Here fishy, fishy.
I grasp my whiskey and fight not to guzzle it down. “How old is your nephew?”
“Eight weeks.”
There’s no pause. Not even a slight frown as he recalls the timeline. This guy is fully invested in his family, and I’m a smidge jealous. I used to be surrounded by people like him. Good people. Loving people. But they never looked this severe or harsh. I can feel him scrutinizing me, studying me, just like I was doing with him.
“See what I’ve done here?” Brent interrupts. “My pestering has started a conversation. If it wasn’t for me, you two would be sitting in silence.”
“Silence is good.” The stranger swirls his beer with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Silence is comfortable.”
“Silence is honest,” I add, gaining another fierce stare.
He inclines his head.
Again, my gaze is glued to his. I can’t help it. There’s something about him that demands attention. Something dark, like I’m used to, and also something promising, which is entirely new to me. I suddenly feel like I want to climb his broad chest and ride his face for hours.
Not a good idea.
I turn back to the bar and ignore my nagging libido as the chatter continues without me. Brent returns to his questioning antics while the stranger resumes his monosyllabic answers.
Their conversation washes over me, sweeping away the brutal parts of the night to replace them with something basic and easy. Something suburban and casual. I concentrate, trying to learn more about him, but my adrenaline-filled brain is darting, looking for a hook to clasp onto.
Unfortunately, it snags onto my attraction. The sexiness.
My heart pounds harder with each muttered word. The minutes tick by with building lust. I glance to the large hands encasing his beer, the thick fingers, the tanned skin.
Hands are my downfall. My Achilles’ heel. I can picture his grip around my throat. Clasping my flesh. Burying deep. A shudder slips through me.
Damn it.
I’m due to get laid. That’s all. What is the cobweb tally at now? Two months? Three? And my last conquest ended up being more of an unwilling victim. He hadn’t realized I was leading him into a sexual research situation and did a runner when I donned my newly purchased dominatrix attire.
But a woman’s gotta try these things. I’m inquisitive by nature. Stepping outside the box is what I do. It’s how I learn, and grow…and realize my error of spending five hundred dollars on black leather items, including a high-neck bralette and matching web garter.
“How about you, Steph?”
“Hmm?” I blink up at Brent and take another sip of alcoholic goodness. “What did I miss?”
“Laboring work. Do you know of any construction sites in this area?”
Construction? Laboring? Of course this broad temptation has a body built for sin under his jacket.
“Sorry.” I shake my head and keep my gaze straight ahead. Sip, sip, sip. “Maybe a temp agency could help.”
Brent leans into my line of sight, his lips lifting in a knowing smile. “What’s wrong?”
I raise my glass. “I’m almost out of liquor.”
It’s no secret I like to get my sexy on, and my lovely bartender buddy probably thinks I’m too scared to get freaky with this Hulk-like Adonis.
That isn’t the case.
Tonight is for celebration, and I don’t feel like a sexual rejection to tarnish the memory. The insults from my last escapade are still raw.
That’s a whole lot of spandex, sugar.
It wasn’t spandex, asshole. It was expensive, supple matte black leather with gunmetal buckles.
Brent fakes a yawn as he refills my glass. “I think I might call last drinks.”
I glare, and his eyes beam back at me, taunting—matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match.
Does he think I’m too timid to sleep with this guy? Really? My sexual appetite is more likely to indicate I’ll swallow the sexy stranger whole.
“Yeah,” my drinking partner agrees. “I guess I better make a move.”
I glance at him, and he’s right there staring back at me, strumming my pussy with his caged emotions.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, passive as fuck.
The question not only surprises me, it lassos my womb and squeezes tight. I’m flustered, which is out of character, and I’m also aroused, which isn’t all that surprising.
“Yes.” I throw back the last of my drink and stand. “But I’m leaving on my own.”
Apparently, the mix of adrenaline and whiskey has made me reckless. I’m a panty slip away from taking this guy home. This devilishly sexy man with his shadowy intrigue and penetrating eyes. My heart palpitates. My sternum itches. I want to drag him to my apartment by his dick. I would strip him. Devour him.
Not tonight, Satan. Not tonight.
I need to focus. Regroup. I have a lead to chase tomorrow, and I don’t want anything else stealing my attention.
I pull my pack from the floor and scrounge for my purse, only to have the stranger shake his head.
“I’ve got it.” He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a money clip, and slides a stack of bills across the bar. “This should be enough for both of us.”
It is.
More than enough.
I don’t know how to respond. I’m uncomfortable with being indebted. I’m also charmed by his generosity. “Thank you.”
He grasps his drink, not paying me attention as he raises the bottle. “Don’t mention it.”
It isn’t a gentlemanly request. It’s a statement. A demand that I ignore his kindness. It’s entirely gruff and anti-social. It’s how I usually act—my MO outside of this bar and away from the one man I speak to. It’s so familiar I can’t help smiling.
This man is me.
“Well…” I beat my desire back with a studded bat. “It was nice meeting you.”
He scans me with a quick appreciative stare, from eyes to heels and back again. “I assure you, the pleasure was all mine.” There’s no inflection in his tone, no excitement, and definitely none of this pleasure he speaks of. But I believe him anyway.
I tingle in places that aren’t usually susceptible to flattery. I crave more of his scrutiny. I want all of his attention.
Shit.
I clear my throat to break the trance and sling my pack over one shoulder. “I’ll catch you later, Brent.”
I don’t glance in the bartender’s direction. I focus on the door, my head high, and eat up the space between me and necessary fresh air. I fight temptation like a pro, striding my seductive heels toward my escape, until I hear the squeak of a bar seat.
“I’m out of here, too.”
That voice slays me. The lethargy. The masculinity.
I pause and glance over my shoulder to see my fantasy approaching, the slightest tweak to his mouth a threat and a taunt, all in one. I should run. Fast. But all the cautionary thoughts are being smothered by the heavy weight of attraction.
There’s a hum.
A zing.
It slides down my spine, tightens my nipples, and contracts my pussy in the most delicious squeeze. I’m already convinced this guy could make me come like a runaway freight train, leaving me devastated and deliciously broken.
I want that pleasure. I want the pain, too.