been too tongue-tied to say without alcohol. “I don’t want to go home yet.”
His gaze drifted to hers again. “Where do you want to go?”
She shrugged.
Quiet then, “I know a place.”
She inhaled sharply. She should tell him to forget it, to take her home, to forget about this and her drunk message and her fantasies. Because her heart was vulnerable, and if he continued being nice, then she was going to fall for him.
Just like she’d fallen for Jeremy.
And look how that turned out.
But instead, she asked, “What kind of place?”
“A quiet one.”
Her lips twitched. “Where you can pull out those serial killer skills?”
He chuckled, and the sound rolled over her, warm fingers trailing over her skin. “Quiet, but not private. Plenty of people around to keep those in check.”
Stef’s brows drew together, confusion and curiosity threading through her. “Is it an orgy?” she asked suspiciously, though not realizing until after it was out there that an orgy probably wouldn’t be quiet.
Ben was, though.
Until he burst out laughing, and then that sound was warm, like rough palms on her naked skin, a hard cock between her thighs, sliding home. She shifted on her seat, legs pressing together, heat making her pussy slick.
“Not an orgy,” he murmured.
But he wouldn’t be opposed to it? her brain helpfully chimed in.
Or unhelpfully? Because Ben was wearing a tight navy T-shirt and gray sweats that clung to powerful thighs. His biceps were solid, his shoulders broad and something she could grab on to.
He might be the sexiest man she had ever seen.
No, he was the sexiest man she’d ever seen.
“And not a creepy basement?” she blurted.
His grin flashed in the moonlight. “Not a basement. But dark and quiet and talking is frowned upon.” He slanted a glance in her direction. “You in?”
Her teeth found her bottom lip, nibbled lightly.
Then she inhaled, exhaled, and thought, fuck it all. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was Ben and his eyes, his smile, the fantasy of his stubble on her skin.
She met his eyes. “I’m in.”
This was not what she’d expected.
Not at all.
She glanced up at the illuminated sign overhead, a vertical set of letters spelling out Cinema, at the white rectangle, black letters spelling out the title of the latest Sci-Fi flick, and felt her heart squeeze tight.
He remembered.
The movie theater was small, only one screen, an old-fashioned box office encased in glass, the smell of popcorn filling the air.
“Still in?” he asked, having returned from the box office with two tickets in hand. He held them up, tiny strips of white paper that were dwarfed by his large hands.
“That depends.”
His head tilted to the side, the question written in his eyes.
“Will you let me buy you popcorn?”
His brows drew together. “You want to buy me popcorn?”
Her heart sank. “You don’t like popcorn?”
“I love popcorn.”
She frowned. “Then what’s the problem?”
“You want to buy me popcorn?” he repeated.
Ah. She understood where this was going. “You got the tickets. You rescued me. You’re driving me around on a whim. The least I can do is get some popcorn.” She took his hand, fingers weaving together. There were hard callouses on his palms, and she wondered where he’d gotten them from, what kind of work he did. His profile had just said business owner.
But his hands seemed to scream something physical.
Suddenly, she was imagining him in flannel and a hard hat, or maybe flannel and an ax, all lumbersexual and yummy.
“Come on,” she murmured, still filled with that fluffy, fuzzy margarita feeling, although the buzz was fading, and Stef couldn’t help but wonder if it was more Ben Buzz and less anything to do with tequila.
“Come on,” she said again, tugging him toward the doors. “I’ll even spring for candy.”
Chapter Twelve
Ben
There was a giant tub of popcorn between them, two huge sodas settled in the cupholders on opposite armrests.
And candy.
A KitKat and licorice filled with something tart.
More sugar than he’d consumed in years, especially when considering the gallon of soda at his left arm.
But Stef was happily munching away, blasting through the popcorn, and he had to get in there or he might miss the buttery goodness. And then there was the fact that she’d lifted the armrest between them the moment they’d sat down, bringing her lush, gorgeous body close enough for him to smell the floral scent of her, to trace every glorious, curvy line with his eyes, to maybe even touch if he worked up the courage.
“You going to have some?” she asked through a mouthful