She came closer.
Close enough that their thighs brushed warm and deliberate under the table — hers pressing right up against his through the thin fabric of whatever tight little number she was wearing, her elbow sliding onto the counter, chin resting on her palm as she angled her entire body toward him like personal space was a cute suggestion she'd officially canceled.
"So who's the girl?" she asked, voice low and smoky, the kind of tone that usually made men forget their own names.
Phei looked at her, one eyebrow raised.
"What do you mean, who's the girl?"
She gestured lazily toward the empty seat where her previous date had been sitting like a discarded accessory. "Usually men in clubs are checking me out. Ogling my body. Trying to figure out exactly how to get in my panties."
She said it without ego — just pure, unfiltered fact, the way a woman who'd been turning heads since puberty stated the obvious.
