To call him a mistake misses the point by a mile.
His jaw, a smooth, sharp blade. His throat, exactly long enough to keep me interested. His lips, good god, I want to paint them red and then kiss the color off. I try not to remember his fingers. It’s safer to not remember.
Now he leans into the table; our eyes meet. Tobacco, single malt scotch, and sweet warm skin. His eyes flick down to my discarded heels and my bare feet and then slide up my body.
“You wanna dance?” His hand folds around my wrist.
And I remember.
