His Touch(4)

By: Melinda Minx



The bouncer is approaching, and she lets go of me as he nears us.

She says nervously as he approaches, “I’m sorry, I was--”

“Hunt,” A.J. says. “Was this guy causing trouble?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Got it,” A.J. says, and he grabs the guy by the arm and pulls him toward the door.

The girl watches with confusion. “Why did--”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Are you okay?”

She licks her lips, as she looks me up and down. “I am now, sir.”

I laugh. “Shit, don’t call me that.”

“What do I call you?”

“My name. Hunt.”

I look down at her hand and see the faint outline of an “X,” written in black Sharpie and hastily washed off.

I point to her. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” she says without hesitation.

I gently take her wrist and hand, and I trace my finger along the “X” that she washed off.

Her lips part as I touch her hand, and she looks up at me with a look I know all too well. What the fuck am I doing?

“Okay,” she says. “I’m only twenty, but--”

“Hold old are you really?” I say. “Don’t lie to me again.”

“I’m eighteen,” she says.

I give her a warning look.

“Really,” she says. “How did I get in the club and get the ‘X’ on my hand if I’m not eighteen?”

“Fake I.D.?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Why would I go to the trouble of getting a fake I.D. that didn’t even make me twenty-one?”

I can’t argue with that logic. “What’s your name?”

“Everyone calls me Elise,” she says. “Except my Mom.”

“What does your Mom call you?”

“Who cares?” she says, smiling.

God, that smile. I realize that I can’t turn back now. Not after she’s smiled at me like that. And she is legal. Even if just barely.

“So…” she says, “are you going to buy me a drink?”

She licks her teeth and laughs.

“What do you want?” I ask. “A coke? Maybe an orange juice? A juice box?”

“A real drink!” she says, giggling. “I erased the ‘X,’ and I don’t think the bartender really cares anyway…”

“One drink,” I say.

“Cheap ass.”

“It’s not about the money,” I say. “It’s…”

It’s the fact that I want to take her home and fuck her brains out. And it’s bad enough that she’s only eighteen. I don’t want her to be drunk, too.

“It’s what?” she asks.

I look down at her breasts, and then up at her eyes. I lean in close to her so she can really smell me. She breathes heavily, but doesn’t pull even an inch away. She leans in a bit closer, but I put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“What do you think is going to happen?” I ask.

“What do you mean…” she says. Her cheeks burn red, and her voice is painfully shy. She knows exactly what I am implying.

“You know,” I say.

“I...I think you’re going to buy me a White Russian--”

I laugh. “A White Russian? You think that’s going to make you seem sophisticated?”

She crosses her arms and pouts at me. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and glares at me. “Don’t make fun of me, Hunter.”

“Hunt,” I say.

“And after we have a drink together, Elise, what do you think will happen next?”

“Well,” she says, face burning red once again, “I think we both know, don’t we?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

She bites her lip, and it takes all my willpower not to grab her and crush my lips against hers.

“Say it,” I say.

I catch a glimpse of Dash sitting at the bar. When he sees me look over at him, he raises his glass to me and grins. Asshole.

“I want you to take me to your place, Hunter.”

“And then?” I ask.

“We can...have coffee.”

“Is that a euphemism for something?”

“Go get me my drink!” she snaps. “Stop teasing me.”

I laugh and walk off toward the bar. I order her a drink, and Dash grabs my arm.

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