Slowly, with his eyes firmly on me, he bends toward the glass and puts his ridiculously gorgeous mouth on the straw. The liquid inside the glass begins to drop in volume, but he doesn’t pull back after a sip. His eyes stay locked on mine as he continues to suck. It’s not until his lips curl that I realize he intends to drain it all. With an outraged gasp, I shove his shoulder ineffectually and scoot closer, ducking for the other straw.
My forehead skims against his as a surge of fruity liquor fills my mouth, but I don’t pull back. I’m spurred by the way his blue eyes have darkened with intent, the taunting jerk of his Adam’s apple as he tries to take more than his share. It’s impossible to know if this is just about the beverage I’ve stolen or if it has more to do with the meatball I snaked off his plate last night. But if it’s the latter, it can’t go unanswered. My meatball theft was a completely justified response to the coffee he’d robbed me of earlier in the day. Especially given the fact that he complained about the chemical aftertaste of the artificial sweetener after each sip but still managed to come back enough times to drain at least half my cup.
Brain freeze hits as the straw hits dry air with a sputter. I yelp at the same moment Deiss groans, and through the fingers that fly up to press against my forehead, I spot him cupping his own. I don’t know if it’s the absurdity of our pain, the adrenaline rush from the inhaled cocktail, or just the shot of liquor that’s gone to my head, but laughter bubbles out of me, elated and only mildly taunting.
Deiss rolls his eyes, but I spot the smile that tugs at his mouth before he shakes his head at me. “You used to be so classy.”
“And you used to have hair.” I reach for his chin, sliding the back of my knuckles down the prickly stubble.
He catches my hand as I pull away, tugging it up to rub it over his scalp. “I still have hair.”
Just like I imagined, it’s softer than it looks, silky even. The feel of it makes my skin go warm as the image of him bent over my body flashes through my mind. Like in some lurid scene out of a dirty film, his mouth explores me, chin scratching at my skin just enough that I can feel every spot he’s touched as my hand slips through silk, urging him on. I’m shocked by the thrill the unwanted vision produces, the way the combination of coarse and smooth excites something deep and primal inside of me.
I yank my hand free, flashing a smile to cover my dismay. I’ve never minded the fact that I’m attracted to Deiss because Lucas Deiss is an empirically attractive person. It wasn’t even that disconcerting to discover he could seduce me if he chose to. In my mind, his ability to overcome my senses was more about him than it was about me. This, though. Me succumbing to something that can only be defined as lust. Giving in, after all these years, to some silly, throbbing, one-sided crush. It’s as ridiculous as it is embarrassing.
And it’d be one hundred percent against the rules.
CHAPTER 16
I blink against the sun as we exit the restaurant. It feels overly bright, as if it’s either celebrating our debauchery or chastising us for it. The cheerful breeze that riffles the bottom of my skirt makes it seem like it might be the former, so I smile up at the sky.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been drunk in the middle of a weekday before,” I say as our Uber pulls up. Phoebe has gone to Mac’s to sober up for the drive home, but we’re headed back to Sounds because Deiss doesn’t want Mia to get stuck there when Booker inevitably shows up late for his four o’clock shift.
“It’s not a weekday,” Deiss says after we greet the driver and settle into the back seat of the little green car that smells like fries.
“It’s Friday,” I say, looking out the window at the colorful signs that line the street and the colorfully dressed people beneath them. With their maps and disposable water bottles, the tourists are easy to spot.
“Friday is part of the weekend. You said so when we were talking about dating.”
“No.” I roll the window down to feel the wind on my skin. My head is spinning, but in an enjoyable way. “Friday night is part of the weekend. Fri-day is part of the workweek, which makes it a weekday.”
“But I work on Saturdays,” Deiss says, his leg pressing against mine. The heat of it radiates through the thin material of my skirt in an exhilarating way. “Does that make it a weekday?”
“No.” I scoot closer toward the door so our legs are no longer touching, but I glance over my shoulder and flash him a grin, my eyes skimming just past his. “That makes you a chump who works on the fun days.”