But damn if she didn’t down her third drink and hand him the empty glass, staring at it with her disapproving teacher look.
Chapter 6
Three drinks.
Three.
Champagne and absinthe, whatever that was.
Well, she needed some liquid courage.
Charlotte had never seen such a display before in her life. She was supposed to be the rule follower. The one who urged her friends to stop “borrowing” the luggage racks from the hotel downtown and using them as scooters because, well, they were for luggage. She could have as much fun as the next gal on a girls’ night, but this place was something else. It was debauchery.
Now Torr was following suit, drinking his whiskey in record time, or what would have been record time for her.
She couldn’t stand the stuff.
Had she really asked him to dance? To . . . this? Charlotte loved dance music, but not so much techno.
She had clearly lost it.
First of all, she couldn’t stand the guy. He was even more high-handed than her father, and that was saying something. If she dated someone like him, insomuch as Torr was likely to date anyone, she’d probably do the one thing she’d sworn she’d never, ever, ever do.
Become her mother.
She loved her mom, really she did, all of their baggage aside. But a lifetime of being ordered about was not for her.
The only explanation for her invitation was the alcohol. Or the trippy atmosphere.
“I would like to dance,” Torr said, clicking his empty glass onto the counter. “Let’s go.”
And before she could explain that she’d taken temporary leave of her senses, Torr grabbed her hand.
Grabbed. As in, wrapped his hand around hers like a vise. A warm, hard, all-encompassing vise that hinted at what else might happen were she willing to give up her control.
The dance floor vibrated beneath her feet as the “dancers” around them flirted with taking their grinding a step too far. She still couldn’t believe all this was legal.
Holy shit.
Alessandra’s favorite phrase was perfect for this situation. She was about to tell Torr that this certainly wasn’t the kind of dancing she’d had in mind, but then he started to move.
She really should say she’d changed her mind. Lie and say she hated to dance, but she wasn’t blind. Or completely without nerve endings. Those shoulders, those legs, that butt . . .
Her body went all Brutus on her. Her hands reached up to cross around his neck while his came to rest just above her hip.
She swallowed, noticing his shoulders were as hard and unforgiving as his hands, and made herself look away.
And immediately jolted.
“You’re overthinking this,” he said, squeezing her hip.
“Look. Around. Us.”
He did.
Bunny ears. Black leather. Red leather. Lots and lots and lots of skin. And breasts. Nearly bare breasts.
That could hardly be called a shirt. The strips of material only just concealed her—
“For once in your life, stop worrying.”
“I do not—”
“Yes, you do.”
Well, yes, maybe she did. But they didn’t know each other enough for him to read her this well. And besides, it was her prerogative to worry.
Torr leaned down, his breath tickling her ear.
“Never be ashamed. There are some who will hold it against you, but they are not worth bothering with.”
She stared at him in shock.
One, how could he know she idolized J.K. Rowling?
Two, how did he know her hero’s words well enough to quote them to her?
And three, how had he guessed at the reason for her unease? Because if she was perfectly honest, she did want to let go. Forget that she feared the judgment of others.
Just this once.
Again, her body decided for her. The music morphed into an equally sensual but slightly less intense song. This one, she was feeling.
Torr, she was definitely feeling. Even more so when he pulled her closer and began to move.
God help her, Charlotte moved right along with him. He clung to her as they moved to the grinding beat, his hands venturing lower than they should.
It felt good.
Damn good.
Whipping her head back, swatting stray strands of hair away from her face, she looked into his eyes.
Bad idea.
He did that thing with his tongue at that precise moment. The tiny glimpse just enough to fuel her imagination of what that tongue would feel like inside her mouth. If he leaned down right now, she’d not only allow it . . .
Charlotte would welcome it. With open arms.
Or lips, in this case.
When had his hands full-on cupped her backside?
Not breaking eye contact, he pressed her against him, allowing her to feel what was one hundred percent his erection. Instead of pulling away, which she knew she should, Charlotte did what she wanted to do.
Slid her body up and down against him.
Her errant fingers moved from his shoulders to the nape of his neck, and she let them explore. She really shouldn’t shove them into his hair. It felt . . . intimate. Maybe it would be one intimacy too far. Maybe it would shatter this game she was playing.
But she did it anyway.
His hair was fairly short and kind of spiky on top, yet soft too—before it was ripped away from her.
He twirled her around so quickly that it was only when he lifted her arms back around his neck, her back against him now, that her mind caught up to the movements.
Must be the absinthe.
Going with it, Charlotte circled her hips as Torr’s hands cradled her backside and brought it closer to him. And even though they were one of the tamest couples on the dance floor, Charlotte already knew she’d never, ever, as long as she lived, forget this dance.
And that was before he lowered his face to her neck, close enough that she could feel his warm breath against her flesh. Torr’s fingers deliberately trailed a lazy path across her shoulders as he pushed her hair to the side.
Charlotte’s stomach clenched in anticipation of his kiss as her heart thudded damn near out of her chest.
“Charlotte.”
His voice was as sensual a caress as his fingers.
She would have answered if such a thing were possible.
“The song is over.”
Not the romantic words she’d been expecting.
Romantic?
This was Torr freaking Derrickson.
She didn’t want, or need, romantic from a guy who had probably already dated half of Stone Haven.
Turning around to face him, Charlotte knew immediately she had lied to herself. Because right now, the idea of kissing this cocky Scotsman overrode every single reason she had for staying away from him.
“Yes. It is.”
Another song started, but the spell had been broken. Reality had come pouring in.
“I need a drink,” she said, meaning it, despite the fact she’d already downed three of them. Striding to the bar, Charlotte ordered another Death in the Afternoon, her last one, and tried to regain some semblance of composure.
* * *
“Car’s gone,” Torr said as they drove by the spot where he’d first found her earlier that evening.
Back when he’d thought Charlotte more than a little uptight.
Back when his brother’s say-so had been enough to keep him from making a move on the undeniably delectable Charlotte Harris.
All that had changed. He’d nearly come on the dance floor from the feel of her fully clothed body cradled against him. He savored those brief moments of lowered inhibition he’d glimpsed before the curtains had closed on a window he’d not even thought to look through.
“Mmmm,” she murmured, sliding lower in her seat.
Drunk? She should be, but there wasn’t even a hint of slur in her speech. They’d likely still be at Sta
ge West if Torr hadn’t suggested it was time to leave.
She’d been having a good time.
Torr knew that because she’d leaned in close, drink in hand, and whispered it to him as if it were some anciently held secret. “I’m having fun.”
He’d silently agreed.
If not drunk, Charlotte was definitely tired. When he glanced over at her again, her eyes were closed. What was she thinking? Did she already regret letting loose? If not yet, there would always be tomorrow for that.
Torr had long ago given up on the idea of regret.
Mostly. With the exception of those he killed when he’d been more monster than man.
“Luckily, I don’t really need the car,” she murmured. “Ugh.”
Torr smiled into the darkness, thinking how very un-Charlotte-like that sounded.
“Not until the senator,” she murmured
Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Charlotte opened her eyes and sat up.
Not drunk, he decided, but most definitely tipsy. Her guard was down again, and Torr was thoroughly enjoying it.
“Pardon? It sounded like you said—”
“The senator. I promised my mother I would go to a stupid fundraiser for the senator in two weeks, so I’ll need my car by then.”
“Sounds . . . fun.”
“No,” she said. “Not like tonight, for sure.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” He cleared his throat. “And I’m sorry I ‘kidnapped’ you,” he said, using her earlier words.
“You could kidnap—”
Eyes widening, Charlotte clamped her mouth closed just a second too late.
He would help her out.
“I could what?” Torr asked, pretending not to have heard that last part.
“Nothing.” She closed her eyes again. “So tired . . .”
You could kidnap me anytime.
It didn’t matter that she hadn’t actually said the words aloud. She’d thought them.
And that was what mattered.
“Why do you have to go to a senator’s fundraiser?” he asked, aware she was awake although she was pretending otherwise.
“Because my mother still thinks she’s a millionaire, living on top of the world, with everyone to impress.”
She didn’t so much as flutter her eyelashes as she made that declaration. Torr didn’t know what to say. This level of honesty was the last thing he’d expected.
“So she had a lot of money?”
“She and my dad, yeah. Gobs of it.”
Gobs? Definitely not Charlotte-like.
“I see.”
“And then one day, poof, all gone. And my dad, thrown in prison. But if you’re worried about my mother, don’t be. She found a new guy just after their divorce. Not quite as rich, but no pauper either.”
He waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. She either didn’t want to talk about it or really had fallen asleep.
Presuming it was the former, he shifted to another topic.
“So how does an English teacher end up in Stone Haven, sans her millionaire parents, a long way from home, which is”—she had the slightest of accents, which came out more when she was tipsy—“South Carolina?”
When her left eye peeked open, Torr laughed aloud. This version of Charlotte was both charming and highly entertaining.
“Toni told you.”
“She didn’t.”
“Lawrence.”
“Nope.”
“Alessandra.”
“Wrong again.” As if the Cheld would willingly sit in the same room, let alone confide in him.
“Good guess, then.” Both her eyes had popped open now, and she was gazing at him in a way that made him want to pull over and kiss her. Or maybe not bother pulling over.
“Something like that.”
In truth, Torr had spent plenty of time in South Carolina. Enough to be familiar with both the culture and the accent. He thought of one particularly pleasant stay in Charleston and wondered if the Cocktail Club was still there.
Likely not.
“Why are you being so nice?” she asked, still looking at him with open interest, as if he were a specimen she was at least willing to inspect.
“I’m always nice,” he quipped.
“No. You’re not.” She sat up straighter. “You’re always so quick with your smart-ass answers. But you don’t have to do that, you know. I like this Torr much better.”
He liked this Charlotte much better too, but Torr didn’t think she’d appreciate hearing that.
“I think you have me confused with Lawrence,” he said, returning his gaze to the road.
“The nice brother.”
“Exactly.”
“I see.”
Maybe she did, a bit too much. While Torr was used to getting attention, he wasn’t used to being seen in quite this way. And so he fell silent—a more comfortable, albeit lonelier, place that he retreated to when discomfited.
Still, the truth throbbed within him: if she didn’t want a pithy retort, he had nothing to offer.
They rode the rest of the way back without speaking until Torr realized he didn’t know where they were going.
“What’s your address?” he asked as they drove along the river that ran parallel to the train tracks that led downtown.
“Go to The Creamery and make a left. It’s two blocks off Main.”
On Saturday nights, Main Street in Stone Haven was usually packed with cars and pedestrians, but it was late, and most of the tourists had already gone back to Stone Haven Inn or whatever bed-and-breakfast they were staying at for the night. A few stragglers coming from Murphy’s Pub or one of the other local bars stumbled around, but otherwise, the streets were silent.
“There,” Charlotte said as she pointed to a brownstone. There was no place to park, typical even a few blocks off Main Street, so Torr double-parked instead. He walked her to the front steps, then handed off her purse.
“Oh, right. Thanks. I do that a lot.”
He tried not to smile. “Noir Nights?”
Cocking her head to the side, exasperated, she said, “No, leave my purse behind.”
“Pity.”
Her lips parted, an invitation.
One he longed to take, no matter how different they were. He knew without a doubt her lips would taste as sweet as they looked, and the memory of her body pressed against him . . . his hands itched thinking of the curves he’d explored.
But there would be hell to pay. Lawrence. Toni. Besides which, he wasn’t staying in Stone Haven—or anywhere, if he could help it—so it would lead nowhere good.
Well, maybe a little good.
It was one last consideration that stayed his lips. If he did kiss Charlotte Harris, he wanted to be sure she remembered every minute of it.
“Goodnight, Charlotte,” he said, ignoring the pull that nearly moved his feet in the wrong direction, back to her.
“Goodnight, Torr.”
He made it to the car before he turned to look at her.
She was gone.
Chapter 7
“You don’t look good.”
Charlotte hadn’t arranged to meet Alessandra on Sunday morning. But when she stumbled into The Witch’s Brew, she wasn’t all that surprised to see her friend in line.
“Gee, thanks,” she said dryly. “Is Kenton here?” She looked around but didn’t see Alessandra’s fiancé.
“Nope,” she said. “He’s at the florist.”
“The florist?” The image of edgy Kenton standing in a florist shop almost made her laugh. He’d be so out of place.
“I was actually going to call you later. Do you have any plans tonight?”
Other than dwelling on Torr and replaying the memory file she’d created last night over and over again?
“Nope.”
“Well, you do now. We’re having a dinner party later! That’s why Kenton’s picking up flowers. Nothing huge, mind you, just the two of us, Lawrence and Toni, and Laria.”
<
br /> Charlotte bit her lip and waited for her friend to say his name, her heart beating faster in anticipation.
But Alessandra stopped talking. Her spirits deflated. No Torr then. Of course not. He wasn’t exactly the sort to go to a dinner party, and Alessandra had made no mystery of her dislike for him.
“Can I help you?”
“Morning, Sam,” she murmured to the barista. “The usual.”
Her stomach gave a little twist. “Actually, less milk than usual,” she amended.
Alessandra eyed her suspiciously. “I can’t wait to hear this,” she said.
Charlotte knew there would be no getting around it. Besides, for all she knew, Torr was even now telling his brother the whole story. Well, surely not the whole story.
“I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen you in sweatpants in my life.”
Her mother would be appalled. “Dress to impress.” How many times had she heard that throughout her life?
“Yeah, well. Rough night.”
“Like I said . . . morning, Sam. Chai latte, please . . . I can’t wait to hear.”
Taking their drinks to a high-top table, they sat. And Alessandra waited.
Taking a deep breath, Charlotte told her what had happened the night before. Alessandra was her closest friend in town. Both of them had vowed not to drift apart after Alessandra had left the high school, and aside from when her mom had come to visit, they’d done a good job of staying connected. Luckily, the town was small enough that they often ran into each other without trying. Like this morning.
“So you basically had a first date in—”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“I see. So what would you call it?”
Charlotte’s mind raced back to the moment when Torr had spun her around, pressing her backside to him, his hands—
“Holy shit,” Alessandra muttered.
“What? Don’t look at me like that.” She shrugged. “It was more of a pseudo-kidnapping than anything, really, although I’m grateful he helped with the car.”
“Shit, Charlotte. Not him. If you only knew the half—”
Alessandra stopped talking midsentence, her head jerking toward the door. Charlotte swiveled around to look, but she didn’t see anything amiss.
“What is it?”
The Hunter's Affection (Bloodwite Book 3) Page 5