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His blond hair is styled to perfection, longish on top, trim around the sides. His fair complexion, chiseled jawline, full lips, and stern brow work together to form a compelling scowl. How I can be so captivated by a scowl is beyond me, but it stirs something inside me. Something raw and achy and so very lonely.
The intensity of his eye contact sucks me into a spinning vortex. This isn’t like the fleeting looks I exchange with men I pass on the street. It goes beyond any of those few-seconds-too-long gazes shared between strangers. This is dialog without words. Absorption without expression. Foreplay without so much as a twitch of a finger. I feel him in places that haven’t been touched by a man in years.
“You, my tiny dancer, are an erotic dream dipped in the sweetest honey. A man only needs to look at you to become fiercely protective of your smile.” His finger traces the ridge of my bottom lip. “Of every limber curve.” He feathers a path over the heaving swell of my chest. “Every delicious tremble.”
Beneath the half-shell helmet is a young, clean-shaved face and huge brown eyes. At twenty feet away, I know I’m in trouble, because this man is fucking gorgeous. It’s his smile. A heart-thudding, sexy-as-fuck, world-changing smile that shines from the inside out. It lifts his cheeks, illuminates his entire expression, and damn if I don’t feel it pulling on my own lips.
His grin, complete with dimples, grows impossibly wider as I drink him in. Golden complexion, pillowy lips, straight white teeth, square jaw—every symmetrical feature renders a sculpture of masculine beauty. Carved to perfection, rebellious around the edges, and flirtatious without opening his mouth, oh baby, he’s all that and a lit fuse on dynamite.
He gives me more than a smile. The look that follows marks the before and after in my life. The air ceases to exist, and the only thing between us is the anticipation of what is coming. In that flicker of time, with something as inconceivable as a look, he claims me, owns me, and ruins me for all others. It’s a look so defining it puts quotation marks around mine, his, us, and forever.
“Are you married?” “I will be.” Resting a leather-sleeved forearm on the gas tank, he leans in. “Does five o’clock tonight work for you?” I sip the coffee and hum. “Is that a proposal?” “It’s a foregone conclusion.” He rubs his jaw with a gloved hand. “I always wondered what you would look like.” “You wondered what I would look like?” “My forever.”
