Can't Get Enough

Book 0: Skyland

by Kennedy Ryan

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; African American Romance; Billionaires Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

“Kennedy Ryan pours her whole soul into everything she writes, and it makes for books that are heart-searing, sensual, and life affirming.” ―EMILY HENRY

Hendrix Barry lives a fabulous life. She has phenomenal friends, a loving family, and a thriving business that places her in the entertainment industry's rarefied air. Your vision board? She’s probably living it.

She’s a woman with goals, dreams, ambitions—always striving upward. And in the midst of everything, she's facing her toughest challenge yet: caring for an aging parent.

Who has time for romance? From her experience, there's a low ROI on relationships. She hasn't met the man who can keep up with her anyway. Until...him.

Tech mogul Maverick Bell is a dilemma wrapped in an exquisitely tailored suit and knee-melting charm. From their first charged glance at the summer's hottest party, Hendrix feels like she’s met her match. Only he can’t be. Mav may be the first to make her feel this seen and desired and appreciated, but he’s the last one she can have. Forbidden fruit is the juiciest, and this man is off limits if she plans to stay the course she’s set for herself.

But when Maverick gives chase—pursuing her, spoiling her, understanding her—is it time to let herself have something more?

“One of the finest romance writers of our age.” –Entertainment Weekly

Release date: May 13, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

I get paid for my good ideas.

Coming to this party was not one of them.

Another quick glance at my phone settles the uneven thump of my heart. No missed calls. No new texts.

Yet.

My muscles tighten, braced for the call that hasn’t come, and anxiety floods my nervous system as I wonder why my phone hasn’t rung.

Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t.

Mama has been better since Aunt Geneva moved in a few months ago. The doctor believes Ms. Catherine’s death may have exacerbated Mama’s symptoms, or at least proved destabilizing enough that some of her lapses after Ms. Cat’s passing made sense. We can never really know, but taking her meds regularly, being more active, and having someone to watch out for her again seem to have improved Mama’s situation, or at least gotten her back on track. I try to get home to see her and help out at least twice a month, though work has been so busy lately, carving out the time has proven more difficult.

“Check that phone again,” whisper-warns the woman walking beside me, “and I’m tossing it in the bay.”

Biscayne Bay butts up to a sprawling Miami mansion and my companion, Chapel—client turned good friend—may be right. I should relax for one night… while I can. I slip the phone into the pocket of my wide-legged white linen pants and turn up the wattage on my smile.

“No more phone,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “Party girl reporting for duty.”

And it is a duty. Copping an invite to one of the most exclusive parties of the year is cool, and I’m happy to be Chapel’s plus-one. She is my client, though, and despite the music thumping through the walls and the sea of beautiful people dressed in all white, this is work.

“Last year this time,” Chapel says as we approach the front door of the four-level glass-paned mansion, “I was watching celebrities post photos of this party. Now I’m at the All-White Party snapping my own.”

“It is the hottest ticket in town,” I agree. “We know firsthand that Zere throws a fantastic party.”

“That wrap party was bananas.” Chapel’s eyes go wide. “What a night.”

Zere, the host and an executive producer on the reality model competition Lewks, shut shit down with the wrap party at the end of the season.

“And you had a lot to celebrate,” I remind Chapel. “From that first episode, I knew you’d win.”

“You were probably the only one who thought so.” Chapel huffs out a laugh. “No one else was sitting at home predicting the five-foot-four chick with vitiligo would win a model competition.”

“Well, then they weren’t looking hard enough because that is exactly who took home the prize.” I give her a gentle shoulder bump. “Now everybody wants a piece of you.”

Athletic wear, soft drinks, perfume—as Chapel’s manager, I field requests every day from some new brand wanting in on her unexpected meteoric rise.

“‘Would you bury gold?’” Chapel asks softly when we reach the front door, pausing before we enter. “That’s what you said to the makeup artist on set who tried to cover up my vitiligo.”

“She was clueless.” I suck my teeth. “She was burying the gold, trying to hide what makes you most uniquely beautiful.”

Chapel stares at me, blinking all fast like she might cry, but instead she reaches up and throws her arms around my neck. I almost stumble with the force of her weight, even though she is no bigger than a minute.

“What the…” I laugh and return her squeeze. “You need to warn a sister before you launch yourself like that.”

“Just… thank you,” Chapel mumbles into my shoulder. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t believed in me like you did.”

“Like I do,” I say, looking down at her pretty face with soft washes of pale pink a striking contrast over her dark brown skin. “We just getting started, boo. Now let’s show these folks how we get down.”

Despite the phone burning a hole in my pocket, I set out to have a good time, make some connections, and for one night forget the dilemma of Mama’s condition. I let out a low whistle when we enter the house. It’s a magnificent waterfront property with soaring ceilings and an abundance of natural light. The open floor plan flows seamlessly to a gorgeous tranquil pool. Limestone floors and stark white walls are touched with spots of color from sculptures, paintings, and oversized plants. It is somehow opulent and warm.

“I done seen some impressive shit,” Chapel says, her eyes roaming over the glass-and-chrome decor of the house, warmed with occasional touches of driftwood on the walls and tables. “But this that life. I mean I knew Zere’s man was rich as hell, but this? Another level.”

The sunken living room is decorated with what I think is custom-made Rick Owens furniture. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the bay.

“They say he reached billionaire status when he sold that video game,” I say.

“It’s a betting app,” Chapel corrects. “Called True Playahs. And yeah, I heard that, too.”

“They’ve been together for a while, right?” I frown, trying to remember any details the press managed to leak about Zere and her much-more-reserved mogul boyfriend.

“Coming up on three years, I think. When we talked on set,” Chapel says, lowering her voice as we wade into the stream of white-clad partygoers, “she seemed to think he’d be popping the question soon.”

“Oh, for real?” I grab a glass of some white drink in keeping with the theme from a server passing by—coconut something, piña colada—don’t care as long as it contains alcohol.

“Have you seen him?” Chapel asks.

“Maybe? I don’t remember seeing him before and that’s a shame since on principle I should know every Black billionaire on sight. Not that many of them.”

“Well, he’s not as public as Zere. Not in pictures much except around this time of year when they throw this party, and even then seems like the pictures folks post are of everyone except him. But he’s fine, and this rich?” She gestures to our luxurious surroundings. “Zere better not fumble that bag.”

“I don’t care how rich he is, she is the bag. He better not fumble her.” I pause with the glass hovering at my lips and give her a wicked look over the rim. “But how fine we talking?”

“Fine enough.” Chapel affects a shiver. “I saw him on set once. There’s just something about him. Power? Charisma? It goes deeper than looks. Whatever it is, our girl Zere is lucky it’s hers.”

At that moment, the lucky woman in question approaches, wearing a white halter top and a tiny skirt that shows her almost waifish figure to full advantage. A pleased smile creases Zere’s hazel eyes at the corners the tiniest bit. The contrast of her flawless golden skin and coppery hair creates the striking coloring the camera loves so much, a legacy of her Ethiopian mother and Irish father.

“You’re here,” Zere says, her light floral scent as entrancing as her sweet voice. “I’m so glad.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it.” I return her air-kisses at each cheek. “This is incredible, lady.”

When I first met Zere on the set of Lewks, I only had the things I’d heard and read to go on—a famous model in her late thirties staying relevant through a competition reality show. Over the course of the season, though, I realized there was more to her than the headlines and the parties and the billionaire boyfriend. For one, she’s a hustler, and that I always respect. So when Chapel won Lewks and Zere approached us about developing a show starring Chapel, we were all ears and all in. When she suggested I serve as an executive producer for the show—something I’ve wanted to get into for years—I liked her even more.

“Girl!” Zere blows out a laughing breath. “Planning this party almost took me out, but it’s worth it.”

“You have a beautiful home,” I tell her, allowing my gaze to wander over the luxuriously appointed space. “I mean… wow.”

“Thank you. Of all Mav’s properties, this one is my favorite.” Zere scans the stunning open area, and wistfulness creeps into her voice. “I’d live here year-round if I could, but Mav can’t seem to stay in one place that long, and he actually prefers his house in Malibu.”

Something shadows her expression, but before I can interpret the look, she smooths it back into the perfect serenity I’ve come to expect.

“You’ll meet him later.” She loops her arms through our elbows and directs us toward the huge open space where a wall would be in a lesser house, leading to the party outside in full swing. “Let’s go get you a real drink.”

People crowd around a bar as long and as well-stocked as you’d find in the finest establishments. An infinity pool with floating pavilions is the jeweled centerpiece of the area. The yard rolls out like a verdant green carpet down to the house’s private dock jutting out into the bay. A pier of sorts floats over the water, decorated with overstuffed outdoor furnishings, a firepit, and yet another bar. Motorboats speed toward the deck ferrying more guests, all dressed in white. I recognize some famous faces—actors, rappers, models, high-profile figures from the worlds of business and entertainment. Black, white, brown, and everything in between. This party is renowned for assembling an impressive cross section of influential people. My shoulders move to the loud music and I sip the “real” drink Zere found for me, but I feel myself shifting into grind mode. Yes, it’s a party, but it’s also an opportunity.

And I always make the most of those.

For a few minutes Zere stays with us, introducing us to people I know only from the tabloids. Even the most famous seem to feel at ease here. Maybe it’s the tightness of the security, the carefully curated guest list, or the free-flowing libations. Whatever the reason, everyone is loose and before I know it, my default setting of what you see is what you get kicks in, and within the hour, I’m beside the DJ, directing him on what to play next. The phone rests heavily in my pocket, a reminder of my family’s challenges beyond this bay. The air, sultry and sweet and throbbing with the cadence of revelry, washes over me. If for only a moment, it washes my troubles away.

“You got ‘Jiggy Woogie’?” I ask, already winding my hips and anticipating that dancehall bop to drop.

He glances up and grins at me from the turntable, of which I approve because I’m old school like that. “You ’bout to turn this party out, ain’t you?”

I shrug and flash him a sheepish grin. “It’s what I do.”

There are few things more impractical than red wine at an all-white party. I shrug off the stained white silk T-shirt and let it drop to the floor.

“You have at least one wardrobe change every year, Mav.”

Bare-chested, I turn to face the reed-slim woman standing at the threshold connecting my closet to my bedroom.

With a chuckle, I reach for an almost-identical T-shirt and pull it over my head. “Whose bright idea was an all-white party anyway?”

Zere shutters her expression and approaches with a wry, humorless smile.

“Guilty as charged. It was definitely my idea.” She scoops my wine-stained shirt from the floor and walks it over to the hamper in the far corner.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say with a frown.

“Picking up after you became a habit the last three years. One I can’t seem to break yet.”

She walks back to me and we stand almost nose to nose. Zere was made for magazines and runways and front pages. At five feet eleven inches shoeless, she matches my six two easily in heels. Sometimes she even stands above me an inch in her favorite mile-high stilettos. I’m convinced Zere could run a marathon in those things, she’s so used to them.

Ironically, when we broke up a month ago, she called me a runner. I don’t even know if she’s wrong.

“The party’s going well,” I say, settling on a neutral subject that won’t cause trouble with more than 150 guests downstairs. “Great job, as usual.”

“Yeah, well, guess I wanted to go out with a bang. If this is my last time throwing this party, I had to make it count.”

Her words hang between us, tightening the air in the space we shared and she decorated.

“Look, Zee,” I say on a resigned sigh. “I know this is awkward, but—”

“What could be awkward about hosting a party with your ex-boyfriend when no one knows you’ve called it quits?” Her laugh peals out brittle and harsh. “I’m having the time of my life.”

“I told you we could’ve skipped. These parties are always more your thing and—”

“My thing?” A scoffing breath punctuates her disdain. “Find me the Daily Mail headline that says ‘Zere O’Malley’s All-White Party.’ Please. A-list celebrities are not here on the strength of my brand or my bank account, and we both know it.”

“What I mean is you always invested so much time and effort and care into these parties,” I say, cupping her shoulders in my hands and squeezing gently. “I just had to show up with my checkbook and a white suit. Now that we’re not together…”

She flinches, and I don’t finish the thought, but surely she knows I don’t give a damn about this party.

“I could…” She leans forward, lowers her lashes, swallows before going on. “I could still plan it even though we’re just friends. I wouldn’t mind.”

I weigh my words before I say them. The last thing I want to do is hurt her more than our breakup already has, but she must see that wouldn’t be healthy or smart for either of us.

“I don’t think so, Zee,” I finally reply, releasing my hold and carefully watching her face.

She’s widely considered one of the most beautiful women in the world, as she should be. The first time I saw her, I’m pretty sure I stopped breathing. She has her catty moments, but generally she’s kind and funny and pretty close to perfect. To say people were shocked when our relationship went public is an understatement. She—the model socialite and fashion world darling. Me—a borderline antisocial businessman most people would have to google to know. The official statement we’ll release after this party will say our breakup was mutual. And in a way it was. She wanted marriage and a baby. My daughter is graduating from high school, and I don’t want to start over. Just as I’m finally getting an empty nest, Zere realized she wants to fill hers. Neither of us was willing to budge, so… is that mutual? Her ultimatum. My refusal.

The sobs coming from the guest room down the hall the night we broke up didn’t sound mutual. They sounded heartbroken. I sat on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, while her tears tore at my heart.

“You’re right, of course,” Zere says, hurt standing liquid in her eyes. “About the party. I guess it just stings seeing how badly you want me out of your life.”

The wobble in her voice wrings something in my chest.

“Damn, Zee.” I run my hand across the back of my neck and grit my teeth. “You know that’s not it. I’ll always care for you.”

“Don’t patronize me.” A tear slips over the smoothness of her cheek, streaking through her expertly applied makeup. “Emotionally, I mean. Don’t look after my feelings and say shit you don’t mean to make me feel better.”

“I’m not—”

“I’ll have all my stuff out after the party,” she cuts in, swiping carefully at the tears. “Movers come Monday.”

“There’s no rush.” I clear my throat. “I’m rarely even here.”

I bought this house a few months before we got serious, but Zere is stamped on every square inch of it. When Architectural Digest featured it last year, referring to it as our “party house,” Zere prepared as one would for the Olympics. I’ve steered clear of Miami since the breakup, bouncing between my apartment in Manhattan and my place in Malibu. She would be pissed to know last month when I had business in Miami, I stayed at the Ritz because I knew she was here. My movers will be right behind hers because I’m selling the house she loves so much. I think losing this place might break her heart more than losing me.

Is she losing me?

Did she ever have me? Did I have her?

The sex was fantastic. Hell, our breakup sex was actually top ten. She’s a smart woman, and I was never bored. We had goals as a couple. It always felt like she was propelling us forward, like we were on our way… up. We were always striving. And as much as I’m driven in business, my personal life is not for climbing. I work hard and I want to rest. I never felt like I could rest with Zere. Not that I don’t crave adventure. Adrenaline is practically my recreational drug, but attending the next exclusive party, making another list, appearing on Page Six—none of that matters to me, but it always has to Zere. So the marriage and baby ultimatum may have felt like the final straw, but somewhere in the back of my mind, in unacknowledged corners of my heart, I knew our paths would eventually diverge.

“You say there’s no rush,” Zere mutters, stepping back and smoothing the white miniskirt over her hips. “But I know you’re ready for this to be over. You hate loose ends.”

“You’re not a loose end. You’re my friend, Zere. I hope you always will be.” I grab her hands, and dip the inch to look her squarely in the eyes. “And I hope you get everything you want. Everything I wasn’t able to give you.”

“Wasn’t able to? Or wasn’t willing?” She snatches her hands back. “Pretty sure your sperm count is high enough and we were practically married already.”

I don’t dispute her, though I’ve seen a good marriage in my parents, and Zere and I were never “practically married.”

“Let’s not do this.” I leave the closet and head into the bedroom, trusting that she’ll follow. “Not now with a houseful of people having a good time. Come on.”

I extend my hand, waiting for her to take it so we can present a united front this one last time. It’s a miracle our breakup hasn’t leaked to the press, but neither of us have told many people. My dad and a few close friends know, but I can trust them to keep it to themselves and let us share the news on our own terms.

Zere takes my hand and studies our entwined fingers. Her mouth trembles for a second, but she marshals her face into the mask she wants it to be. The beautiful visage that has graced every major magazine cover. She offers one jerk of a nod, almost like she’s having a silent conversation with herself, and moves toward the stairs.

I love this house most when it’s full of people. So really only once a year. When Zere suggested we throw an all-white party the first summer of our relationship, I had no idea this would become one of the most coveted invitations.

The massive glass wall leading to the backyard from the living room is folded back, opening to a dazzling view of the bay. There’s a swirl of bodies, all dressed in white, mingling, drinking, dancing outside. Servers circulate with trays of food you can easily eat with your hands. A few adventurous guests are playing volleyball in the pool… fully dressed.

I’ve had so little downtime lately, this isn’t really how I want to spend one of my few free Saturday evenings. But this is the last time. I can at least give Zere this.

“I want you to meet Chapel,” Zere says, reminding me we still have one last appearance to get through.

“She’s the one who won Lewks, right?” I ask, frowning and trying to recall the details.

“Right. If you’d ever actually made it to set this season, you could have met her.”

I draw in a breath through my nose and force myself not to respond harshly. “I actually did come a few times. Not as much as I would have liked, but you know I’ve been slammed with the sale of True Playahs.”

“Oh, I’m quite aware just how important your work is,” Zere half laughs.

I’ve been negotiating the biggest deal of my life, as complex as the Riemann hypothesis, and she expected me to sit around on the set of her reality show waiting for her to take a break? I would never have pulled her away from something as professionally vital as this deal was for me. Didn’t I show support in other ways? Me showing up to sit around set wouldn’t have changed the fact that we have been headed to this end for at least the last year.

“Zee, I—”

“Here’s Chapel,” she cuts in, plastering a smile on her face, waving and drawing the attention of a woman I vaguely recognize. Petite with closely cropped hair tinted pink. Zere grabs her hand and draws her forward. “Chapel, I want you to meet… this is my… uh… this is Maverick Bell.”

“Hmmmm.” Chapel is mid-swallow, gulping and passing a slim hand over her mouth to catch the drink spilling over. “Sorry! Hi! I’ve heard so much about you.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “Congratulations on winning. That’s really cool.”

“Thank you.” She beams, her expression brightening even more if possible. “And thank you for having us.”

“Where’s Hendrix?” Zere asks, glancing around.

“Girl, you know Hen.” Chapel shakes her head, a smile coming easily to her lips. “She out there taking over.”

She nods to the backyard where guests dance and cluster in conversations.

“I should have known.” Zere laughs beside me and points to a group assembled near the firepit. “Hendrix is the life of every party.”

I follow the direction of her gaze and narrow my eyes to focus. A woman stands on the stone wall surrounding the pool, which slightly elevates her over maybe twenty guests gathered around. The DJ is playing “Candy” by Cameo. From her perch this woman stands on the dais and leads the small crowd of dancers in the electric slide.

Her face is lit not just by the late-setting sun or the pool lights that have already come on as darkness approaches, but illuminated by something inside. She is luminous with skin the color of rich cocoa. The flash of her pink tongue is delicately clenched between the boldness of a smile built from straight white teeth and absolute radiance. A cloud of coiling natural curls halos her striking face, the Afro dark and full and luxuriant. She’s tall, maybe matching Zere, but where Zere is slender, almost fragile, Hendrix has a homegrown thickness that is tight in some places and voluptuous in others. She is long lines and deep curves. Lush and ripe like summer fruit.

A handful.

The description makes me grin because she would overflow a man’s hands with the cursive swell of her breasts and hips and ass, yes, but the energy she’s emitting, stepping and hopping and twisting as she leads everyone through the slide, hints that she would be a handful. She would be… a lot.

“Who is she?” I force myself to look away from her and return my attention to Zere and Chapel.

“Hendrix?” Chapel answers with a grin. “She’s my manager.”

“Seems to be having fun,” I reply, keeping my tone and expression indifferent, though one glimpse of this Hendrix manager person leaves me wanting to stare.

“Always does,” Zere says with a wry smile. “Chapel, there’s someone I want you to meet. It’s this executive from the network. He’s really excited about the potential of your show.”

Zere’s glance my way is a tangle of reserve and reluctance. “You’ll be fine if I mingle a little, Mav?”

“Of course. I should mingle some, too, I guess, huh?”

She knows stuff like this, sometimes people like this, bore me, and some of the stiffness melts at the edges of her eyes and mouth. She leans over and kisses my cheek, letting her lips rest against my face for an extra beat, before pulling away. Her smile goes stiff again, rigid with hiding her emotions. Since she’s shit at hiding from me, I’m glad she turns away so I don’t have to see what’s there. There’s an ache in my chest knowing I’m the cause of it.

“Go,” I tell her softly, patting her hip with a fond smile before turning to Chapel. “It was really nice meeting you.”

“Great meeting you, too. I guess we’ll see more of each other soon,” Chapel says, “since Zere and I will be working together.”

My gaze snags briefly with Zere’s over the secret we only have to keep one more night. And then the world will know what we have for some time.

That this—that we—are over.

Whew!” I swipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and aim a grin at the bartender. “I need a drink.”

“You worked up a thirst out there.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the bar, his blue eyes raking appreciatively over me. “What’ll you have?”

I lean forward a little, too, letting him look his fill, cleavage on display in the fitted white top that doesn’t quite meet the waistband, baring a strip of my stomach. I know I look good tonight, but damn. This white boy is looking at me like I’m a Hershey’s Kiss. Drooling and shit.

“Your call,” I tell him, flashing a flirty smile that won’t go anywhere. He’s cute, but I need swagger. This guy wouldn’t know what to do with all this. “What’s your favorite drink tonight?”

His smile broadens. “Golden Cadillac.”

“Ahhhh. I like the sound of that.”

“You’ll love it. Galliano, white crème de cacao, and heavy cream.” He kisses his fingers to his lips. “Trust me on this one.”

I let a chuckle roll out, wiggling to settle on the barstool, and give a decisive nod. “Let’s do it.”

He slaps the bar. “Coming right up.”

While he prepares the drink, a few guests come by, laughing and fist-pounding me. Apparently I made some new friends on the dance floor. Cameo brings the people together.

“That was so much fun,” a blond girl I recognize from a Hulu sitcom says. “Been a long time since I danced like that.”

I smile, wave as she goes, and accept the drink the flirtatious bartender offers.

“Oooh, thank you,” I say, studying a glass of thick white liquid garnished with orange peel. “This looks fantastic.”

I take the first sip, meeting his expectant eyes with a moan. “Hmmm. So good.”

“Told you,” he says. A trio of girls fresh from the pool drip at the other end of the bar, summoning him over for their drink orders. “Lemme take care of them. Enjoy.”

I’m poised to pull out my phone and make sure I didn’t miss any calls, when I feel the weight of eyes on me. I turn my head and have to force myself not to whip right back around. There’s a man studying me intently, and he doesn’t look away or flinch when I catch him staring. I force myself to hold the intensity of the dark gaze flecked with curiosity.

The man is nothing so simple as handsome, an arrangement of features to please the eye. It’s the way he’s built that draws attention. He’s dark golden brown, skin the shades of sun and sienna. His hair is buzzed down close, brown, but glinting with gold above dark slashing brows, high cheekbones, and a luxuriant splay of lashes. His mouth is wide and his lips are full, framed by the bones of his face—hard, blunt, striking. Those eyes rest on me in an unwavering stare that might disconcert another woman. Me? I just stare right back, assessing him as much as he’s assessing me.

Tit, meet tat.

“Um, hello,” I say, lifting both brows. “Can I help you?”

He tilts his head, humor warming his gaze. “What makes you think I need help?”

“Not literal help.” I roll my eyes.

“I can be very literal,” he says with a chuckle.

“You were staring.”

“Was I?”

“You know you were.”

“I thought you had something right…” He gestures to his top lip.

“Oh, for real?” My hand flies to my mouth and I start wiping. “Did I get it?”

His lips twitch and he bends a little at the waist, laughter shaking the strong slope of shoulders beneath his white shirt. “Made ya look.”

I bite into my grin and feign indignation. “Wow. Real mature.”

“Says the woman who was standing on a table doing the electric slide.”

“It was not on a table, and nobody made you watch.”

His smile seems to waver a little, before locking back into place. “You were kind of hard to miss.”

I take a sip of my drink, clearing my throat and searching for a reply. “You should have come out there and danced with us.”

He swings around so that he’s facing my side and props his elbows on his knees, bringing him a little closer. His clean scent wafts between us. “I don’t dance.”

“Don’t or can’t?” I tease.

“Under the right circumstances, I can dance, but mostly… don’t.”

“And what constitutes the right circumstances?”

“Oh, I’ll know it when I see it.”

We’re not exactly flirting, but I feel completely focused on him right now. Like the whole party is a blur in my periphery and this man has come into sharp focus ever since he sat his fine ass down beside me. There is a current running through our light conversation. It buzzes beneath my skin and disrupts my composure. My belly flips every time he flashes that smile full of white teeth and charisma. I can’t physically feel the heat of his body, but my cheeks get warmer the longer our eyes hold. Melanin hides my blush, but there is no hiding from the feeling. The way my breath shallows when he slants a look over to me. The way my fingers tremble just the tiniest bit around the stem of the glass at the deep rumble of his voice.

This man… shit.

We’ve spent all of two minutes together and already… he could get it? A hard maybe. On vibes and looks alone, not