Luna Exposed

by Kristin Leigh

  Now’s my chance.

  I lean toward him a little, pretending to adjust my dress, and inhale deeply next to the crook of his arm. The slightest hint of musk is drowned out by the scent of cedar and campfires and…something else I can’t put my finger on. But it’s fucking delicious. I could just…

  “Did you just smell me?”

  I look up at him without straightening. Not the most dignified situation to be caught in. His ice blue eyes narrow at me and he looks pissed. So serious. I sit up so fast I wobble a little on the chair before I grab the bar to steady myself.

  I clear my throat because…well, isn’t that what people are supposed to do when caught in an awkward situation? This is uncomfortable. I scramble for an explanation besides, “I wanted to know if all men smelled bad like my ex, so I used you.”

  “And what did you decide?” he asks and I freeze.

  I said that out loud. Holy shit, I didn’t mean to say that out loud. That’s my brain-to-mouth filter malfunctioning again. Must be the tequila.

  “You smell really good. I mean eyes-rolling-in-the-back-of-my-head good. I could smell you for hours.” I look around desperately for an avenue of escape. I can’t shut up. Oh my God, why can’t I shut up? “I mean, my God, what are you wearing? I’ve never…”

  Deep chuckles reverberating from his chest finally manage to stop my tongue and I glance up, glad he’s not offended, but embarrassed to the soles of my feet. I know I must be bright red.

  He smiles at me slowly and the icy eyes are warm now, melty somehow. Holy shit, sexy. Definitely sexy, not creepy. My stomach flutters. Flutters, like fucking butterflies. What the hell is that?

  He nods toward the DJ at the edge of the dance floor behind me. “How do you like the music?”

  I haven’t really thought about how strange the music choices were until he asked. But since we arrived here I haven’t heard a single song that I don’t like. In fact, Sierra, Dan, and I sang along to most of them, reminiscing about our high school and college years. Like thirty is old…

  “It’s amazing,” I say, a little surprised. “It’s almost like you’ve got my playlist. I know the songs and like them.”

  When I look back at him he’s watching me with a satisfied little smile turning up one side of his mouth. It’s really, really sexy. I was so focused on his strange eyes that I didn’t notice before just how good looking he is. Except for the sprinkling of grey, his hair is ebony. Not just black, but ebony. He’s got the same warm tan as everyone else that lives next to a body of water and he must have shaved sometime this afternoon because not a hint of darkness shows on the sharp edges of his jaw.

  A jaw that’s moving. Crap, he’s talking and I’m taking measurements like he’s competing in my own personal sexy-man contest. I shake my head slightly.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.” I try to be polite about it without letting him know what, exactly, was distracting me. But when I can’t keep my eyes off his defined jawline, the hollow of his throat…yeah, I’m probably not very successful. I tear my eyes away and look up, stopping at his lips. Firm, full lips, with just a hint of a soft curve. Nice.

  A little smirk curls his mouth and I know that he knows. I decide not to care. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again anyway. Those full lips start moving again and I struggle to pay attention.

  “I said that we pull songs from the daily top 100, but between 1985 and 2000. Sometimes older, sometimes newer. But for the most part we stick to that time frame. That way we appeal to most people in their thirties and forties without drawing in kids.” He leans toward me and winks. “Keeps the punks out.”

  It may not be the best business practice to keep horny, thirsty college kids out of a bar, but it’s certainly appreciated. I glance around in the soft, low lighting and see that at least 90 percent of the people here are my age or older. It’s refreshing and…well it’s just nice. There are no platinum blondes with bouncy boobs and firm cheeks parading around in dresses shorter than some underwear I own; no frat boys screaming at each other, starting brawls, and spilling their beer everywhere. There are also no questionable characters: no one that looks like they’re dealing meth on the side or lifting wallets.

  It’s classy and upscale, but not over-the-top enough to make people uncomfortable. It’s guaranteed to keep people coming back.

  “This is a really nice place,” I tell him with a cheeky smile, completely sincere and a little surprised I didn’t notice earlier. “And you hit the nail on the head with the music. Do you take requests?”

  He gives me a smile, a full blown, toothy smile, and I tense a little to keep myself from getting all aquiver. It’s a fucking travesty how hard it is to keep my focus on what he’s saying.

  Wonder if Sierra slipped me Ecstasy. I wouldn’t put it past her, and while she’d be able to find it if she looked hard enough, she’s not the kind of person to toss aside her integrity and drug me. Even if it means me getting laid.

  “Sure,” he says, that friendly-shark smile still on his lips. “As long as it was a hit twenty or so years ago.”

  I pretend to think hard. When I asked him about requests I was just joking. I didn’t have a song in mind, but…there’s really only one song I can ask for.

  “‘Sweet Home Alabama.’ Skynyrd’s version,” I challenge, fairly certain he won’t accept it simply because it’s probably already been played tonight.

  He throws his head back—actually throws it back, exposing the long line of his throat—and barks a laugh. I lick my lips, looking at his throat. How can a throat be masculine? I don’t know, but he somehow manages to accomplish it. I try—honest to God, I really try—not to follow his neck to the two open buttons at the top of his shirt, where just a sprinkle of dark hair peeps out. I expend an enormous amount of effort to keep from continuing to his hands…I am unsuccessful on both counts. His forearm is darkly tanned, the sprinkling of hair on his arms beneath his rolled-up sleeves emphasizing the fact that, yes, here is a man.

  God, I’m pathetic. A handsome man speaks to me and I start sizing him up. I jerk my eyes back to his and he’s watching me, eyebrows raised and a bemused smile curving his lips.

  “I’ll have T-squared play it, but you should know that every person in this club is probably going to stand up and scream it from the top of their lungs,” he states drily.

  “T-squared?” I ask, assuming that’s the DJ.

  “Tony Tunes.” He nods toward the DJ. “I told him it makes him sound like Bugs Bunny’s mobster cousin, but…” He shrugs. “He likes it. I call him T-squared because I refuse to call him the other.”

  I snicker a little. Bugs Bunny’s mobster cousin.

  “I’m assuming your request stands?”

  I nod excitedly. “Hell yes. If everyone stands up and sings, that means they’re having a good time, right?”

  He tilts his head toward me in a tiny, mock bow. “You are correct.” He straightens and a lock of that dark, black hair slides the smallest fraction onto his forehead.

  Holy shit, shades of superman. That’s hot too.

  He tucks it back into the thick locks and walks away, skirting the almost-empty dance floor to make his way to the DJ station. The man behind the equipment grins at him and nods. They talk for just a moment and T-squared—I assume—throws his hands up and waves wildly, still grinning. Gabe points in my direction and T-squared gives me a wide smile and thumbs up. Gabe waves distractedly and strolls back, a laugh turning the corners of his mouth up.

  When he reaches my side again, he tells me, “He’s got one more on this set after this one, then he’ll play it. And he asked that I tell you how much he hopes you’ll feel free to approach him with any future requests.”

  I glance back at the DJ thoughtfully. Very tall, very dark skin, and a shaved head. Pretty good looking, but not too far out of my league. He looks like a basketball player and I try to hold back the laugh when I think of how half of Corybelle would stroke out if the high school history teacher’
s daughter had a one-night stand with a black man less than one day after her divorce from City Hall’s maintenance manager. It’s so deliciously tempting, but…I don’t even know yet if I want a one-night stand. And honestly, I don’t think I do.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I turn back to him to find that he’s watching me again.

  “Hmm,” he drones, almost inaudible. He turns and reaches over the bar, pulling a bottle of water out of an ice bucket I hadn’t noticed earlier. “Drink some water,” he instructs.

  I bristle a little at the bossy tone, but uncap the water and guzzle half the bottle nevertheless. I was going to ask for water anyway. He’s not telling me to do anything I hadn’t already intended to. He watches me, his eyes a little icy again, until I finish the water. I down it pretty quickly, hoping that means it will help sober me up faster.

  When I recap the empty bottle and put it in front of me, another one sits waiting. I look back up at him. He just lifts an eyebrow and tilts his head toward the new bottle.

  Arrogant bastard.

  But I drink it anyway, just as quickly as I did the first one. When it’s empty too, he stands and holds his hand out.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  I can actually feel myself panic so I squeeze my eyes closed and shake my head furiously. I can’t dance, even tipsy. I’m not drunk, at least not as close as I was a few minutes ago. But even then I can’t dance with this man. He probably knows how to do everything from the Macarena to ballroom waltzing. I haven’t danced outside of my bedroom in a decade.

  “Come on,” he cajoles. I open my eyes and he’s smiling down at me, his hand still extended. A large hand with a wide palm, and long, broad fingers. Neatly trimmed nails, but not manicured. I like nice hands. “I won’t let you fall,” he coaxes, his voice soft.

  “I don’t dance,” I blurt out. I’m not worried about falling. Why would he think…oh. Too much to drink. But the bathroom break, a few minutes of not drinking, and two bottles of water are already working. “It’s not that I’m drunk. I mean, I am a little, but it’s fading. I just…” I trail off dumbly and look down to where my fingers are swirling little figure eights in the water circles left by the bottle. I shrug and hope he goes away. I need to get back to Dan and Sierra anyway.

  I turn to do exactly that, but his warm, firm hand grips my elbow as I stand and he steers me toward the dance floor. “I’ll lead, you follow,” he whispers in my ear.

  Now why don’t I think he’s talking about dancing? I shake my head as he spins me slowly and wraps one arm around my waist. I’ve been reading too many trashy novels. And loving them…but that’s beside the point. The point is…how the hell did I end up dancing with someone I started the night first believing out of my league then thinking was an asshole?

  I have no idea how he managed to get me out here—against my will, no less—without me putting up a fight. He’s moving us, one hand gripping mine, the other wrapped around my waist. One foot is positioned between mine and his knee pushes slightly against my leg, guiding me. We sway and turn—slower than normal I think, but faster than slow dancing—to a song that is just vaguely familiar at first.

  I stare at his chin. This is uncomfortable, awkward. It’s unfamiliar, and I typically steer clear of things that make me squirm. But the warmth of his body pressed against mine feels so damn good, and the large hand pressing lightly in the small of my back makes me feel small and delicate.

  The chorus picks up and he’s singing softly with the music. I can barely hear him, but can tell this is a song he likes. His voice is nice, deep with a touch of roughness to keep it from being too smooth and suave. I finally gather the nerve to look up at him and he’s watching me with a smile as he sings:

  “Give me the beat boys, and free my soul. I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away…”

  Okay, so he can sing and dance. Whooptey shit. Somebody call Broadway. He’s also wealthy—or part of a wealthy family, anyway. And handsome. And built. Crap. The only things missing from my list of requirements are hung like a bull, and begging to pleasure me. Something tells me this man doesn’t beg. Ever. He’s never had to. I might make an exception for him, and that’s dangerous. But I can’t look away from those melty, ice blue eyes.

  His scent surrounds me, enveloping me in a cocoon of anxiety and nerves. The heat of his body, his hands on me, the amazing smell…I can’t take it. I’m getting lightheaded with it…the alcohol, spinning, and music. Even I know that’s a damn lie.

  I use sarcasm and a tough exterior to cover whatever I’m feeling. I’m thirty years old. I know myself by this point. But I can’t think of anything to say, can’t think period. I blame the alcohol. So I just stare at him, with probably a really stupid expression on my face while we dance and I finally tear my eyes away, focusing on a white button on his shirt.

  He bends his knees a little and presses his hips against mine, one leg still between mine. Not in a sexual way, but a dancing way. We sway a little faster as the song begins to pick-up before the end. He’s singing a little louder now, his face is a little closer to mine. I look up, into those intensely focused eyes, and can’t look away again. His face is so close to mine that I can feel the moist heat of his breath against my cheek. He’s still got that little smile on his face, like he’s laughing at a private joke and doesn’t want to let me in on it. My stomach bottoms out. He wants me. I can tell. I may have been married to the biggest son of a bitch on the planet, but I know when a man gives a woman a look full of heat. I can also tell when he’s got a partial-erection, especially when it’s pressed against my hip. A tingle begins between my legs—a region that has not had any interest in the male anatomy in quite a while.

  Bastard. But not really, I don’t think.

  He spins me as the song ends and jerks me back, fully against him before bending me slightly backward.

  Don’t be a slut, don’t be a slut, don’t be a slut.

  But God Almighty, I want to be a slut.

  I hear the beginning of “Sweet Home Alabama” and Gabe straightens me and grins.

  And he’s right: everyone in the bar stands up and shrieks as they either run for the bar or dance floor. It’s more than a hundred-person-stampede and Gabe plants himself firmly between me and the rush of people. It might not be our state song, but everyone in Alabama knows it, and most people younger than sixty can sing it start to finish without missing a note.

  We grin stupidly at each other through half of the first verse—this, also, is a tradition shared among most Alabamians—and turn away to dance and sing with strangers.

  Some dance Forrest Gump style, and there’s one guy that thinks he’s in a mosh pit. Everyone’s avoiding him. But most of us just dance…the knees-bent, hip-jiggling, arms-in-air, shoulder-rock, head-bob dance that we all learned from watching Fresh Prince and The Simpsons. None of us are going to be invited to Dancing With the Stars, but we’re all happy and having fun.

  And when the chorus kicks in, the cries of “Sweet home, Alabama” can probably be heard for miles. I dance with Sierra and Dan when I make my way to them. But mostly it’s complete strangers, with whom I have only one thing in common: a love for the song and the state we live in.

  Eventually I end up with Gabe again, and I wonder if he’s been following me. If he has…well, I don’t actually care. He wraps an arm around my waist from behind and the other guides my arm up, up, until he gently presses against my hand to wrap around his neck. He slides his hand down my side, his touch leaving a trail of tingling warmth until he finally stops at my hip and grips it to guide me as we dance.

  He grinds his hips into me, and I can tell the partial erection is fairly quickly growing to a full-blown hard-on. He either wants me to know or doesn’t care, because the thick ridge slides against my ass cheeks as he guides our movements in a much slower, more sensual rhythm than the song calls for. It’s hot. God, it’s so hot, and I can’t help but move my ass against him, just to feel more of him.

&
nbsp; He strokes and caresses, all within the bounds of dance-floor propriety, until the lyrics are done and the music takes over. His breath blows warm across my cheek and I turn my head to catch a whiff.

  If he has bad breath, maybe I’ll be completely turned off.

  But no such luck. There’s no holy-crap-my-face-is-melting from his mouth. It reminds me of his cologne plus mint and that is…I turn my face away before I can process exactly how sexy it is. I haven’t made the one-night-stand decision yet, and I don’t want hormones making it for me.

  When the song fades, I think the only reason I manage to pull away and retreat is because he’s not expecting it. I yank away and dart off the dance floor, weaving between tables, back to the relative safety of the table I share with Dan and Sierra. I sit down with a soft huff, and take a few deep breaths to make my pulse slow down.

  Dan and Sierra are not far behind me, and slide into the booth with breathless laughter, energized by the music and dancing. I’m energized by something entirely different.

  “Now we need new drinks,” Dan shouts over the new song. He tries to wave down a waitress, but with half the club returning to their tables, leaving half on the dance floor, the wait staff is swamped.

  Someone’s phone chimes and we all check. Nothing on mine. Dan laughs and leans across Sierra to hand his phone to me.

  I look down at the screen. It’s open to his text messages and the name at the top identifies the sender as Gabe.

  Tell her I said coward.

  Hurt and anger rip through me in a flash, and the high I felt coming off the dance floor withers up and dies. I am not a fucking coward. Not another person on the planet could have lived through the hell I’ve endured and come out even halfway sane. Fuck him. I look up, ready to blast him with the flames I’m fairly certain are about to start shooting from my eyes.

  He’s back at the end of the bar, standing this time instead of sitting. He’s leaning his elbows on the bar and as I watch folds his hands to prop his chin on, that cynical, obnoxious smile still on his face. I’m still pissed, but I realize now that he was teasing, hoping for a reaction that would send me storming out of my comfort zone and into his. He straightens and picks up his phone for a few seconds before dropping it on the bar and resuming his arrogant stance.