Shimmy Bang Sparkle(13)

I grimaced. “Want me to find some ice? Go buy you a snow cone?”

“I’m good, beautiful. Promise.” He made a fist and then released it, and repeated that a few times, like he was trying to bring circulation back into his fingertips or wake them up from a dead sleep. He slid the six-pack over with his boot and grabbed two more beers. With expert precision, and even using his surely numb hand, he popped off the tops using the metal edge of the chair as a bottle opener.

“I shouldn’t,” I said as he handed me mine.

“Why’s that?” he asked, taking a swig of his. “What happens after three beers?”

A few rows over someone shushed us, but he just smiled into his bottle and waited for me to answer.

Normally, the answer would be, nothing much at all. It wasn’t like I had three beers, ripped off all my clothes, and began dancing on tables like some Zumba version of Coyote Ugly. But this felt different. Maybe it was the beers I’d had already, maybe it was the heist on screen, or maybe, just maybe, it was him. Whatever it was, I had a feeling I just . . . shouldn’t. This man was so alluring, I couldn’t be accountable for my actions. My heart was already pounding from him and the movie together. The warmish Indian beer at the Crown Prince plus two IPAs were only going to make me do something I’d regret. He ran his hand down his jawline, and his stubble made a gritty scratching noise.

Or maybe . . . not regret at all.

I didn’t say any of that. I just stared into his gorgeous eyes. The shadows were long, and the streetlamps had started to come on, bringing out new colors in the light-brown centers of his irises. He leaned into me, taking my cheek in one hand. The tips of his fingers pressed gently into my jaw. The closer he got, the more the noises around us faded away, like someone was slowly shutting a door, leaving us alone in a room together. The security doors that had been intended to protect the Pink Panther dropped, and the Lady Phantom rolled out of the way in the nick of time. But that felt so very, very far away; all that I was aware of was his hand on my cheek and the pressure of his forehead as he tipped his head into mine. “I gotta kiss you, Stella.”

I slid down into my chair, and it creaked under me. “OK,” I whispered back.

“I just have to.”

The way he said it was like I was the most irresistible thing on the planet, like I was all the potato chips, and all the Nerds, and all the Laffy Taffy, and all the curry, and all the caramel apples rolled into one.

And then it happened. His lips met mine, and his tongue pushed mine aside. No open-mouth awkward nonsense, no hesitation. He inhaled deeply, like he was trying to learn my perfume or the scent of my shampoo. The kiss went from passionate to downright dirty in two seconds flat.

There was French-kissing, and then there was . . .

Oui.

Oui.

Oui, oui, oui, oui, oui.

The theft of the Pink Panther might as well have been happening on some other planet. His warm breath warmed my already-hot cheeks, and he growled into my mouth as he leaned into me. His hand was so big that his fingers cradled the back of my neck. Mercy. His hand moved up my body, the tips of his fingers trailing along my bare stomach, then leaving me briefly, before gripping something behind me. The back of my chair came forward slightly as he pulled on it, then the whole thing, the whole plastic and woven nylon lawn chair, began to recline. The leg rest swung out, lifting my legs with it, and he stood bent beside my chair. My body became horizontal, and he bent low over me. We went down, down, down together . . . and I wrapped my arms around him like we were slipping into a pool.

I snickered into the kiss, and I felt his mouth tighten as he smiled, but he wasn’t smiling for long. I hooked my legs around him, ankles locked. There were no words and no whispers—we were down to pants and groans and moans. It was growls and nods and everything inside me saying more, more, more. I ran my fingertip along the spot where his boxers met his body, that rippling elastic next to his solid muscles. He growled and inhaled hard. And then pulled away. I tried to follow him, but he had my head pinned back, one hand to my cheek, his thumb against my jaw. I was utterly at his mercy.

He gave me a slow, sultry Eskimo kiss. He pressed his hips into my stomach, and I felt him hard against me, right through my jeans and his pants. I want this man. I need this man. “I think we should get the fuck out of here, Stella.” His voice was gruff and gravelly, dripping with desire and dominance and I know exactly what I’m going to do to you next. He raised his face from mine an inch. “I’m gonna take you back to my place and rock your fucking world.”

I made a little muffled squeak. He was pure testosterone. One hundred percent manly confidence. My moans were not my own with him so close. But then he got even closer. And closer, and closer. His stubble scratched my cheek and made a faint noise like sandpaper touching a soft piece of pine. Gently, he traced the edge of my ear with his tongue, making me shiver. Making me quiver. Making me absolutely helpless, because there was a lot I could resist, but a man who looked like him, doing my favorite thing to my ear? “Yesssssss.”

“You get the apples. I’ll get the beer,” he said.

I ran my hands in a V down his back, which was when I remembered: the shop door, the oxygen compressor, the Advil. “You’re sure your back’s not hurting?”

He growled again and tugged on my earlobe with his teeth. “The only thing I’m hurting to do right now is you.”