Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(13)
“What are you doing?”
I turn to find Grace wearing a tight black dress with a low V-neck, a long silver necklace’s pendant resting between her full breasts. Her shoes are strappy and high, and her hair is pinned up on one side. Diamond studs wink from her earlobes.
“You look amazing.” I’m too stunned to say anything more original than that.
She gestures with the shawl and handbag she’s holding in one hand. “Putting away someone’s dishes is a touch intimate, don’t you think?”
“Gracie, if that’s what you consider intimate, I have a thing or two to show you.” I place the final fork in the drawer.
Her lips twist to one side in amusement.
“Ready to go?”
“I have to brush my teeth and put on my lipstick.”
“No lipstick.” I shake my head. “I want to kiss you before we leave.”
Her bright green eyes light with what I hope is the same lust saturating my bloodstream. She shakes her head as if regaining her footing before backing toward the downstairs bathroom and shutting herself inside.
Two minutes later, I’m waiting on her couch when the water stops running and the door pops open. She hesitates when she spots me, glancing at her front door. I don’t go to her. I’m curious what she’ll do if I stay put.
Turns out she walks over to the couch.
“Now I’m ready,” she says.
I offer my hand. She thinks I’m asking her to help me up, but I tug her to me instead. In one smooth motion, Grace’s ass is on my lap. Her breasts lift, taking in a breath of anticipation, as she looks down at me. I test the softness of her curls before I palm her neck. I angle her face closer to mine.
An inch away from making our dreams come true, I whisper against her mouth, “Since you didn’t choose a package, I’m going to have to ask. Kiss or no? What say you, Gracie?”
But she doesn’t say anything. She lowers her lips to mine for a soft, sweet, slow, sinful kiss. No tongue, but my pants stir, my budding hard-on nudging her hip.
She pulls back first, her lashes lowering as she looks at my mouth.
“Silly Davis,” she purrs through her smile. “Didn’t you notice I didn’t put on lipstick?”
Chapter 5
Grace
Honky Tonk is not Davis Price’s style. He’s not dressed for this club, but he also doesn’t care, which I admire. He hasn’t once looked around at the denim-clad crowd and wondered if he should have worn something different. Even I did that, and I’m the one who suggested we come here.
He’s currently leaning against the bar, longneck in hand, watching me dance.
I like how he watches me dance.
He watches like I’m the only woman in here, and I’m not. I share the dance floor with at least twenty other women, most of whom are younger than me and wearing short, frayed cutoffs and knee-high cowboy boots. We keep rhythm together, line dancing in formation. They’re good, but so am I.
Davis and I went to a five-star restaurant with black tablecloths and low candles and menus in black leather binders. We drank French wine and ate fine, expensive food. We chatted during our meal, some of it polite, and some of it similar to the banter we participate in on any given night at McGreevy’s.
Being around him is eerily comfortable.
After we finished eating, he asked what I wanted to do. Rather than order dessert, I suggested an out-of-the-way hole-in-the-wall bar that I knew didn’t carry Sam Adams.
I peer through my lashes as I wiggle my hips to the beat. Davis, in his suit, sips a Budweiser as he stands in a sea of men wearing jeans and flannels. He smirks as he drinks. He knows I’m putting him through his paces, but he doesn’t seem to mind the challenge.
Why am I putting him through his paces?
Because Davis is used to life being easy. I’ve witnessed his dating rituals and habits firsthand. I’ve served buttery nipples and shots of tequila for him to deliver to his blonde du jour. Davis doesn’t have to try to get laid. I want him to know that with me, he’s going to have to try. I’m not easy. Not that I’m a prude or anything.
I don’t mind having sex on a first date. I like sex. I like Davis. I bet sex with Davis is as delicious as his full bottom lip tasted back at my place. I haven’t kissed him again since, but I’m going to. And then I’m going to go home with him.
I hide a smile as I put my arms in the air to do another spin. Over my shoulder, I notice Davis relinquish his beer and wade into the gyrating crowd. He doesn’t stop at the sidelines. No, no. He walks right into the center of the line dance. He weaves around girls tossing their hair and waving their arms, snagging my waist as the DJ spins another fast-beat song. The women, my tribe for the three-and-a-half-minute dance, dissipate. Some vacate the floor altogether; others move closer and dance in tight circles of three or four.
Davis pulls me in to slow-dance to a song that doesn’t require a slow dance. A fast-dancing couple nearly runs me over. His hand flattens on my back and he holds me close, the corner of his lips hitching.
“I’ve got you, Gracie Lou.”
I smile, unable to contain my happiness at his attention. Wrists around his neck, I cock my head to one side and savor the slide of his arms at my waist anchoring me to him. He’s doing little more than swaying, but I can tell by the way we rock that he’s matching the song’s rhythm just fine. I wouldn’t be surprised if under the suit he’s sporting Davis Price can cut a rug.