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contemplative and sexy as hell. I wonder if he’ll make that same sound as he gazes up at me from between my legs.
              “I’m a gin man,” he comments, moving into my peripheral vision.
              Turning to look at him, I notice how he leans against the bar with an almost feline grace. He is contained energy and combustible fire all in one, and my body tingles at the thought of being pressed against him. It is clear now that the dark part of me, that part of desire and need, is ready to come out to play. Placing my glass down and smiling up at him, I let myself drink in the masculine beauty of his face. There are the same clean lines and sharp angles, but also an undeniable edge of danger and mischief. Oh, he is such a bad boy, and my body moistens at the idea of just how bad he could be.
              “Will that be a problem?” I ask with a voice now gone husky.
              He tilts his head and leans in a little, and I know it’s not because the music of the jukebox has made it hard for him to hear what I said. There is a sharp intelligence in his eyes that tells me he never misses anything. The smile that slowly spreads across his face lets me know that indeed it will not be a problem.
              “I try to make it a habit to never be problematic with beautiful women.”
              I love to flirt. I think of it not only as a meeting of the minds but an extension of the body as well. There is a way one communicates while flirting, a subtle slide of words and inflection of tone that alludes to the gentle glide of limbs and skin upon skin that really gets me hot. It doesn’t really matter what the person is saying to me—he could be reading the dictionary for all I care—but if he has that ebb and flow of sound that awakens and entices all of my senses, I’m primed and ready. His statement wasn’t that clever and it wasn’t the most insightful, but it was delivered in just the right way to have my body humming with anticipation.
              “Smart man,” I reply, leaning in ever so slightly toward him.
              I watch as his twinkling eyes glance ever so briefly at my lips and a little lower to the swell of my breast pushing against my crisp button-up shirt. When his eyes meet mine again, I see the look of appreciation and I heat up even more. He’s smooth, I have to give him that, and the thought of just how smooth he can be causes me to lean a little more toward him.
              “I try,” he chuckles.
              There is a rough quality to the sound that dances across my skin, making me wonder what other parts of him are deliciously rough. I look discreetly at his hands and wonder if they are calloused in texture. I love a man with calloused hands, and I think it would be such a waste if a man with a body that looks as if it was carved from granite didn’t have the hands to match. Looking back up into his face, I know he noticed me looking, and when he discreetly places one of his hands on the bar next to me I smirk at him.
              “I figured the lighting isn’t that great,” he says with that mischievous quality of his.
              Taking that for the invitation it is, I reach over and pick up his hand and trace a finger over his palm. The skin is firm and solid, and though not roughly textured to the point of being leathery, there is enough of bite to the feel of him to let me know he doesn’t spend his days keeping himself pampered. When he steps even closer to me, I jump at the feel of his other hand resting on my knee.
              “What’s good for the goose and all,” he whispers in my ear.
              I should push him away. Play the game of shocked sensibilities and feigned concern, but he’s too hot and I’m too horny.
              “How good for the goose?” I whisper back into his ear as I tug him a little closer.
              I can