Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
The barman waits a beat for me to hand him back the torch before he sets about pulling bottles from backlit shelves and pouring their contents into a cocktail shaker.
Out of the corner of my eye, the man to my right leans back in his chair. I turn slightly and meet his gaze. My heart turns inside out in my chest as his gaze burns into me and the vibrations that I felt earlier start again. This time, I’m very clear on the fact it’s not a subway train or an earthquake. It’s definitely him making that sound. It’s like he’s… growling.
At me.
And I can feel it tugging between my legs.
Even though he’s sitting down, I can tell he’s tall. And big. Not beefy big. He doesn’t look like an American footballer. He’s just… gorgeous. And American-looking, if that’s a thing. It’s weird because even if I wasn’t sitting in a five-star hotel, and he wasn’t wearing a custom suit and an expensive watch, I would know he was rich from his haircut. His almost-black hair is on the long side of short, swept up and back like someone blow-dried it for him. And if they didn’t? Jesus, I’d take that kind of volume on a daily basis.
“What’s your name?” he asks, and I realize I’m staring.
“Eddie,” I reply.
He shakes his head. “What’s your full name?”
“Everyone calls me Eddie.”
He glances away and shifts in his seat so he’s leaning on the bar, like he’s done with our conversation.
“What’s your name?” I ask him. He may be finished with me, but I’m far from finished with him.
He shakes his head again. “I asked first.”
I laugh but he doesn’t respond. He’s serious.
The barman slides my drink in front of me and I take a sip. The taste doesn’t even register. All I can think about is the guy next to me.
I don’t ever tell anyone my real name. I’ve even thought about changing it. I’ve never liked it. I could make something up, but why should I? If I tell this guy my name’s Eddie, my name’s Eddie.
I take another sip of my drink, and I can’t help but stare at his profile. His jawline is covered with a couple of days’ growth and it looks good on him, but there’s something in the lines at the side of his eyes and the edge of his lips that tells me he’s had a bad day. Maybe a bad year.
“You don’t like the name Eddie?” I ask.
He turns so our gazes lock again and then moves closer, so he’s talking directly in my ear. “You like what you see. I like what I see. But I’m not going to fuck you until I know your real name.”
A low throb beats between my thighs and I exhale shakily. Did he really just say that to me? I mean, I know New Yorkers have a reputation for being direct, but a comment like that sounds extreme and… completely sexy.
And how does he know I’m interested? Hmm. It’s probably not that difficult to surmise, given my staring.
He turns back to the bar, leaving me with a choice. I can enjoy the rest of my cocktail and ignore the guy next to me, or I can tell him my name—or a made-up name that I prefer—and get laid.
“Efa,” I say, without thinking. I’ve not said it out loud for a long time. Do I dislike it because my parents chose it, and my generalized resentment for them has bled through to my name? Or maybe because it sounds so feminine, so weak? Either way, it’s my real name.
That growl again.
“I’m Bennett,” he says.
“Good to know,” I say.
Nothing like a bit of American confidence. I had an American boyfriend for about three and a half weeks when I was seventeen. It’s like the confidence is hard-wired—part of their genetics. It was irritating on Brad. On Bennett though? It makes me wonder how his hand will feel sliding over my stomach. How his tongue will feel on my neck. Whether the vibrations from his growl could actually make me come.
“I’m a lesbian,” I say and turn back to my drink.
“No you’re not. You’re interested in me. I’m interested in you. Let’s not waste time pretending otherwise.”
I turn back to him with narrowed eyes. “Okay,” I say. “I’m potentially interested in you. You seem…” I lean back a little so I can take him all in. “Interesting.” I pause and appreciate the fact that he doesn’t respond with, “In all the right places.” I guess I’m used to boys in their twenties and this man here is definitely not in his twenties. “Haven’t made up my mind about whether I want to have sex with you yet.”
He gives a smirk bordering on arrogant or condescending or something, but just misses. “Okay, well, when you figure it out, let me know.” He takes a sip of his drink and I do the same, mirroring him. I don’t know if this cocktail is the strongest thing I’ve ever tasted, but I swear, the body on this guy is making me weak. Everything about him is attractive. The broad shoulders that make me feel tiny. The large hands that hold his glass like it’s a child’s tea set. The sharp jawline that might be too much if it wasn’t for those full, soft lips. No doubt he has a fantastic arse from all that time he so obviously spends in the gym.