Until he touches me.
He stops in front of me. His smile is gone, but there’s a definite heat in his eyes. Holding a bottle of water in one hand, he reaches forward with the other and brushes the hair off my shoulder, exposing my neck. It’s a gentle touch, but no less sensual. His fingers linger on my collarbone, causing chills to prickle my skin. I hold his eyes, fully expecting him to lean in for a kiss, but Leo doesn’t move an inch.
"Stay for a little while? I’ll take you home in an hour or so." His tries to whisper but it comes out gravelly—and panty-drenchingly sexy.
"Okay," I answer immediately. I never even had a fighting chance to decline.
"Good," he replies with a smirk. He holds my gaze as his hand travels down my arm before moving to my hip. Then he gives me a quick squeeze before releasing me to walk to the couch.
I stare into space, dazed by what just happened. Suddenly, I feel like I’m in way over my head. I should have gone on a test date with a balding accountant to brush up on my skills before stepping into the ring with this man. Leo is going to eat me for dinner and spit me out when he’s done, but I can’t even bring myself to care right now. He’s barely even touched me, yet I swear I have been hypnotized.
Leo is that fucking good.
"Sarah," he calls from the large, leather sofa.
I snap out of my trance and move to sit on the end farthest away from him, but he pointedly clears his throat just before I sit down. His arm is slung over the back of the couch, and his eyes flash from mine to the cushion beside him, making it clear where I’m supposed to be seated. Though I’m not completely sure I want to give him the opportunity to touch me again, I can’t even lie to myself. I immediately slide over to underneath his arm, thrilled by the idea of touching him again.
Leo flips on the large flat-screen mounted over the fireplace. He doesn’t say a word, but his body is relaxed as he drops his arm around my shoulders. It’s a far cry from my tense posture, but it’s infectious. My nerves calm as he begins drawing circles on my shoulder with his fingertips.
We must sit like that for at least half an hour. He finds some silly reality dating show and we simultaneously start making fun of the contestants. He seems to have the same sarcastic sense of humor I do, and just when I thought he was maxed on out the sexy scale, Leo becomes sexier.
"What the hell is wrong with her? She has known him for, like, ten minutes and she’s already sobbing that he didn’t pick her. She’s cute. Can’t she meet guys at a bar where she could get drunk and embarrass herself in private?" I ask while we watch the woman melt down on the TV.
"She might be cute, but she has crazy eyes. Any guy in a fifty-foot radius could tell she is crazy as all hell. The kind that would light your clothes on fire for picking her up five minutes late," he answers, and my body immediately goes stiff.
In other words, me.
He must feel me tense because he gives me a strangely reassuring squeeze and changes the subject. It’s confusing, but I’m so appreciative that I don’t bother to question it.
"Do you like sports?" He flips the TV to ESPN and I can’t help but laugh.
"Um, no." I look up to find him watching me intently. His brown eyes render me unable to look away.
"Good," he responds as his eyes flash to my mouth. "Then I’ll leave it on this channel." He whispers his lips across mine. Then he leans away to catch my eyes, seemingly to gauge my reaction to his advance, but I give him nothing. My expression is blank. It’s not a fa?ade. I don’t know how I feel about it, but his eyes draw me in.
However, a sharp pain in my stomach stops me in my tracks.
"Oh my God! I’m going to puke!" I jump off the couch and sprint to the bathroom.
"Well, that’s new." He follows me to the door, which I didn’t bother shutting in my race to the porcelain.
I violently expel the contents of my stomach into the toilet, only vaguely aware that Leo is in the room. I would love to be embarrassed, but my stomach is knotting to the point where I’m not sure I will survive. Leo who?
"I’m sorry," I manage to say between the heaves. I know he’s somewhere in the vicinity. He’s not touching me, but I can feel his presence.
"Oh shit," he groans as I hear his footsteps stumble from the bathroom. Well, okay then.
For what seems like seven years—maybe longer—I sit, dying on his bathroom floor. I have absolutely no grasp of time, nor can I move. I can’t even bring myself to be embarrassed that I’m puking in the lavish bathroom of a man I barely even know. All I know is that I need to start praying. I may not be a religious woman, but if I ever needed the Lord, it would be now.