Page 56 of Raff
“The car?” I asked.
“Zayn sent a stretch SUV,” Raff explained, shaking his head. “He’s a little over the top.”
“This is a man who once filled a hot tub with top-shelf champagne,” Velle said. “This is pretty tame by comparison.”
“Let me just grab my wallet and phone and we can go,” I said, walking over to my purse. I barely got it in my hand before Raff whipped it out, flipped it open, removed my ID, slipped it into his pocket, then dropped it back on the table.
“You don’t need that.”
That was… almost unbearably hot. My damn knees felt a little wobbly.
“Want me to carry your phone too? You’re lacking in the pocket department.”
I had no one to call anyway, so I handed it over.
With that, we made our way outside, where Raff opened my door and waited for me to slide in before joining me on the sideways seats.
There was plenty of room, but he sat close, our bodies brushing from shoulder to knee. Each inch ignited, the flames licking through my whole body until the heat felt nearly unbearable.
I was so distracted by his nearness that I didn’t notice the pop of the cork or glasses being filled until Raff held a flute of champagne in his hand.
He turned toward me, his chest brushing my arm, his arm sliding behind my neck on the seat.
“Champagne?” he asked, his voice velvet-soft.
“Sure,” I agreed, my own voice paper-dry.
“I’m going to need you to stop doing that,” he said, close enough for me to feel his warm breath on my neck.
“Doing what?” I asked.
He leaned down, just a little, almost like he was thinking about pressing his lips to my neck.
“Looking at me like you’re curious.”
His head dipped.
My heart stopped.
But then he turned away, saying something to one of the other guys while I tried to remember how to breathe.
I raised the flute to my lips and sipped, pretending to listen to the men as they spoke while what I was really doing was trying to convince the goosebumps that had raised on my skin at Raff’s words to flatten back out.
Parts of me were still thrumming with interest as the stretch pulled up at the curb beside the club, with no words on the sign, just a green viper—fangs exposed—on an inverted triangular sign.
The line was wrapped down the block, and for a split second, I worried about my feet in the pinching heels until I realized if Zayn sent a stretch SUV for us, surely we would bypass the line.
The men slid out, and Raff’s hand was there waiting to help me out. As soon as I was on my feet, he pulled my hand up to his mouth and pressed a quick kiss to my knuckles before releasing it.
There was a split second of disappointment before I felt it slide across my lower back instead, making a shiver work its way through me.
When a group of drunk guys stumbled out the front doors, chased by a linebacker dressed as a bouncer, Raff’s hand curled around my hip, pulling me closer.
As predicted, the guys rattled off our names, and without even checking our IDs, the rope was opened for us to move inside, making the next group of people in line groan.
I stiffened as we stepped inside, the decibel level climbing to a point that had my shoulders inching up near my ears. Had clubs always been so loud? Were my ears too old for this now?
Raff, likely feeling my tension with our bodies so close, gave my hip a reassuring little squeeze as he guided me to follow the other guys through the first crush of people, then up toward a staircase to a balcony that seemed to be defying physics as it hung over half the club with no visible support beams—just suspended from some thick cables from the ceiling.
