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  “Not a serial killer,” he said. “I promise. You can call your friends and stay on the line with them on the way, if that makes you feel better.”

  She still nibbled.

  He bit back a sigh. “I’ll park and wait until your Lyft gets here.” Ben turned back to his car and started to get in. He’d seen a spot just around the corner.

  “Why are you here, Ben?”

  The sound of his name in her voice, a little huskier than he’d expected, made a shiver skate down his spine. His nostrils flared. “You said you were drunk and without a ride. I needed . . .”

  Her eyes widened, and she stepped closer. “Needed what?” she breathed.

  “To make sure you got home safe,” he snapped, glaring at the people gathered in front of the bar, coupled off and talking or kissing, the shadows where who knew what threat lurked.

  “I’m perfectly capable of getting home.”

  “You said you were drunk.” A beat. “And alone.”

  Her mouth hitched up. Then she patted his arm, brushed by him, and got into his car.

  The slam of the door startled him out of his shock, and he spun, got into the driver’s seat, and pulled down the street, navigating his way back to the freeway. “Where to?” he asked, when he realized he didn’t know which direction to go.

  She gave him directions, a far sight south of the bar, south of his place in the city.

  “You don’t seem very drunk,” he said after a few moments.

  Stef rolled her head on the seat, turning to look at him. He saw that her pupils were wide and dark pools in the moonlight before he forced his eyes back to the road. “It’s just—” She broke off, was quiet for long enough that he wanted to press, but then she spoke again. “I’m really good at faking I’m okay.” Then just as quickly as that admission came, she cleared her throat, looked back at the road, and her voice went chipper. “But I couldn’t drive home, anyway. My car is at the restaurant we ate dinner at.” She named a popular Mexican place in the area.

  “I see.”

  He didn’t see.

  Not at all.

  But her lips were painted red, her curves were in the seat next to him, and he had a long drive ahead of them.

  All of a sudden, his night was looking up.

  Chapter Eleven

  Stef

  She still had a lovely floaty feeling, but she knew that her being in this car wasn’t her drunk mind hallucinating.

  Ben was here.

  He’d come because he was worried she was sloppy and on the street without a safe way to get home.

  Her heart was . . . vulnerable.

  Oh boy, was it vulnerable.

  Her kryptonite was someone taking care of her, looking out for her without her asking. Without her begging.

  And even her margarita brain could recognize that it was a weakness, that it was stupid to have gotten in a car with a man she didn’t know, to give him her address, to have drunk messaged him in the first place.

  Stupid. So stupid.

  Except . . . his eyes.

  They were gentle, and then he’d told her to call a friend and stay on the line while he drove, and a muscle in his jaw had ticked, and she’d wanted to stroke the muscle twitching in that jaw, to feel the bristles on her fingertips.

  And he’d gone out of his way to come help her.

  So, here she was. In the passenger seat of a sleek sports car, its engine rumbling beneath her as he drove through the night. It was clear, the moon bright and gleaming, the fog having stayed curled over the ocean, not invading inland yet. That fog would probably creep inward at some point, but for right now, she was enjoying the gleam of the moon, casting everything in silver.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Not to her.

  So she said, “Not to me.” And then she said something that she certainly wouldn’t have said if she’d been stone-cold sober, something she would have been too tongue-tied to say without alcohol. “I don’t want to go home yet.”

  His gaze drifted to hers again. “Where do you want to go?”

  She shrugged.

  Quiet then, “I know a place.”

  She inhaled sharply. She should tell him to forget it, to take her home, to forget about this and her drunk message and her fantasies. Because her heart was vulnerable, and if he continued being nice, then she was going to fall for him.

  Just like she’d fallen for Jeremy.

  And look how that turned out.

  But instead, she asked, “What kind of place?”

  “A quiet one.”

  Her lips twitched. “Where you can pull out those serial killer skills?”

  He chuckled, and the sound rolled over her, warm fingers trailing over her skin. “Quiet, but not private. Plenty of people around to keep those in check.”

  Stef’s brows drew together, confusion and curiosity threading through her. “Is it an orgy?” she asked suspiciously, though not realizing until after it was out there that an orgy probably wouldn’t be quiet.

  Ben was, though.

  Until he burst out laughing, and then that sound was warm, like rough palms on her naked skin, a hard cock between her thighs, sliding home. She shifted on her seat, legs pressing together, heat making her pussy slick.

  “Not an orgy,” he murmured.

  But he wouldn’t be opposed to it? her brain helpfully chimed in.

  Or unhelpfully? Because Ben was wearing a tight navy T-shirt and gray sweats that clung to powerful thighs. His biceps were solid, his shoulders broad and something she could grab on to.

  He might be the sexiest man she had ever seen.

  No, he was the sexiest man she’d ever seen.

  “And not a creepy basement?” she blurted.

  His grin flashed in the moonlight. “Not a basement. But dark and quiet and talking is frowned upon.” He slanted a glance in her direction. “You in?”

  Her teeth found her bottom lip, nibbled lightly.

  Then she inhaled, exhaled, and thought, fuck it all. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was Ben and his eyes, his smile, the fantasy of his stubble on her skin.

  She met his eyes. “I’m in.”

  This was not what she’d expected.

  Not at all.

  She glanced up at the illuminated sign overhead, a vertical set of letters spelling out Cinema, at the white rectangle, black letters spelling out the title of the latest Sci-Fi flick, and felt her heart squeeze tight.

  He remembered.

  The movie theater was small, only one screen, an old-fashioned box office encased in glass, the smell of popcorn filling the air.

  “Still in?” he asked, having returned from the box office with two tickets in hand. He held them up, tiny strips of white paper that were dwarfed by his large hands.

  “That depends.”

  His head tilted to the side, the question written in his eyes.

  “Will you let me buy you popcorn?”

  His brows drew together. “You want to buy me popcorn?”

  Her heart sank. “You don’t like popcorn?”

  “I love popcorn.”

  She frowned. “Then what’s the problem?”

  “You want to buy me popcorn?” he repeated.

  Ah. She understood where this was going. “You got the tickets. You rescued me. You’re driving me around on a whim. The least I can do is get some popcorn.” She took his hand, fingers weaving together. There were hard callouses on his palms, and she wondered where he’d gotten them from, what kind of work he did. His profile had just said business owner.

  But his hands seemed to scream something physical.

  Suddenly, she was imagining him in flannel and a hard hat, or maybe flannel and an ax, all lumbersexual and yummy.

  “Come on,” she murmured, still filled with that fluffy, fuzzy margarita feeling, although the buzz was fading, and Stef couldn’t help but wonder if it was more Ben Buzz and less anything to d
o with tequila.

  “Come on,” she said again, tugging him toward the doors. “I’ll even spring for candy.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ben

  There was a giant tub of popcorn between them, two huge sodas settled in the cupholders on opposite armrests.

  And candy.

  A KitKat and licorice filled with something tart.

  More sugar than he’d consumed in years, especially when considering the gallon of soda at his left arm.

  But Stef was happily munching away, blasting through the popcorn, and he had to get in there or he might miss the buttery goodness. And then there was the fact that she’d lifted the armrest between them the moment they’d sat down, bringing her lush, gorgeous body close enough for him to smell the floral scent of her, to trace every glorious, curvy line with his eyes, to maybe even touch if he worked up the courage.

  “You going to have some?” she asked through a mouthful of popcorn, holding up the bucket.

  And fuck, she was cute.

  Again.

  He took a handful, shoved it in his mouth, and then, not so casually, slid his arm around her shoulders. She glanced up at him, the flicker of amusement telling him she was well-aware of what he was doing, but she didn’t comment, just shifted a little closer, her shoulder tucking under his.

  And his cock twitched.

  No, not twitched.

  It went hard.

  And he was wearing fucking sweatpants.

  Carefully, he took the bucket and shifted it over to his lap, covering his erection and knowing that he was a fucking pervert when the barest touch of her shoulder to his caused his dick to flare to attention.

  “Thief,” she accused lightly, but she didn’t move or take the popcorn back.

  Thank fuck.

  Instead, she continued eating and then offered him a piece of KitKat.

  He took it, nibbled as she devoured three-quarters of the pack. “You going to puke in my car later?”

  Her head tilted against his arm, ponytail a silken sheet on his bare skin. Lips curving, she stared up at him. “I’ve been told I resemble a Hoover.”

  “As in the vacuum?”

  Her mouth tipped up further. “Exactly.”

  “And no post-vacuuming puking?”

  Her smile didn’t fade. “None,” she murmured, and then it did. “Ben?” she asked quietly as the lights had gone down.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for this.”

  Now, he was the one who was smiling. “You’re welcome,” he said softly, brushing her hair off her face, tucking a strand behind her ear.

  She’d been riveted.

  Absolutely riveted by the movie, so focused on the story that he’d missed most of it. Because he’d been too absorbed with her. The soft gasps when the tension grew taut, the music building, some plot point blaring to life and making her jump in his arms. The way she cried when one of the main characters died. How she rested against him and sighed in happiness when the spaceship made it back to Earth, most of the crew intact.

  Then the credits were rolling, and she was sitting up, and he hated that she’d left him, even though it was just to gather up her trash, even though she was still there, just two feet away. But not in his arms.

  Because he liked her there.

  “Have you sobered up?” he asked as the lights came back on and they began moving up the aisle.

  Her ponytail fluttered behind her as she turned her head to look at him. “Yes.” A frown. “Why?”

  “If so, I can drive you back to your car,” he offered. “That way, you don’t have to get a ride in the morning.”

  Was that a flicker of disappointment over her face?

  It was there and gone faster than he could process it, and then she was walking again. “Oh, okay,” she whispered, and he barely heard her. But he did hear the sad creep into her tone, and yes, the disappointment that had his stomach clenching tight. “That would be great, actually.”

  One arm held the empty popcorn container, along with her nearly empty cup of soda, his nearly full one, and the candy wrappers.

  But he had one arm free.

  And that was the one he wrapped around Stef’s waist, the one he used to draw her back against him, to turn her so every inch of those curves were pressed to him, her breath puffing against his lips.

  “What are you doing?” she breathed.

  “First date.”

  Her brows lifted, but she melted against him, and he was hard again, nearly shaking with the need to claim her mouth.

  “What is?” she asked. “Do you want to go out—”

  “Kiss,” he managed, desire making it difficult to form words. But he’d managed that one, and it was a fucking relief.

  “Kiss?”

  “Yes. Kiss,” he said, and through some herculean effort managed to add, “I’m going to kiss you.” He slid his hand up, between her shoulder blades, and weaved it into her hair, probably screwing up her ponytail but unable to summon a care. Not when her lips were right there.

  Not when she pressed closer.

  Not when she took the bucket from him and dropped it to the floor.

  “Okay then,” she breathed, wrapping her arms around his neck and raising onto tiptoe. “Then kiss me.”

  Ben lowered his head, slanted his lips across hers, and felt . . .

  Nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  No, not nothing. It was . . . peace and coming home and a dark, starlit sky on a summer evening. It was even and steady and balanced—

  Stef moaned, her lips parting, her tongue darting out to touch the seam of his mouth.

  And the world exploded—or at least his did. He was staring straight into the sun and the warmth was washing over him. He’d felt nothing and now he felt everything. His nerves were on fire, his dick was granite. She tasted sweet and salty with a floral note beneath. His hands roamed, taking in those curves as she thrust her tongue into his mouth and stroke it against his. The kiss—she was fucking glorious, and he was on fire and—

  A throat cleared.

  Loudly enough that it told him that it wasn’t the first time the person had tried to get their attention.

  Stef stiffened in his arms, her wide eyes coming to his.

  He released her, bent to pick up the bucket, needing it because . . . fucking erections like he was twelve years old. Positioning it in front of him, he turned to face the person who interrupted them. The usher appeared all of eighteen, and though his cheeks were pink, he didn’t look at them as he pushed the trash can by them.

  “Did you want,” Stef asked, her own color high, “to throw—”

  Ben shook his head.

  “You—”

  He glanced down, back up, lifted a brow.

  Her cheeks went pinker. “Ah.”

  Fucking cute.

  Fucking not helping his situation.

  “Did you want—”

  His eyes shot to hers. So help him God, if she tried to get rid of the popcorn container, he was going to use her as a shield. Especially since it didn’t seem like his erection was going to recede anytime soon.

  Not with her swollen lips. Not with her fucking squeezable ass . . . right there.

  So not helping.

  “—to go back to my place?”

  His cock surged again, and he almost felt dizzy from the amount of blood gathering in the southern portion of his body. As thus, it took him a moment to gather his thoughts, to be able to speak.

  Enough for him to see that disappointment creep into her face.

  “Or not—”

  He took her hand, drew her against him, rocking his hips against her ass, knowing it was crude and not giving a shit since it felt so fucking good.

  “My place is closer,” he breathed into her ear.

  She shivered, ass tilted back. “Okay then,” she murmured.

  Then she took his hand and led him from the theater.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Stefr />
  He held her hand the entire way back to his condo, one rough finger stroking the inside of her wrist, shivers sliding up her arm, through her middle, and down between her thighs.

  She was dripping wet.

  She was aching.

  Then he parked and opened her door, tugging her up and toward a bank of elevators. A swipe of a card. A code punched into the keypad.

  The steel doors opened.

  They stepped inside.

  And then he was on her.

  His body pinning her against one wall, his hands beneath her ass, lifting her so she was propped onto the railing, her legs wrapped around his hips, the fabric between them doing nothing to blunt the hard jut of his cock.

  She rocked against it, and he hissed out a breath, the warm puff of air hitting her lips just a heartbeat before he pressed his mouth to hers.

  Another kiss, sinking deep into her, pulling her into another dimension where everything felt right and perfect and . . . as though she’d known this man for an eternity. As though she could continue kissing him forever.

  The doors opened on an absurd ping, and they took a while to pull away from each other, Ben finally drawing back enough to clamp a hand around one of the metal panels when it began to close on them. Grinning, he tugged her off the bar, leading her out of the small metal death box and into the hall . . . or not the hall.

  Into an . . . entryway.

  Stumbling, she glanced around, brain trying to process mirrors and marble and a large thick white rug that had to be hell to keep clean. “This is your place?”

  “Yup.”

  His fingers tight on hers, he drew her down the hall, past a huge kitchen with sleek white cabinets and gray countertops, past a sunken living room filled with a giant TV and a large gray sectional, past a—

  Growling filled the air.

  “Fuck,” Ben hissed, yanking her behind him. “Careful,” he said. “I’ll grab her and—”

  A tiny, fluffy white ball of adorableness sprinted down the hall, her growl far too fierce for her size, the sound of it echoing down all the marble.

  He bent, but the pup dodged around him, fur ruffling under his fingers when he released her hand to snag the dog.