Muscles are everywhere. He’s so large he is the only thing my eyes can possibly be drawn to. I think the rest of the bar is probably looking at him too, but I wouldn’t know because I’m staring at him. Like a deer in freaking headlights.
Except he hasn’t even noticed me. His black dress shirt is cuffed up his forearms and dark tattoos peek out. His dark wash jeans fall to that exceptional place on his narrow waist. Usually, I’m not so into physical things about the opposite sex. Right now, though, all I can think about is sex. Him. Muscles. On me. I’m hot all at once. I can’t breathe.
He throws his head back and laughs at something one of the trophy women around him says. I want to thank whoever made this creature laugh because it reveals perfect teeth, and I now know his eyes crinkle when he laughs, and it looks like perfection. He is perfect. He probably knows how perfect he is and that is the number one thing that I do not want or need in a man. Not that he’d have plain ole’ me anyways. It looks as if he could have his choice out of the entire bar—perhaps even the world. Stone claps the guy on the back, looking directly at Morganna, and then retreats to his wife. Of course he is one of The Guys.
Off limits, Windsor, I remind myself because my damn traitorous body has other thoughts.
I notice his black watch, the tattoo that creeps out of the neck of his shirt, all tell tale signs. I know what he does; I also know exactly how long he can hold his breath.
Mr. Sexy meets my gaze. I suck in a sharp breath when he rakes his eyes over my body once and then again. A predatory smile creeps its way up the lower part of his face. Dimples. Two of them—one on each side. They aren’t cute either, like little boys with dirt smeared on their faces. These dimples are hot. What makes them smolder is that they don’t go with the rest of him. The juxtaposition of the dimples on something so unfathomably masculine is…mouthwatering.
Even as embarrassed as I am, I can’t look away. He leans his head to one side trying to hear the girl talking next to his ear, but his narrowed gaze doesn’t stray from mine.
Someone jerks my arm. “Put your fucking shoe on, Windsor,” Gretchen hisses from behind me. “That man, and he is a fine ass specimen, is coming over here. By the way he’s looking at you I think he might want to eat you for dinner.” One crude sentence is all it takes. I’m back on guard, minus the fluttering heart. Gretchen knows it.
“Good thing I don’t like to be munched on then.” I fix her with my icy stare. The wall is up. This guy could be Kellan Kyle mixed with Channing Tatum, and he wouldn’t have a chance in hell with my wall.
Awareness of everything on and inside my body hits me. I don’t even need to turn around. I know he’s there. I sense it. Every hair on my neck rises as I take in his sweet, musky cologne.
“Maybe I can fix that,” Mr. Sexy says, voice licking each syllable like he invented the damn English language. I still don’t turn around. I stare at Gretchen’s face, transfixed by this man’s presence. Her face breaks into a huge grin.
“Damn. That is best line I’ve heard in a long time,” she says to him, slow clapping and shaking her head to drive the point home. “Fix that? Munch on you? Get it?” Gretchen snorts.
All I’m aware of is the heat permeating my body and the frantic pace of my heart. I turn around and face The Guy.
CHAPTER THREE
Maverick
THIS CHICK LOOKS completely mortified. She would look less shocked if she walked onto an airplane naked. Or got caught fucking in public. Her huge blue eyes are scared shitless, like a wounded animal. I know what scared shitless looks like. I deal it out as a profession.
I turn on my smile and watch her study my face. She’s guarded…I see it. A challenge. Not an easy fuck. Not my type at all. I glance at her cute friend who looks easy as poker with a blind man. She’s exactly my type. No strings. I’m not even sure what drew me to the doe-eyed girl in the first place.
The friend chuckles a little and pushes her toward me. The friend must be taken. “No…thank yo-u,” Blue Eyes stutters, finally responding. Sinking my hands in the pockets of my jeans I narrow my eyes.
“Are you sure? I’m good at fixing things.” Her cheeks are so red I think she will turn into flames any second. I laugh. I could let my little charade go on all night. When she stays silent, I nod at her bare foot and then the shoe she clutches in her hand. “Your shoe is broken. Do you want me to fix it?” I ask, putting her out of her misery. She visibly relaxes when she realizes I’m not talking about munching on her. The joke was too easy.
Balancing on one foot, she slips her shoe back on. I catch a glimpse of her purple toes before she does. It reminds me of how all women get dressed after I’m done with them and my dick gets hard. I readjust it through my pocket. Her eyes dart down to my crotch. Perfect. It’s exactly where I want her attention.
“My shoe is fine. Some idiot spilled on me,” she says, as her gaze wanders back up to my face. I make sure the smile is in place when she does. I like to watch them squirm before I leave them in the dust. She’s different though. Her expression hardens even further. “I won’t be needing your services tonight.”
Ouch. Blue eyes isn’t even pretending; she doesn’t have any interest. Which pisses me off because that means I’m wrong. Mentally, I lower my woman targeting percentage. I’m intrigued even more. Studying her small frame, hugged inside a tight black dress, I want to see more. Because I know the challenge is steep, I want it that much more.
Her friend peeks over her shoulder. “Or maybe you do need fixing tonight, Windsor?”
Her name. Something as small as a name holds a huge part in seduction. I use it to its full advantage. If the friend thinks she needs fixing, it must be really bad.
Blue Eyes shoots her friend a death glare and hisses something under her breath. She yanks down her dress. “Despite what my bitch best friend says, I don’t need fixing. Especially the brand of fixing you are skilled at dealing out,” she says. Her eyes don’t waver. Her shoulders don’t slink. She stands proud as she shoots me down. The problem is I haven’t even propositioned her yet. Not really anyways. Not flat out. Game fucking on. Challenge accepted.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Windsor. I was just going to ask this fine bartender to fix you a drink. What is your pleasure?” I ask. I don’t take my eyes off hers as I throw my hand in the air to get Benji’s attention. Surely she won’t turn down a drink. She is out at a bar after all.
Her poker face is tight. Better than some of the guys. I think she will turn me down and it pisses me off. Her friend leaves and starts dancing with a girl in a tiny skirt. Blue Eyes looks at them longingly. She bites her bottom lip. The thought of my dick in her mouth pops into my mind.
“A martini. Vodka. No ice. No olives. Dirty,” she says, leaning in. Barely suppressing a groan, I order her drink and motion for her to take the seat next to me at the bar. Sitting is the only thing I’ll be able to do while I’m around this girl. The supreme cock tease. That’s exactly what the guys would call this one.
My goal tonight is to figure out just how challenging this will be. One should always know exactly what they’re fighting for. Once I fixate on something I don’t stop until I get it perfected. I want to perfect fucking Blue Eyes. Then, once I reach that goal, I’ll find a new one. Something or someone more complicated. The women shouldn’t be offended. It’s how my entire life is. One set of hurdles followed by more and more and more. Now, at almost thirty I’m pretty perfect at a lot of fucking things. I may not be a good guy, but I am fucking perfect. Maverick Hart’s luck doesn’t ever run dry.