LYDIA

"We're not leaving this bar until you kiss someone." Payton says this as if we were in the midst of having a conversation about me kissing someone. We weren't. I nod all the same because we're best friends and I'm used to this kind of outburst from her.

"So you want me to kiss someone and then we can leave?" I set my glass down on the bar top and twist a bit in my seat as if I'm scanning the room for options. I'm not, not really, but I'm happy to play along.

"Yeah. Once you've at least kissed someone we can leave."

"At least kissed?" I turn back to her with a laugh. "How far do you want me to go? In a bar? With a stranger?" I'm laughing because this conversation is ridiculous—and yet… the idea of it entices me. The idea that I could have my pick of any man in this bar and ask him to kiss me. Or maybe even feel me up in the hallway. Maybe he'd take charge and press me against the wall. Shove his knee between my thighs while he ran kisses down my jaw before covering my lips with his own.

Yeah, that was oddly specific.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and let my eyes stray past Payton to the two men sitting on the other side of her. I've been discreetly eyeing them all night. One of them has a British accent. He's drunk and obsessing about a woman he just broke up with. Or who broke up with him—I'm not sure and I don't really care. The object of my desire is guy number two.

Guy number two is perfect.

He's so perfect I can't even look directly at him, hence the discreet glances. He's totally out of my league. Dark tousled hair with a hint of a wave. Perfectly cut, and I just know it would be soft under my fingers and not full of gross hair product. He's got facial hair, trimmed close as if he can't commit between a stubble and a beard, and the darkest brown eyes that make my stomach drop when they catch mine. His forearms are tanned and lined with sinewy muscle. They will be the focus of my fantasies for at least the next month.

He rubs the pad of his thumb against the pad of his index finger as his friend talks, but not in an anxious way. Slowly, as if it's something he does when he thinks, or perhaps it's a thing he does while he listens. His nails are short and nicely shaped. I'd guess based on his hands that he works at a desk, but based on what I can see of his body, his hobby is the gym.

His forefinger takes another slow drag across his thumb and oh, holy Jesus, I am imagining something else entirely right now.

I need to get laid.

"You need to get laid," Payton says at the exact moment the man's gaze rises from the bar top to my eyes. I die about ten thousand times, but Payton is unaware that I've just died so she continues babbling about finding someone for me to kiss before we can leave. Mister Perfect's eyes are still on mine.

"I'll do it," he says.

Oh, my God. Wait, is he talking to me? Is this happening? Surely I misheard. Misunderstood. He's talking to someone behind me or the bartender or the drunk British guy. I take a quick look over my shoulder to see who's behind me. There's no one behind me.

"I'll do it," he repeats and for a heartbeat my brain short-circuits. Firm yes, is what I'm thinking. Firm yes. Where will we do it? I don't want to do it here, that would be weird. I don't think we should go back to his place, he's a total stranger. He could come to my place. Yes. Payton could run to Target or something and give us privacy. I wonder if he'll mind that I only have a single bed? I knew I should have bought a bigger one but it was more money and my room is tiny and I needed room for my sewing machine. Holy shit, this is happening. This man who is too hot to look directly at wants to have sex with me. I blink and then he finishes speaking, a small smirk on his face. "I'll kiss you."

Oh.

Right. It's not like he'd be so taken with me—a random girl in a bar—he'd want to have sex with me based on nothing more than hearing my friend say I need to get laid. Dumb. I'm such an idiot. As if.

"She accepts," Payton says and she shoves me off my stool. For real, she actually gives me a little shove, similar to how I imagine mothers shove their children out the front door on the first day of school.

The man turns on his stool and I watch him take me in now that I'm standing. His eyes trail slowly up my bare legs and I want to kill Payton for dragging me into this bar. We just spent the weekend moving into our new apartment and I thought we were going out for a burger, so I'm in denim cutoffs and a tank top. I should have known better. Once we'd left the apartment Payton insisted we needed to check out the local action and here I am in cutoff shorts with my knobby knees watching a man who looks like he runs the world give me the once-over.

I bend one knee and tap my toes against the floor while I wonder if he's changing his mind, but then he stands. I assume he's going to close the distance between us and kiss me right there in front of everyone, but he doesn't. Instead he pauses in front of me. I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes because he's about a foot taller than me. At best, the top of my head reaches his shoulders.

He's wearing jeans and loafers with that shirt that's rolled back to his elbows. I suspect his shoes cost more than anything I own. Honestly, that probably goes for his pants and shirt too. I'm fighting the urge to shove my hands into my back pockets and squirm under his gaze when he speaks.

"What's your name?"

"Lydia."

"Lydia," he repeats, his eyes on mine. Hearing him say my name must be some kind of foreplay for me because my heart is about to beat out of my chest. His voice is low and smooth, commanding and sexy as hell. "Not here," he states and takes my hand in his.

His hand is warm wrapped around mine and the simple physical contact sends goosebumps across my skin. Then he's moving, my hand in his as he guides us past the bar. "Brady, I'm using your office for a minute," he calls out to someone behind the bar. He doesn't so much as pause for a response, and a moment later we're alone.

The first thing I notice is that the office is nicer than I'd have expected for a bar. A large desk is before me, its surface tidy with a closed laptop atop it and a single pen lying beside it. A leather chesterfield sofa sits along the wall with an expensive but well-worn-in vibe.

The second thing I notice is the quiet. I hadn't thought it excessively loud in the bar, but from behind a closed door I realize how quiet it is without the clink of ice and the thumps of bottles. With only our breathing and my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

That is all the time I have for observation because he's turned to face me and he's tilted my chin up with his fingertip. Okay, one more observation. He smells amazing. He smells like someone I want to lie on top of, with my head tucked against his chest while he winds strands of my hair around his fingers. I know that's technically not a smell, but trust me on this. He smells like clean laundry and spice and virility. I want to climb all over him.

His eyes are hooded, his gaze moving from my eyes to my lips and back again with an unhurried confidence. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until he reminds me to breathe. His expression is a combination of aroused and amused.

I take a breath and wet my lips with my tongue. I resist bouncing on my toes, but barely. There's a hint of a smile on his lips as he cups my jaw with one hand, the other coming to rest on my waist. His hand is so warm through the thin layer of my tank top, it almost feels like he's touching me directly. Then he bends his head to mine and kisses me.

Softly.

The hand at my waist stays where it is. The pressure of his fingers is firm, safe. An unnecessary but much-liked anchor because I'm not going anywhere. I place my palms on his chest, thrilling in the feel of the fabric pressed against my fingertips. Of the firmness of his body, the muscle and heat.

His lips leave mine, but only far enough for him to tilt his head a fraction before pressing them to my own again. His thumb sweeps across my cheek and I hum or moan in response, I'm not sure which, but I'm rewarded with another soft kiss as his lips coax mine apart. His facial hair feels stubbly against my skin and it only turns me on more. The light scratch against my own skin focuses my attention on his lips, on his strength, on the potency of his effect on me. He nips my bottom lip between his teeth and then he kisses me again, the pressure firmer, our tongues meeting, my knees weakening and my heart racing.

When he pulls back he has to steady me on my feet because I've leaned so far into him I'd have toppled over without the support. I feel breathless, like I've just run around the building. Minus a swipe of his thumb across his lower lip, he looks unaffected. He steps back and does another slow perusal of me from head to toe and I wonder what he sees. Does he see a woman he's attracted to? Or a girl he kissed as a favor? He looks a hundred times more pulled together than I feel.

"You've had your kiss. You can go home now, good girl."