The Crush (8)

I wanted to knee him in the balls. I would have, too, but honestly … there was so much material on my skirt, I wasn’t sure it was possible.

“I’m going to walk away,” I told him. “You are not going to follow, and if you do, I will lodge your testicles up into your body with this bottle. Do you understand?”

He blinked, and I wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no, or an “I’m too drunk to comprehend anything logical,” so I decided to take it as a yes.

Bottle gripped in my hand, I slid past him, breathing out a huge sigh of relief when I cleared the obstacle of the bench.

Just before I turned fully, I saw him walk around the corner. He was tall, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, and his legs long. Because of the lighting in the room, I couldn’t tell what color his hair was, just that it was dark. His mask was simple, covering the top half of his face completely, highlighting the razor-sharp line of his jaw.

He was a mood too, right in the same alley that I resided in. Mysterious and almost unbearably sexy.

At the sight of him, something flickered behind my ribs.

Awareness. And heat.

Unfortunately, Dick the dick had to ruin this entrance too. His sweaty hand clamped on my arm, halting my progress.

“What is your problem?” I hissed, attempting to wrench my arm out of his grip. “Let me go.”

“What’s your name?” he said, sounding a lot drunk and a little desperate. Gawd, I was never wearing a push-up bra again. Those puppies were dangerous.

Mr. Mysterious and Sexy called out. “Hey, back off,” he growled.

But Dick, he didn’t do so well with simple instructions because his hand tightened on my arm.

That’s when I swung the bottle, in a beautiful underhand motion, and it caught Richard right in his precious jewels.

The sound of anguish that left his mouth was a thing of beauty, and he crumpled—like a wet paper doll—onto the floor of the museum.

“Huh.” I brandished the bottle, staring at it with appreciation under the lights of the room. “That worked even better than I thought.”

Dick curled into a ball, holding his junk and moaning.

Mr. Mysterious stood at my back. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

His voice was low, and even though I was taller than average at five nine, my feet clad in exceptional heels, he cleared my height by a solid four inches. A shiver slipped quietly down my spine.

Okay. This was new. Shivering at a stranger’s voice was not the norm for me, no matter how hot their jaws were.

For all I knew, he was a serial killer.

“I’m fine,” I said, tilting my head as we both stared down at Dick. “Do you think I permanently injured him?”

“I hope so.”

“Are you intimidated?” I asked.

“I probably should be,” he murmured. “But no, I find myself quite impressed.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Not enough people find competency sexy, and I’ve never understood that.”

Behind the mask, he had dark eyes, and they sparked at my reply. His lips, which were not something I normally paid attention to on a man, only held the slightest hint of a smile. And when he spoke, his voice was a pleasing, low rumble. “You should hold on to that bottle. It’s rough out there.”

Turning slowly, I looked up at him as he took a respectful step backward.

“Thank you for being willing to step in.” I twirled the bottle before tucking it under my arm. “In case I missed my target, it would’ve been nice to have some muscle.”

He hummed, and I wasn’t quite sure what the sound meant. He glanced beyond me to where Dick was up on his knees now, a hand braced on the bench as he breathed hard. “I don’t think your aim was ever a concern.” His eyes moved back to my face, and he did a quick study of what he saw, gaze never once dropping below my neck. “Shall we?”

Mr. Mysterious held out his arm, and carefully, I set my free hand onto the crook of his elbow. “A change of scenery would be nice,” I told him. “I’m Adaline, by the way.”

He tilted his head down toward mine as we walked slowly toward the main part of the fundraiser. “I was afraid to ask.”

“Afraid?”

He shrugged. “The last person who asked your name ended up writhing on the floor.”

I managed to smother my hysterical laugh, tightening the grip of my fingers on the firm muscle of his arm.

He was an athlete, of that I had no doubt. I could only see the bottom portion of his face, but the sheer proportions of his body were reserved for the kind that graced the very elite. And despite the fact that he was a complete stranger, I found myself relaxing as we wandered back into the main corridor of the museum. He didn’t rush us along, matching his long-legged stride to what I was capable of in my heels.

“You’re not going to tell me your name?” I asked. “It’s the polite thing to do.”

He glanced quickly at my face, then away again. “Not just yet.”

Definitely an athlete then. And one who appreciated a flair of secrecy, it seemed.

“I suppose the masquerade does help one appreciate a little mystery,” I admitted. “This isn’t my normal attire, if you can imagine.”

“I can imagine all sorts of things,” he murmured, like I wasn’t meant to hear. And my heart stuttered a little.