I laugh at her reference to her upstairs neighbor who probably holds an Olympic gold medal for the number of girls he fucks in a week.
“I know exactly what needs to get done, my friend—you.”
Erin shakes her head. “Not all of us are able to have every New Yorker with a Y chromosome dropping at our feet begging for half a second of our attention.”
I grab Erin’s hand and pull her from the barstool, giving her my most disarming smile.
“Come on, babe. You can work on it tomorrow. I’ve got big plans for us tonight.”
I’m not taking no for an answer here, and she knows it. I can already see her starting to cave. It won’t take much.
She opens her mouth, and I can already hear the yes on her lips—my powers of persuasion don’t just work on dudes, you know—but then, her jaw just hangs there, her eyes going comically wide as she stares over my head.
Knitting my brows together, I spin around to see what has my normally articulate friend more or less speechless.
And immediately feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
A bus.
A fucking bullet train.
Like, I think I might actually stagger back a step.
God, I hope not. But holy fucking hell. This guy that just waltzed into the Bradford’s residents-only lounge is seriously the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.
I mean, yeah, I totally get that a statement like that sounds like hyperbole, but fuck…
He’s tall, at least six feet, with broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist, his body a perfect masculine V-shape that makes me certain there’s another sinfully sexy V right underneath his clothes that points straight down to heaven.
But it’s not his body that has my mouth suddenly as dry as the fucking Mojave. Neither is it his dark hair—almost black—that’s perfectly in place except for this one lock over his eyebrows that has my fingers itching to reach up and brush it away.
No, it’s his eyes—it’s just as dark as his hair. They suck me in like a vortex, an abyss, a black hole, or some other science-y shit. Making the dryness of my mouth a perfect counterpoint to the wetness pooling in my La Perla.
Like, if my mouth is a desert, my pussy is a fucking geyser right now.
I give myself a little shake. Because what the fuck?
A hot guy isn’t exactly new territory for me. Neither is the way those depthless orbs seem to latch onto me and devour me whole, full of filthy intention.
This happens on the regular, and not because I’m some supermodel or something. I just give off that vibe. I’m confident, sure of myself, and that translates into a sexiness that transcends mere looks.
I’ve realized this over the years. Sexiness is an attitude, a mindset.
One I’ve mastered.
So yeah, my knees shouldn’t feel like jelly right now. My stomach shouldn’t be fluttering in a way that feels like a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies was let loose inside of me. And my pussy shouldn’t be throbbing, clenching, fucking aching as this guy walks toward me.
But it is.
Then he smiles.
“Hey.”
One word. That’s all. And my whole fucking world is turned upside down.
“Hey,” I say back.
Yeah, that whole thing about Erin normally being articulate? Her momentary lapse is nothing compared to the total lack of game I have right now. I want to kick myself, slap myself, pinch myself—anything to not feel like I’m at a total loss.