My mysterious visitor’s drink arrived, and he quirked a brow in amusement and raised his glass in a salute. “To your grandfather—a man of excellent taste.”
I snorted, but raised my own glass to match his. As they clinked together, his fingers brushed against mine, and I felt a spark leap where our skin met. He must have felt it too—he started, looking up at me, and our eyes locked. His eyes were so deep, golden-brown like molasses swirled in honey, and they warmed me up inside with a heat like the sun, spreading out from my heart down to my toes, and up to my head until I was dizzy, my heart pounding. I wanted nothing more than to sink into those eyes. I wanted nothing more than to keep touching his fingers.
I wanted nothing more than to invite him up to my room, then and there.
Focus, Ally! You have a presentation tomorrow! No rando is worth throwing away your entire career for a roll in the hay.
Maybe the whiskey was just getting to me.
I pulled away hastily and downed my drink, all of it this time. This sample had more of a honey flavor, less of a bite. If I were writing copy I’d call it ‘soothing, charming, a genteel liquor.’ Since I wasn’t, though, I didn’t pull any punches. “The truth is, though, my grandfather and his friends aren’t the customers of the future. You see this same trend in advertising for comic books—the company panders to its original base—not even all of the original base but a small, vocal fraction of it—and alienates all of its potential new customers in the process.”
“Tell me more about what you think,” he said intently.
Which would have been catnip for me even if I hadn’t been storing up a host of criticisms that went unheard at work, and even if he hadn’t been so damned hot. I didn’t need telling twice.
“This is your typical Knox buyer.” I launched into an imitation of my grandfather. “‘I jus’ don’ know how much longer they can be ‘spectin’ this centralized government t’ last. Times wuz much simpler when a man jus’ brewed his own whiskey and shot at the revenooers.’”
The man laughed, and waved a hand in acknowledgment of my point before raising a challenging eyebrow. “So what would you do if you had control of the rebrand? Throw in some hashtags and make a Facebook page? Get a celebrity endorsement?”
“As if,” I snorted. “Millennials might be self-absorbed, but we can still see through pandering just fine, thanks.”
“Oh?” His thumb brushing over my knuckles was an invitation, and a challenge, and both made my breath catch in my throat. “A pink label, then?”
I watched his eyes dip to the side and a lazy grin spread across his face, and I knew that he had spotted the pink strap of my bra peeking out from the side of my short-sleeved button-up shirt.
“Strange as it might seem, the color pink doesn’t brainwash women into buying things,” I replied, trying not to let on how breathless he had made me. Trying not to imagine his hands instead of his eyes on that pink bra strap, easing it slowly from my shoulder as he kissed my neck.
I raised the stakes, slipping my foot out of my shoe to stroke his ankle, and then moved it slightly higher. This was really out of character for me, but something about our conversation, the flush of whiskey in my cheeks, the way he was looking at me…I felt emboldened in a way I never did at work or even when I was out with my friends.
I was rewarded with a flush of heat in his gaze, his pupils dilating as his grip tightened slightly on mine. He leaned forward, close enough that I could have kissed him without rising from the seat. His lips were so full, they looked so soft—
He was so close I could feel the heat of his breath as he murmured his next words: “So, tell me, what would you do?” He picked up his glass and drank, the muscles in his throat working as he swallowed it down. I didn’t look away. It was safe to assume my panties were on fire, and there was only one way to put that fire out.
And you know what? I decided I’d been overthinking things at work. Either I had confidence in myself or I didn’t, and doing some last-minute drinking wasn’t going to change a damn thing about my presentation tomorrow.
But some really good sex just might give me an edge.
I lifted my own glass and downed the remaining Knox. My decision was made.
It was go time.
I leaned towards him until our lips were barely a millimeter apart. “Do you really want to know what I’d do with this brand?” I whispered. Before he could answer, I brushed my lips against the corner of his mouth. He tasted like smoke and cinnamon and danger, and I liked it. “Or would you rather know what I’d do with you?”
His eyes gleamed, and I knew his answer even before he spoke.
#
Why had I never made out with a stranger before?
Pinned up against the wall of my hotel room, I pondered that very question as my still-nameless about-to-be-conquest nibbled and sucked at my neck, eliciting shrieks and giggles and moans as he found my most sensitive spots. His hands dug possessively into my hips, and I could feel his rising erection against my thigh as he pushed into me, heat flooding me down below as my nipples tightened against his chest.
I was hungry for his skin, starving, and my own hands found their way under his shirt to knead at the muscles of his back and then slip under his boxers to grip his perfectly sculpted ass. I licked at his neck just below his ear, and he growled, his head rising to claim my lips once more. I moaned eagerly into his mouth, opening in response to his demanding tongue. His lips were just as soft as I had imagined, and if we were both occasionally missing where we meant to put them, it was all right—we were tipsy and turned-on and laughing, and on top of the world.
“Eep!” I shrieked as he scooped me up in his strong arms. “Dude, you are drunk, you are not supposed to be—I don’t know, doing things like operating heavy machinery—”