My breathing picks up. “Don’t particularly like them.”
It’s the truth. And yet I can’t help but look at his. It’s dark, framing his mouth, which should be a turnoff for me. Only it draws all my attention there. To the shape of his mouth—the upper lip a gentle curve, the lower lip fuller, almost a pout. There’s something slightly illicit about the whole effect.
I clear my throat, glance up, and find him watching me through lowered lids. He doesn’t seem particularly put out by my frankness.
“What don’t you like about them?”
Is he serious?
He stares at me.
I guess he is.
Taking a quick sip of my drink, I search for an answer. “They’re just so…fuzzy. Prickly.”
He moves in, not crowding me, but putting himself at arms’ reach. He smells faintly of cloves and oranges. It must be his aftershave or cologne, but it works for me.
I’m distracted by it and almost jump when he speaks again. “Do you know this based on experience, or are you making an assumption?”
My gaze narrows. “Aren’t you the philosopher.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Fine. Assumption.”
His lips quirk. “You should find out if your assumption is true before you condemn the beard.”
“Is this some sort of creepy way to get me to touch your beard?”
A challenge flashes in his eyes. “There are a few guys at the bar sporting beards. You could go ask them. But I figure since we know each other…”
“Not that well.”
“You’d rather ask a stranger?”
“You’re assuming I care enough to ask, Slick.”
His teeth shine white in the shadows of the club. “I know you’re curious. You’re fairly twitching with wanting to know.”
I flatten my hands against the table and glare. Is it just me, or is he closer? Close enough that I can see his eyes are hazel, lighter around his cornea with a starburst pattern. I wish I could see the colors, but he’s painted in shades of blue and gray right now.
And he’s watching me. Patient. Calculating. Tempting.
“It’s always the quiet ones,” I mutter before taking a breath. “Okay, I’ll pet your fuzzy face.”
“Hold up.” Without hesitation, he reaches for my drink and takes a sip. “Liquid courage.”
A strangled laugh leaves me. “Because I’m sooo scary.”
“You have no idea, Cherry.”
I think I growl at him. I definitely want to give his precious beard a good, hard tug. But he simply lifts his brows at me. “Get on with it, then.”
This cheeky bastard is totally playing me. And here I am falling into his trap. Because I cannot look away from his beard now. More specifically, his lips, which are parted just slightly. An invitation. A dare.
Shit. I’ve never been very good at ignoring a dare.
I hate that my hand trembles as I reach up to touch him. He stays perfectly still, his arm casually slung on the edge of the booth behind me, his body turned toward mine. But I don’t miss the way his breathing has kicked up just slightly.
I hesitate, shy almost. Hells bells, I’m only going to touch a bit of facial hair. Why does it feel like we’re two kids tucked in a dark corner, playing a game of “I’ll show you mine”?
Annoyed with myself, I close the distance between us.
Soft. His beard is soft. And springy. I didn’t expect that.
Gently I press my fingertips into all that springy-soft mass, stroke it a little. His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath.
I glance at him, search his eyes. He gives me nothing back. So I keep going, running my fingers up his jaw, against the grain. There’s the prickle I expected. Only it feels good, sending little tingles of awareness over my skin, up my thighs.
I swallow hard, press my legs together. Can he tell? I’m too chicken to check. I keep my focus on his face, on his lips, which look so smooth in comparison to his beard.