, Asher grips my hip, hard and possessively. I groan under my breath. My God, how will I withstand reenacting a single Troliver kiss when a simple touch already turns me on this much?
Somehow, I manage to reach for the tequila and knock it back, then put the glass on the counter right as Asher circles the pad of his thumb over my hip bone.
“Oh hell,” I mutter, dipping my face for a few seconds, then meeting his gaze.
He licks the corner of his mouth, stares wickedly at me, then parts his lips like he’s about to say something.
Before he can speak, I jump off the cliff. “Dance with me.”
His grin is filthy and makes my cock throb. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says, and with his words, the last remaining smidge of nerves turns to ash.
I step toward the dance floor first, and he’s right behind me, his hand on my back again, and it’s borderline possessive, like he’s signaling to everyone else that I’m here with him.
We weave past patrons?they’re bumping and grinding, kissing and shaking?and find a spot near the edge of the dance floor.
In a heartbeat, he moves closer to me, his body swaying to the slow and sexy beat of the music. He looks good on the dance floor.
I’m not a dancer, but I don’t think I need to be. This isn’t a team sport. It’s one-on-one, and I can do that. I mirror him, my hips swaying, shoulders grooving.
Asher stares at me, mesmerized.
There are only inches between us, and that seems like too much. I edge closer, my thigh brushing against his.
“Yes,” he murmurs, but I can’t hear his words. I can just make out the shape of my new favorite one on his lips as we dance, slow and sensual.
His hands are back where he seems to like them—on my hips—and it’s probably a prelude to how he wants me, and that’s fine by me.
Everything is just so fucking fine right now.
I don’t touch him yet. I’m still not quite sure what to do with my hands, but I’ll figure it out soon.
As our thighs touch, our knees graze too, and we’re dangerously close. But not quite close enough. I want to erase that last bit of distance.
I take chances every day at work. Iron balls and all.
I lift my hands, and finally put them where I want.
On him.
Then he’s the one looking blissed out as his eyes float closed. I take that as my cue to explore him more. My hands coast down his arms, traveling over his smooth skin, hot from the club, covered with the faintest sheen of sweat.
I like his sweat.
