On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [8]
Lilah hoped it was too dim inside the bar for him to see her blush. “Well. When they were handing out the charm, you must’ve gotten all yours plus your friend’s portion, too.”
He smiled at her, sparkly even white teeth bright against his tanned skin.
Lilah grinned back. She felt a little like Rosalind Russell trading barbs with Cary Grant. Was this bantering? She’d always wanted to banter! It was every bit as stimulating as she’d imagined.
He seemed to like it, too, because he was unfolding himself from his barstool and sauntering over to her, every move imbued with lithe grace. He came close enough to whisper in her ear. His breath was warm where it fanned through the curls at her temple.
“If you’re ready to get out of here, you want to come home with me? I’ll let you use my shower. I promise it’ll be good and hot.”
Holy cats, was this really happening?
Five days ago, Lilah had been stuck in a boring town with her boring ex, teaching Shakespeare to a bunch of bored teenagers.
Now?
Lilah blinked hard to clear her eyes. Yep, still standing in a dingy, underground Lower East Side dive with the handsomest man she’d ever seen live and in person cooing unmistakably indecent—and undeniably enticing—proposals in her ear.
Moving to Manhattan might have been the smartest thing she ever did.
The woman blinked at him, a visible tremor rushing through her.
Devon knew he was coming on strong, probably stronger than a woman like this, who clearly bathed in eau d’innocence every morning, was used to. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to back off—she was too enticing. Her open, unguarded face was like a shaft of pure sunlight burning through the dim underground bar.
Though clearly taken aback, she wasn’t speechless for more than a second, which only made Devon want her more.
“Well, shoot, sugar. I guess it’s true what they say about New Yorkers.”
“What’s that?”
“That all y’all are in a boot-scootin’ hurry every minute of every day.”
Devon shrugged and finished his drink, enjoying the blaze of bourbon in the back of his throat. “I don’t see the point of wasting time. We’re both adults. I want you. You want me. Why shouldn’t we have what we want?”
She drew in a sharp breath, her gaze heating. “Lots of reasons,” she said. Then, with a self-deprecating laugh, “None of which I can seem to recall right at this very second.”
Devon grinned. “So what are we waiting for?”
Not wanting to give her time to remember the many logical and reasonable arguments against going home with a total stranger, Devon grabbed her by the hand and started for the door. Paolo would be waiting on the street with the Bentley, no doubt relieved that Devon was calling it a night this early.
“Wait!” She dug in her heels and pulled against Devon, laughing. He really liked the sound of it, he decided, kind of husky and low, but full of happiness.
“No, you said it, babe—I’m a New Yorker, and time is money to me. I’ve got places to be, showers to run . . . women to kiss.”
“But I don’t even know your name or anything about you,” she protested, and Devon felt the world screech to a halt.
She didn’t recognize him. She wasn’t just playing it cool, doing a good job of pretending to treat him like a regular guy—she actually thought he was one.
Devon got hard so fast, the southward rush of blood actually made him dizzy.
Weird.
Devon couldn’t remember the last time he had any interaction that didn’t somehow involve or reference his celebrity status. His chef friends ribbed him mercilessly for selling out and becoming successful, all the while wishing they could find some sucker to sell their shtick to. Women mostly tended to fawn and gush, all with an eye toward getting into his Ferrari, bed, and wallet. Not necessarily in that order.
“I don’t know your name, either,” he hedged, wanting badly to prolong the moment. “Does it matter?”
“What’s in a name?” she said, as if to herself. Her gaze dropped slightly; Devon wanted to kiss the adorable furrow between her brows.
“Is that really all that’s stopping you?” Devon wanted to know.