I walked in through the dark door as a couple was walking out, twisting to avoid bumping into each other. My eyes skimmed the packed place to see if she was already there. It took me a second to spot her. Hard to miss her when she’s the only woman in the room. Every detail of the way she looked sitting there at the bar carved into my psyche…like a gorgeous Russian spy in a classic espionage movie. She was dressed to kill, and I was her mark.
Her elegant yet racy white dress. Those black sex-me pumps. Her dark hair swept over one shoulder. Her red lips curved into that smile of hers, the secretive one permanently imprinted on her face, as if she was in on a joke no one else was privy too.
I don’t have to tell you how gorgeous she looked—but I will anyway.
Fucking gorgeous.
She glanced around but didn’t see me. I watched her nurse a glass of champagne, enjoying the way she crossed her shapely legs, her thighs peeking out from under her skirt. I moved toward her, a singular thought driving me, those thighs sandwiching my head. My pace waned when a wolf in Armani clothing approached her.
Apparently, we had the same thought.
He offered to buy her a drink. I could read his body language, the way he gestured toward the shelves of colorful bottles behind the bar. She shook her head and smiled, like polite, well-behaved girls who aren’t interested often do, showing him the champagne in front of her. He faked a big plastic smile and leaned against the bar with a casual arrogance, brushing off her gentle letdown. This guy was a professional pussy hunter. He wasn’t letting a bump in the road stop him from crossing the finish line. These guys are a dime a dozen.
I decided to wait and watch them.
His lips moved with the smoothness of his velvet words. I speculated he complimented her stunning appearance or cracked some witless witticism. She self-consciously tucked a group of fugitive hairs behind her ear, a flattered shyness coloring her cheeks. It was sexy as fucking hell. She had no idea she was a twenty in a room full of sevens, putting every other woman there to shame.
Could I blame the pig in sharp threads for choosing her out of every option here?
Thinking he weaseled past her defenses, his greasy hand made a ballsy play, slowly moving down her calve from knee to ankle.
I’d witnessed enough.
I bee-lined to them at the bar, secured an arm around her waist, and dragged her from her stool. She stumbled against me.
“What the f—,” she muttered, rattled, her voice crackling and fading away.
Ignoring the wannabe Casanova, I led her away from the bar, through the people, and out the door into the hot, humid rain.
“What’s happening?” she asked while attempting to protect her hair from the downfall with her tiny purse. Futilely, I might add.
I hauled around the building to the side alley and crowded my body into hers, pinning her to the brick wall. She dropped her purse and released a hiss, her hands instinctually finding my hair, my lips instinctually moving onto her mouth.
Her hands dove to my chest, pushing until they forced me away from her, keeping me at bay. She panted, her nipples taunted me from her see-through dress.
“You aren’t jealous?”
I removed her hands and restrained them to the wall over her head by the wrists. “Do you want me to be jealous?”
“Maybe a little,” she replied with a breathy voice.
“I’m not the type. I
enjoyed watching you—it turned me on.” My hands navigated the waves of her body
until they discovered the plump mounds of her phenomenal backside, dragging her
into me so she felt what she did to me.
Her body was my
addiction—my undoing.
