Page 4

He’s ridiculously tall, too. I’ve watched him walk into this building several times, and the black clothes he favors only make him look taller, leaner, and infinitely more dangerous.

And he's built—pure, heavy muscle beneath that fabric. I’ve peeped that part, too. Not my fault. Even though he stays tucked away in the shadows, half the waitresses in the back have whispered about him whenever he takes off his dark suit jacket on the warmer nights. It gets warm in here too, after all.

And then there are the tattoos. I’m usually not a fan of ink on a man—it screams bad guy, and bad guys are so very not my thing.

But on him? It’s hot as hell. The dark patterns creep right up the side of his neck, and I’ve caught glimpses of dense ink covering his forearms before. I’m dead certain there are plenty more hidden beneath that shirt.

At the bar, I order a heavy pour of our top-shelf rye, double-rocked. I carry the crystal tumbler back through the amber glow of the dining room, pull up to his shadowed table, and set the glass down with a polite, measured smile.

"Rye, double-rocked," I say smoothly, easing the coaster onto the polished wood. "Bold, complex, and doesn't waste time getting straight to the point. Thought it suited you."

He doesn't reach for the glass right away. His gaze stays locked on my face, those intense hazel eyes tracking my expression with a terrifying level of focus.

I swallow. "Why do you keep staring at me like that?"

He finally lifts the tumbler and takes a slow sip.

"I want to fuck you," he says plainly.

A sudden, dizzying rush of heat pools sharp and low in my belly.

What the hell.

My breath hitches in my throat. Even Nolan, with all his relentless, slimy leering, has never dropped a line that raw, direct, and unvarnished right into my lap.

I stare at him, completely caught off guard by the casual arrogance in his delivery. I force a breath into my lungs, masking the sudden flutter in my chest behind a mask of cool, razor-sharp amusement.

"Well," I say, tilting my chin up and meeting his intense gaze. "Your offer is tempting only because I’ve literally never heard a worse line in my life."

A faint, dangerous ghost of a smirk touches the corner of his lips.

"You're interested anyway," he counters smoothly, his voice twisting into a dark pitch. "I can tell."

My eyebrows shoot up. I reach out, my fingers wrapping around the cool, heavy glass of rye he just put down. I flash him a sweet, dazzling smile that holds pure, unadulterated poison.

"You're imagining things," I say softly.

Then, with effortless precision, I "accidentally" tilt my hand, pouring the entire tumbler of cold whiskey and ice straight into his lap.

The amber liquid soaks right into his dark trousers.

"Oh, gosh," I gasp, my voice utterly flat and completely devoid of remorse as I pull my empty hand back. "I am so sorry. How clumsy of me."

He doesn't jump back. He doesn't curse. He barely even flinches. He just sits there in the shadows, dark hazel eyes blazing as he tracks my every breath, watching me with a look that says this game has only just begun.

I turn on my heel and walk away, feeling the stifling weight of his stare burning a hole right between my shoulder blades every single step of the way.

CHAPTER TWO

CAIN

Interesting.

I stand in front of the cracked mirror in the back bathroom, staring at the dark, soaking wet patch plastered against the front of my trousers. The reek of rye fills the cramped tile space, sharp and tangy in the air.

I grab a handful of rough brown paper towels, wringing them out against the fabric with a grunt. Fucking whiskey. Cold as hell, dripping down my thigh, and my cock is still rock fucking hard under the fabric, pounding against my fly like a sledgehammer.

Un-fucking-believable.