Miss Dark-and-Dangerous came back with our beers. Bubbly suds spilled over the glasses before she even set them down. Franklin made quick work of mopping up the mess. I got busy giving myself a foam mustache. Damn, that was good brew.
“Hey, wait,” Franklin admonished me. “Toast, first.” Fisting his mug, he raised his drink and tapped mine, halting my attempt at a second swig. “Here’s to a week without the narcissistic asshole.”
“Here’s to a week without having to verbally stroke his cock.” I raised my glass higher before returning it to my lips.
Franklin spit his drink and slammed the glass down. “Oh, my God.”
In response to his smile, mixed with that deep, throaty laugh, my internal temperature spiked, melting the layers of ice that had claimed my unmentionables years ago.
I stared at him a little too long. A new growth of stubble dusted his square jaw and almost hid his understated cleft chin. Holy moly, those eyes. Deep, unnatural blue. An eye color you would see in an anime movie. Even with his playful expression, they glistened with wisdom and sincerity. I had to be careful, or if I peered into those eyes long enough, my loins would burst into flames.
His forehead held a few wrinkles, forged not by age, but the intense gaze he wore most of the time. I often caught him at his desk, lost in deep concentration. God, I hoped he didn’t have a clue how many hours I wasted observing him.
He downed the brewski in three gulps and gestured for two more. “You’re such a funny girl. That’s what I love about you.” His leg bounced incessantly against mine. Was he nervous?
Wait, what? That’s what he loved about me? I was speechless, which was a rare occurrence, and pretended to study a painting on the wall.
Awkward?
Nah.
Chapter 3
Before long, it was nine, then nine-thirty. I’d demolished three beers, a plate of fries, two pieces of gum, taken four trips to the little girls’ room, and I didn’t want the night to end.
Franklin Reed proved as mesmerizing to talk to as he was to look at. We made fun of the goofballs in the bar and joked about the losers at work, mostly Wallace. Movies, check. Favorite music, check. There wasn’t a breath of down time. Best part? The whole night, we laughed.
We got along great on the job, but who knew he’d be so easy to hang with outside the nine-to-five? At quarter to ten, “Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked” bellowed from his shirt pocket. Retrieving his phone, he pushed a button, then tucked it away. With a proud smile, he winked at me, grabbed my hand, and led me out the front door.
“Come with me. Here, take your shoes off.” Lowering himself to one knee, he rubbed his hand up the length of my calf and prompted me to lift my leg. Inciting goose bumps from hip to ankles, he slid the torture devices off my aching feet. Holy shit, it was sexy.
He rested his hands on my waist and stood. “I’d give you a piggy-back, but you’d have to hike that damn skirt all the way up your waist.” Something dark and promising flickered in his eyes.
Behind the old brick building, a rickety set of stairs stretched to the third floor. “Where are we going?” I asked. I secretly hoped it wasn’t up, but it was.
It took him a moment to dig his keys from his pocket and get the door open.
I’d never been to Franklin’s apartment. Hadn’t entertained the idea either, assuming it’d be spotless, like his desk, and frequented by supermodels. At the office, he kept everything neat and tidy, perfectly organized, nothing out of place, nothing personal on display. When we entered the apartment, I was dumbfounded. It was bare. No pictures or furniture, save a leather couch and a fifty-inch flat screen. Brick walls, wood floors, stainless steel appliances in the tiny kitchen tucked in the corner. Other than that, empty.
“Dude. Where’s all your stuff?” I asked, surveying the small space.
He smiled and tossed his keys onto the bar-top partition that separated the dining room from the living room. He walked to the other side and carried two barstools around the corner.
“Don’t need much. A place to eat, a place to watch the tube.” He grabbed a remote from the counter and the television buzzed to life. “Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to the couch before disappearing. “I’ll be right back.”
I did as told and nestled into the buttery soft leather, tucking my legs under myself. The voice coming from the jumbo box hanging on his wall announced the Banshee season finale was coming up next. I laughed. Damn, the man was good.
He returned wearing faded jeans that hung low on his waist and a gray, trim-fitted Henley that opened to a deep V at the collar, revealing a sneak peak of bare chest. I wanted to jump his bones. Seriously, I did. I wasn’t a slut or anything, but with the beer in my gut, the electricity in his eyes, and the shirt that clung like plastic wrap to his skin, I feared I could easily become one.
Franklin plopped his glorious ass on the cushion, leaving less than an inch between us. Tremors pulsed through my lower abdomen. What was he doing? What the hell was I doing? I should’ve never come to his apartment. Should’ve stopped at one beer and gone home. It was way too close for colleagues to sit together. Way too close.
“Franklin, I should head ho—”
He pinched my lips together with his thumb and forefinger. “Shush. It’s starting. You’re not allowed to talk for the next sixty minutes, got it?” He freed my lips and I started to protest until he flashed me a don’t-you-dare scowl.
“Relax and enjoy, Tate.” He leaned back, extended his legs in front of him and stretched his arms wide before clasping his hands behind his head.
I couldn’t pay attention to the ex-con-turned-small-town-sheriff on the big screen. It took serious concentration to keep my breaths steady, my heart rate normal, my hands to myself. Franklin was too warm and all-consuming next to me. So close, so male. My skin tingled with the need to either jump him or get the heck out of there.
The first commercial in, on his trot to the refrigerator, Franklin blessed me with a long hard gander at his round firm rear. I’d caught a glimpse or two, or three thousand, of his ass at work. How could I not? The way he filled out his slacks was nothing short of divine, but holy freaking cow, what he did to a pair of jeans—downright illicit. I couldn’t peel my eyes away. It was just—bam—there, accented by the slight curve of his small waist that spread into broad, muscled shoulders. He glanced at me before disappearing behind the wall.
Oops, busted.
I’m pretty sure he smirked, but the light was dim and I was buzzed, so I couldn’t be certain.
He returned with two glasses of ice water and placed them on the floor between us. I squealed when he sat down and grabbed my legs from under me, placing them over his own.
“Were you staring at my ass, Tate?” he asked, voice huskier than normal.
Gulp. “Yes.” Why lie? I couldn’t find the courage to look at him.
With strong sure hands, Franklin massaged my left foot.
“Why?” he asked, leaning toward me.
Why? What did he mean, why? Because it was effin’ perfect. Because I wanted to peel his jeans off and unwrap that derriere like a Christmas present. Rub it, hold it, leave claw marks. Gnaw on it like a piece of jerky. I found my voice again, along with the courage to meet him square in the eye. “You have a smoking hot ass, Mr. Reed. It begs to be ogled.”
“You’re blushing,” he half whispered, half moaned.
If he’d intended to ruffle my feathers, it worked. Lucky for me, enough liquid courage remained in my belly and flowed through my veins to meet his challenge head-on.
I shifted and wiggled my toes. “As a