“You’re not jumpy,” Benito countered, face blank again, giving nothing away. “You’ve done this a lot.”
“Have I?”
Benito stopped fiddling with his empty glass and leaned closer. The movement eased his legs wider, his knee brushing Mickey’s. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I can’t figure you out.”
“Do you need to?”
“That fucking depends, doesn’t it?”
Mickey soaked in the way Benito’s deep voice wrapped around his rough words.London, maybe?He couldn’t tell. Down south, accents were harder to place. Either way, it was sexy as hell. Mickey’s fingers itched again, and this time, he set them free.
He claimed Benito’s exposed wrist with his palm, rubbing his thumb over the warm skin he found there. The contact sent shivers down his spine. He covered it with a sip of ginger ale, trying not to track the subtle cues in Benito’s shuttered face—the tick in his jaw, the tightness around his dark eyes. It was hard to tell if he wanted Mickey’s hand on him, though he made no move to recover his arm.
“What does it depend on?” Mickey said. “Figuring me out, I mean.”
Benito’s gaze swept where they were connected. “On where this is going. No offence, mate, but I didn’t come here for a chat.”
“You mentioned that, and neither did I, but I already told you I don’t think you’d want to hook up with me.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“It’s what I meant.”
“Based on...?” Benito rotated his arm, granting Mickey access to the underside of his wrist. His skin was softer there, smoother.
Mickey slid his hand to Benito’s elbow, enjoying the ride. “Based on assumption. You stand like a power top.”
“I’m not standing.”
“Figure of speech.”
“Fuck your figure of speech.” Benito spoke low, aggression simmering behind every ground out syllable. “Youdon’t know shit about me either.”
“Then tell me.” Mickey stilled his hand, sensing the subtle shift. The one that either tore them apart or drew them together to stoke the wildfire that had started to smoulder between them. “Tell me what you want from me.”
“Who says I want anything from you?”
Mickey snorted and let his gaze flit lazily from where their knees were pressed together to where they’d somehow leaned close enough to be inches apart. “I’m not saying anything. It’s your turn.”
“You want me to tell you what I want so you can walk on by? No thanks.”
“Who says I’d walk on by?”
“You did. Three minutes ago.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Says who?”
Benito swallowed and dug his teeth briefly into his full bottom lip. Mickey took a chance and swiped it with his thumb, a lingering touch that seemed to surprise Benito. He snapped a hand to Mickey’s wrist, closing strong fingers around it in a bruising grip. But he didn’t pull Mickey away. He held him there, against his face, while his dark eyes blazed an emotion Mickey couldn’t decipher.
A stalemate stretched out between them. The club faded, taking with it the heady soundtrack others had found to keep them company. Mickey’s heart thumped. He zeroed in on Benito’s lips, his own tingling.I want to kiss him.
No. I want to fuck him.
But his lips hadn’t got the memo, nor had his chest, whichachedwith the need to claim Benito’s mouth.