“And yet I can feel it,” he murmurs. “Your body is calling for mine.”
Our eyes lock as the air leaves my lungs.
“Every time I’m close to you, I can sense our bodies talking to each other. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it, because I know you can,” he whispers.
We stare at each other for an extended moment, the air swirling between us.
“Are you going to give her what she needs?” he asks as he lifts his glass to his lips.
I drop my head, rattled by his sixth sense. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not someone I . . .”
“Like?” he asks, amused.
I hold my tongue, not wanting to be rude.
“Relax, Anderson; you’re not someone that I would like either. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
I smile, relieved.
“But . . . what happens on tour stays on tour,” he adds.
My stomach flutters at the prospect of having secret sex with this man.
His focus moves to straight in front of him, as if he’s pondering something, and then he smiles darkly and takes a sip of his drink.
“What?” I ask.
“Well, you do know that one day, we are inevitability going to . . . fuck.”
I stare at him as a million pornographic pictures come to mind.
“An attraction like this doesn’t go away, Anderson.”
Goose bumps scatter up my arms; he does feel it too.
“So, as I see it . . . we can use the time away to our advantage.”
“Or?” I ask.
His dark eyes meet mine. “Or we can go back to New York until I eventually wear you down—for then I will fuck you on your desk. It will be hard and wet and messy, and who knows who might walk in on us.”
I blink, shocked. What the hell? “You’re so sure of yourself.”
“I always get what I want.” He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “And what I want is you.”
My stomach flutters with nerves. “Why?”
“You see . . . I could pretend that I like you and that I want to explore our friendship or some fucking bullshit.” He sips his drink. “Or I could just tell you the truth.”
“Which is?” I breathe.
Our eyes are locked.
“The idea of you hating me while I lick you up is a fucking turn-on,” he whispers.