“Why?”
“Why is it surprising?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Because you’re so . . . intimidating.”
My face must betray how ridiculous he sounds, because he quickly explains.
“I’m serious. You’re a closed book. I learned almost everything I know about you from social media, and you’ve only posted, like, nine photos, five of which are your cat. I can’t imagine a lesser man could ever get to know you.”
“Okay, one, I don’t post on social media because I think it’s stupid and a waste of time. And two, lesser man? Lesser compared to whom?”
“Whom?” he says, his eyes going wide. “Dude, Nora, who even says that?” He laughs again, and the sound is light, buoyant. It makes me want to laugh with him, to be near him, to touch him.
God, I wish I could touch him.
“You use whom when referring to the object of a verb or preposition,” I say quickly, knowing perfectly well how pretentious it makes me sound.
“What the fuck is a preposition?” he says, but when I open my mouth to explain, he holds up a hand. “You know what, don’t tell me. It might make me too smart for my own good.” Shaking his head, he goes to lift the joint to his lips again, and I boldly hold out a hand. He looks at it, then at me. “What? You wanna smoke?”
I nod once, wiggling my fingers.
He offers me the joint, and I take it between my first finger and thumb, then lift it to my lips. The fact isn’t lost on me that his mouth touched this, and it makes a thrill go through me, makes me feel like I’m in high school again. I draw the smoke in and close my eyes, letting it fill me, carry me higher. It only takes a moment for a tingle to start working its way up my body from the base of my spine. When I exhale, Dex smiles at me through the heavy gray haze.
“You smoke?” he asks as I hand the joint back to him.
“Sometimes. I did a lot in college. It helped me focus for exams and stuff.” I shrug. “You’ve got a lot more to learn about me, I guess.” My smile is playful, flirty even.
“I guess so.” He draws nearer to me, and his free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair behind my ear. When his fingers touch my cheek, my eyelids flutter closed, and I drink it in, knowing this might be my only chance to know what it’s like to have his hand on me.
“Dex!” calls a sharp, high-pitched voice, and the moment—whatever the moment was—is broken.
I open my eyes to see the women from before heading toward us, as if they weren’t aware all along that we were standing over here. They give me nasty looks, then turn their attention to Dex, flocking around him like moths to a brilliant flame.
“You didn’t say hello,” the dark-haired woman says, her lips pulling into a pout.
So, he knows her.
Of course he knows her. He’s a rock star, and she’s a beautiful actress.
I’m the only one who doesn’t belong here.
“I’m busy,” Dex says, and his voice is back to that lazy monotone I’ve come to know. “And you’re interrupting.”
The woman narrows her eyes, looking shocked and embarrassed. I’m guessing that wasn’t the response she expected. Her gaze catches mine, and it’s simmering.
A thrill goes through me.
“Come on,” Dex says, reaching for my hand while snubbing his joint out in a nearby ashtray.
The look the women give me as he slips his hand into mine is literal gold. I wish I could bottle it and keep it on my shelf and pull it out whenever I’m feeling down about myself.
“Bye,” I say over my shoulder as Dex guides me away, and one of the women lifts her manicured middle finger at me. But I don’t even care.
Because he picked me. I don’t know why or how, but right now, it doesn’t even matter.
Once we’re inside, Dex leads me down the stairs, and I wonder why he’s still holding my hand. I’ve still not let myself—won’t let myself—believe this could be anything more. He’s just being flirty; I’m sure he’s like this with plenty of women. Hell, Alisha and Jordan already confirmed it. Alisha’s words ring in my head: Dex is a fuckboy.
But right now, I’m not sure I care. I just like how his fingers feel between mine.
Back in the club, the music is shifting from a high-energy dance track to something a bit slower, with a deep bass that I can feel in my bones. Dex glances over his shoulder at me. His eyes meet mine, and maybe it’s the pot making my head light and fuzzy, but I swear everything moves in slow motion—the flash of lights across his face, the subtle narrowing of his eyes as he holds my stare. And then he’s guiding me onto the dance floor, ignoring the women who look his way as he brushes past them.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I ask as he pulls me close. We’re in the middle of the dance floor, and it feels like everyone is staring at us—or staring at him, more like. Dex slips my hands onto his shoulders, and my body tingles when his fingers wrap around my hips.
Leaning in, his mouth a hairsbreadth from my ear, he whispers, “Dancing with you.”
And the touch of his breath on my neck makes that spot between my legs ache for him.
What I should do is pull away, remind myself that he’s Dex Reid and I’m just Nora Miller. But the alcohol and pot make me bold, make me brave, make me stupid. So I let him pull me closer, let myself indulge in the feel of his hands on my body. For just a moment, I’ll be his instrument, and he can play me in any way he wants.
The feel of him is delicious. Intoxicating.
My skin is tingling, is on fire. Every brush of his body against mine sends my nerves bursting to life. He’s a good head taller than me, and when I tip my face up to look into his blue eyes, I realize that he’s close enough I could kiss him. All I’d have to do is rise onto my toes, and my lips would touch his.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it, haven’t dreamt of his mouth on my skin.
But I resist.
