Exposed Exposed (Dom Nation #1) - E. Davies Page 0,6
his back straightening as he took the cup. “Thanks,” he murmured. He didn’t look at me, but at least he wasn’t staring at his lap.
Which gave me the chance to examine him up close, and static interest danced along the backs of my hands. My palms itched with the desire to slide them across his rough cheeks and cup his angled jaw as I kissed his small, perfect lips. His eyes were big and a shade of light ice blue that stole my breath.
His hair was short and no-nonsense, a shade of dark blond that was highlighted with gray, and thick stubble I envied crept along his cheeks.
He looked in his midforties, with the laugh lines to prove it, and had square, solid shoulders. Through his white T-shirt, I easily made out the buckles and straps of a harness. Either that or he had some weird-ass nipple piercings.
And he was strong, too—arms with soft, natural muscles, not the kind one avoided carbs to show off. He couldn’t be more different from my skinny, caffeine-fueled body. I itched to push him on his back and crawl over him, toying with him like a mouse with a cat.
As if entranced, the poor thing swayed where he sat, palms locked around the hot cup.
“Let me take the tea bag out,” I told him. It took several seconds for him to loosen his grip on the hot porcelain, and I stopped worrying about him burning himself. I leaned in to fish it out with a spoon and set it on the saucer. “There you go. What can I call you?” I asked softly. Might as well start with the easy question.
And, selfishly, I wanted a name to put to this beautiful face and gentle energy. Like knowing it would give me more power over him—power I only intended to use for his good.
But still, the intoxicating voice deep in my gut whispered, power.
“Call me?” He sounded faraway, his brow furrowing like I’d just asked him to triangulate our location with Jupiter and the moon.
I winced. He was lost in himself. I needed to start even easier. “Your name, boy,” I told him. I didn’t lay the emphasis on the last word like I might have if we were next door in the darkened, thumping rooms. I let it slip from my lips, soft and affectionate.
He twitched toward me like a stray in the doorway, guided there by an ancestral memory of human hands filled with kindness, warned away by its own short life.
Gently, I turned my hand up and slid it toward him. “Mine’s Rex. I go by Master X in the scene.” I wanted him to give me whatever name would make him most comfortable.
Well, no. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, pull him into my chest, and breathe into his hair as he clung to me. But for now, I couldn’t risk spooking him away.
“Slate.” His voice was rusty, like his throat was a gravel road. He cleared it and looked down at his cup of tea like he was seeing it for the first time. After taking a small sip, his voice was smoother. “Just Slate.”
“Just Slate,” I repeated, letting the word settle on my tongue like déjà vu. A memory of something that hadn’t yet come to pass, a silvery fish flashing through the waters as my hand plunged into the river of life—
His palm, scorching hot, came to rest on mine. Lightning jumped between us, a flash of something visceral and hungry and invisible that left a hot aftertaste on my tongue.
Slate. The name scorched through me, bold and unique despite the man who seemed to want to melt into one of the other faceless clones I could find dollar-a-dozen in Dom Nation.
I clamped down my reaction so it was only the smallest twitch. He shuddered and pressed harder, all rough and imprecise and hungry. I closed my fingers softly along the edge of his hand, keeping my touch loose and gentle so he could pull away.
I’d give anything to seize Slate’s hand and drag my palm up his arm, a soft and ghostly touch over the hair of his forearms and a hard, raking touch of my nails toward his bicep.
Focus, Rex. The boy needed a different kindness right now.
“Are you coming from the club?” I asked, even though the answer was obvious. I just wanted him to have to speak. It would help pull him out of the place he was in.