Instead of doing an about-face and bolting, Jeremy picks me up and sets me on the counter. He locks his gaze with mine briefly, then kisses me with the same magnitude as before. I throw my arms over his shoulders, my fingers instantly in his hair. I wrap my legs around him and pull him as close as I possibly can. He smells so good. My hands decide to explore and slide down to his biceps, which are quite exquisite. I reach down and grab his ass. Holy Jesus, it’s such a nice ass. Jeremy groans and lifts me off the counter and begins walking toward the living room. He breaks our kiss momentarily and tilts his head. “This floor?”
I nod. No time for words. Back to kissing, please. He gets the message and kisses me again. His lips move away from mine and to my jawline and neck as he lowers me to the floor. My whole body is tingling, and my heart may just literally explode. What a mess that would be. The first guy who actually makes me feel this way and I might just die before we even do anything serious.
He puts his hand under my shirt and brushes it over my stomach.
“I’ve wanted to touch you since the first time I saw you, but I was scared you’d kick my ass.”
He kisses my neck again and moves to my collarbone. He slides his hand up, still under my shirt, and runs his fingers over my bra. The sensation I have from the kissing and from his hands working simultaneously is overwhelming. I let out a tiny groan of my own.
“God, Livy. You are so fucking sexy.”
He said my name.
My body is going to burst into flames.
I never want this to end.
She’s fucking with me again and trying to make me squirm. She’s using confrontation as an intimidation mechanism, and I feel like she’s testing me to see if I’ll forcibly deny that I was checking her out or own up to my automatic masculine tendencies.
I feel like if I’m going to have any chance of getting her number—hell, even her name at this point—I should choose option B.
I look her square in the face and give her a good, confident smile. “Actually, I did.”
Looking at her eyes, I notice the sinister quality is fleeing and being replaced with slight surprise and a hint of satisfaction. “Hmm. A guy who admits he was checking out the goods. I like that.”
“Well, I didn’t figure you’d be wearing those jeans if you didn’t want people taking a peek.” I decide to go for a little teasing of my own. “And as long as I’m being honest, you know what else I checked out?”
She looks at me just like I thought she would. Like she knows I’m going to say her boobs. Or rack. Or tits. Or whatever other off-color term you could use to describe breasts. The smile leaves her face, and she gives me a look of disappointment. I admire that even though she is let down, she still locks eyes with me, awaiting my response. It makes me wonder if she’s had this exact same conversation countless times before. She gave me a little honesty, and she thinks I’m about to take advantage of that vulnerability.
How the fuck can I tell all of this about her just by looking at her face?
She leans into the bar and gets closer to my face. At the V of her shirt, the fabric loses connection with her skin, and if I were looking in that direction, I’d probably be able to get a great view of what was hidden underneath. But my eyes do not leave hers. “Yeah, what’s that, stud?” she says in a monotone but enunciates the d in the word stud, nearly making it its own syllable. She’s indicating that I need to choose my next words wisely.
I wait before I answer and stare at her for a few seconds. She looks so sad, like she wanted me to be different. There was a small glimmer of hope in her face before, and now it’s been extinguished.
I want to reignite it.
Here goes nothing.
“Your eyes,” I finally say. And, as I assumed, that takes her by surprise. But her reaction is hardly noticeable. I only see the minor adjustment of her face. Her eyes widen ever so slightly, and there is just the tiniest bit of a grin on the left side of her lips. But the best part is that I see the hope again.