“That, and I’d give my right anything to see you in a little less clothing and a lot more paint.”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

Nervously, I clear my throat, then run my other hand down the perspiring side of my glass. Seconds later, I transfer it to the equally perspiring side of my face. Sure, it’s warm in here and, sure, I get flushed when I drink, but it’s more than that. This man—this stranger—is potent. Something about him makes me sweat.

And something about him makes me want to say yes.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can take them back, but I think it’s worth it just to see the surprise morph into pleasure on the face of my new partner in crime.

“Are you sure?” He’s still grinning. “I’m mostly full of shit—you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

I shrug. “I mean, it’s just paint, right? It’s not like it’s permanent.”

Man. That smile of his is like a force of nature.

“Yeah—there’s nothing about this place that’s permanent,” he says, glancing around us at the bar, then back at me. “Unless you want it to be.”

His eyes are full of something warmer than humor. Something like appreciation. Like desire. Something that makes me wonder what he’s done when he’s been here on all those nights before tonight.

“So, what about you?” We both slide forward off our stools until we’re standing toe-to-toe. I try not to teeter on Rainey’s heeled boots. “Have you ever had your body painted?”

He laughs. “You know what? I haven’t.”

“Seriously? But you just said everyone has to do that their first time.”

“I think I was more considering the first time for a woman at the club,” he says. “But, you know what? I’m game—we’ll do it together.”

“You want to get your body painted with me?”

“Honey,” he drawls, flashing that grin, “there isn’t anyone in the world I’d rather get body painted with.”

It’s my turn to laugh and I shake my head. “Oh, I bet you say that to all the ladies.”

And, because I’m an awkward mess, I attempt to gently elbow him in his side and, instead, jab him a lot harder than I intend.

“Oh, shit! God, I’m so sorry!” My hand flies to my mouth as he half doubles over. “Christ, I am an absolute disaster. Are you okay?”

I swear, I am such a spaz—more specifically, a spaz who doesn’t know CPR or the Heimlich or any other life-saving techniques. If I have to call Mystique over to come give him mouth-to-mouth, I will literally punch myself in the face.

But when straightens up to standing, I realize he’s laughing. Suddenly, he takes my hand and tugs me closer to him.

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

I blink at him. “What?”

He lets his thumb feather over my palm. “I said what’s your name?”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to—”

Quicker than you’d think possible, he moves his other hand up to cup my cheek.

“I know we’re not supposed to. But I want to.”

“Why?”

I hate the way my voice squeaks. But when his eyelids drop, hooding his gaze again, I forget all about how I sound.

I forget about everything but him.

“Because I think you’re intriguing. Because I think you’re sexy. And because I want to get to know you better.”

I bite my lip, and his eyes zero in on my mouth. I have to literally remind myself to inhale.

“Hyacinth,” I finally say. “My name’s Hyacinth.”

There’s a fire in his eyes when he smiles this time. He shifts his hand along my jaw until his thumb rests just under my bottom lip.

“Hyacinth.”

He says it quietly, slowly, it’s like he’s savoring it. Or maybe it just sounds that way to my addled brain—hell, I can hardly hear him over the beat of the music. Or maybe it’s the beat of my own heart. Who really knows anymore?

“It’s nice to meet you, Hyacinth,” Blue Eyes says as he tilts my face up to meet his gaze. “My name is Smith.”

Chapter Three

Taking Chances

“You want me to do what?”

I sort of gape at the girl in front of me, who is holding an airbrush gun in one hand and a martini glass in the other. She bats her extremely long, silver-tipped eyelashes.

“Take off your shirt,” she repeats, enunciating each word.

I glance over at Smith, who is already straddling a stool. The leather-clad girl in front of him has a gleeful look on her face. Can’t blame her, I guess. We all watch as he unbuttons his dress shirt.

Oh, for the love of all things good and holy.

He’s like a work of art—his skin is golden brown, even in the bluish light of the club, and his torso has the kind of definition you only see in commercials for exercise equipment.

Self-consciously, I glance down at the pale cleavage I’ve been flashing all night, and I want to groan. I am absolutely not removing my shirt. I’ll look like Casper the Friendly Ghost if I stand shirtless next to him. Not to mention—I mean, I really like wearing clothes. Particularly in public.

“Here’s the deal, honey,” my body artist says, leaning back to survey me. “You can leave the bra on—I can paint right over it. But if you want a masterpiece, you gotta show some skin. Hell, this ain’t a kid’s face-painting party, you dig?”

I swallow hard. Smith is watching me over one shoulder as the other artist crouches in front of him and makes large, sweeping gestures over his torso with the airbrush.

“Hyacinth?”

God, I love the sound of my name on his lips.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t really have to do this,” he says with a smile.

But there’s a challenge hidden behind those words, and he and I both know it. Jutting my chin out, I steel my nerves and yank my sweater up over my head. I don’t have to look at my bra, because I can remember precisely which one I’m wearing—beige satin, no padding in the cups. Couldn’t be more boring.

I turn to face Smith full on, and the infuriatingly sexy smile slips off his face. There’s no mistaking the heat flaring in his eyes.

“Color me surprised,” he says quietly.

I can feel myself turning red, but I just shrug.

“I like a challenge, I guess.”

“Clearly.”

When I look at him again, his gaze is locked on my chest, and I glance down to see that my nipples have hardened, very prominently, beneath the satin cups. I desperately want to cross my arms, and I have to force them to stay at my sides.

My airbrush artist places a hand on my bare shoulder. “Turn around, lemme see you.”

I feel relief at the excuse to move from Smith’s gaze. I pivot on one heel and square my shoulders. Ms. Silver Lashes grins up at me, then I feel a blast of air across my chest.

“What the—”

“Don’t look down.” She curls an index finger under my chin and tilts my face back up. “Just let me do my work.”

Then she lowers her voice.

“I promise I’ll make you look so sexy he won’t be able to take his eyes off you—even more than he can’t already.” I open my mouth, then close it. She quirks a brow at me for permission to continue, and I just nod slowly. Her glee is immediate, and she begins to make sweeping gestures and swirling motions along my torso and shoulders. The paint itself feels like a fine mist at some points. At other times, I can only feel the air pressure from the gun.

I bite my lip and look back at Smith, who now has his arms raised with his hands interlocked behind his head. Along one forearm, I can see the muted ink of a fairly intricate tattoo. God, even his forearms are gorgeous—tan and strong, the kind you want resting at your waist and pulling you in closer. For the next few minutes, I picture scenarios that involve him sweeping me up and carrying me to safety, like if I were being attacked by killer bees or zombies or something.