It’s also hard not to let my mind wander as Davey starts telling me about his action figure collection. It wanders where it wants, and what it wants is Angelo. It wants the way the blood trickled down the bridge of his nose, forming a contrast of wild against perfectly groomed that stirred something weirdly primal between my legs…It wants that cocky grin, the whiplash strike of his retorts, his searching, hungry fingers…
Focus on the date, lady.
“That sounds interesting,” I say. “It must take some, uh, concentration to sit there for so long, painting.”
“Oh, hells yeah!” he grins.
He’s giving me a young-Wyatt vibe now, which does nothing positive for my level of attraction to him. I hope I don’t seem bitchy. He really does seem like a nice enough guy. But no one wants to get frisky with
