Chapter 2
Chapter two
Bellatrix
Angry metal music that sounds like it’s playing on a phone wasn’t discernable from the outside, but now, when I take a few steps into the lounge, I hear it.
It’s not playing over the speakers, which makes me think it’s the bartender’s choice.
Since no one is even in here, he decided to treat himself, knowing full well that if he’s caught, he’ll probably face a warning about termination.
I stop dead after two steps when the guy looks up from whatever he is doing behind the bar.
Holy Hannah bananas.
It’s not his size that’s captivating. It’s the whole deal. It’s his symmetry and how substantial he is. How real. How much space he takes up inside this little lounge, and immediately, inside me.
No! Shit, wait. That’s not what I mean.
I’m staring. Fuck.
I don’t stop, even though I should. Somehow, should means do it harder.
His black button-up shirt strains over huge shoulders, and the black bartender apron draped over his chest is dwarfed by his height and breadth. His hair is shaved short on the sides and long and wavy in the middle.
Fuck. This guy is large enough to snap me in half.
My mind blanks, then goes straight to, I bet he fucks hard. And two more words. Multiple. Orgasms.
Considering that I struggle to even get to one most of the time, multiple is a daunting prospect.
His face is so carved that it’s intimidating.
His eyes snap straight to mine, and I quickly avert my gaze, whipping my head around like I wasn’t just sizing him up with extreme come-hither longing. I’m not fast enough that I don’t notice the insane whisky hue of his eyes. They’re not catlike, but how appropriate for a bartender.
Kevin? Kevin who? Kevin can keep his three sexy ladies, all the times he made me feel less than worthy, and his cheating assholishness.
I’m kidding, at least about the front half of that. I do finally understand that saying about getting over by getting under.
I don’t believe love at first sight is a thing, but I do believe in lots of different types of love, and I certainly believe in lust. Because right now, I’m getting freaking shivers that have nothing to do with being practically naked under this coat and everything to do with being practically naked under this coat just a few feet from the hottest man in the known universe.
I’m shit at feigning nonchalance, but I walk away from the bar and ogle the piano at the back.
It’s just as lovely, but unlike the Viking/barber/bartender/probable sex god, it doesn’t have any hard angles.
It’s ornate, with scalloped edges and carved feet with scrolling designs, and is either mahogany or rosewood.
Two steps closer, and I know it’s rosewood.
Another two, and I can read the gold writing.
Holy. Fucking. Mothercluckers.
Seriously? What on earth is a Centennial Concert Grand Piano doing in here?
Not only is the instrument beautiful, but you pretty much have to be richer than god to afford it.
Think house prices. I’m not as up-to-date on my piano history as I should be, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a hundred and fifty years old.
The keyboard is pristine, shadows dancing over it from the low lighting and the sconces on the walls. What would it be like to sit down and play such a magnificent instrument? Just the thought makes my brain want to explode through the top of my skull.
I carefully back away before I do something idiotic, like sit down on the bench, which isn’t nearly as ornate and not from the same era.
Knowing my luck tonight, I’d probably break it.
I’m not in the mood to have to sell a body part to pay for the damage.
I already had my appendix taken out when I was sixteen. I really need all my other organs.
I can’t just stand here and stare at this gorgeous force of nature piano all night.
I wish. I need a phone. And a drink. Probably not in that order.
I force myself to leave the beautiful instrument.
As soon as I walk across the room back to the bar, the shivers start again, breaking out over my arms and legs, and probably my belly and breasts, too, but I’m trying not to focus on those parts so much.
It’s hard when my nipples have turned into hard little points capable of slashing through lace to make themselves known beneath the thin tan fabric of this coat.
The metal music has stopped, but the ovary slayer is still there.
Jesus. Christ. Wow. Are you listening to your own thoughts?
There are a few upholstered leather stools in front of the bar. They’re big, clunky things that would probably go through a wall if thrown at one.
I manage to force myself up onto one without falling off or having my coat open up and displaying a whole lot of skin and bits.
The man hasn’t moved. He hasn’t asked me what I’d like to drink. He’s staring at me the way I was staring at him earlier, sweeping those spicy honey eyes over me openly before sliding them back up to my face.
Up close, I notice a few small lines around his eyes and mouth.
He might be older than I thought, but that only increases his hotness and my corresponding goosebumps.
Either he covers up his silver fox hair, or he hasn’t gone that grey yet, but I’d peg him as being in his late thirties.
Everything about him screams experienced, not old, and he’s far more alluring for it.
My pulse crashes at my neck and wrists. My thighs clench together under my coat, and my oyster only gets…moister.
Wow. Just. Wow. Thanks for that, brain.
You’re welcome, Bellatrix.
I clear my throat when the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I’m a stranger to insta-attraction. I usually need to get to know someone before I imagine them doing filthy things to me, but two seconds in this guy’s magical presence, and my clam is set to jam.
You can stop with the sea references anytime, brain. Thanks.
You’re welcome, Bellatrix.
No, I don’t usually have conversations with myself. Tonight is a one-off in many ways.
I mean to ask for a vodka cranberry, but my tongue has a mind of its own. “Do you have whisky?” He does. His eyes are the perfect shade of light brown, the lighting in here working a spell to produce pure amber.
What a stupid, wretched question. My eyes sweep above his shoulder, where there are at least twelve different kinds of whisky on display.
“Uh, I’d like one. Please. A double.”
His lips, which are just the right shape and surprisingly pink for a man—even more surprising is that I don’t hate that at all—twitch. “You ever had whisky before?”
Am I that obvious? My cheeks get hot, then double down on the internal burning fires of humiliation as I recall yet again what a wreck I must look like. “Sure. A long time ago.”
His sinful mouth makes another twitch, but his eyes don’t leave my face. He’s a bad boy, muscled, probably tattooed in places I can’t see, swoony late night between the sheets, zaddy fantasy all wrapped into one.
Not that I’ve had any of those fantasies until right this moment. And what do you know, I’m fantasizing hard. As in his hard—whoa. I might be telling my brain to slow the shit down, but here I am, still rubbing my thighs together.
“Are you staying at the hotel tonight?”
I have no idea what that has to do with anything, but it sounds dirty when he says it. His face doesn’t change, but somehow, it’s still filthy. Why do I want the answer to that question to be yes, with a distinct invitation behind it?
I suck in a breath to stabilize my thoughts and get my shit under control, and I get a whole lot of leather, booze, and citrusy cologne. I’m not sure if he’s responsible for all three or just the latter.
“N-no,” I stammer. Why won’t he just get me the drink? Does he torture all his customers with his aloof hotness?
“Are you driving?” he asks.
I shake my head, annoyance creeping in. “Nope.” I tap my fingers on the bar top.
“That’s kind of why I’m here. My car broke down, and I need to get a tow.
I saw the lounge and thought it’s been the kind of day that could use a drink.
Not that I’m normally a drinker. I can’t remember the last time I even had so much as a beer.
Sips of wine, sure. Sometimes. Not that often.
Err…and it’s not like I think alcohol will fix problems. It just… I’m thirsty.”
His eyes suddenly flash and twinkle, accompanied by the most devastating smile. It’s like staring straight into the face of a sun god. “In that case, are you sure you still want the whisky? How about something you’ll enjoy?”
I’d enjoy a nice tall glass of you. It’s that kind of thirst.
“What do you suggest?” I cough out.
His eyes seem to bore right through my skull. “On second thought, let’s go with the whisky. I have something I think you’ll like. It’s called a Whisky Mule. Whisky, lime, ginger beer, and honey. Sound good?”
“I…is it something you like?”
He produces two glasses and flips them over in his massive, capable hands. I nearly fall straight off the barstool. He winks at me, and I’m finished. Slayed. Game over.
He makes an art form out of pouring and mixing the drinks.
If I weren’t ovulating at the start of the night, I’m pretty sure I am now.
The first sip is spicy and sweet, with a little bit of a sour bite. It’s…it’s the best freaking thing I’ve ever tasted. You know, since he’s not on the menu.
“Mmm,” I moan before I can stop myself. My face gets hot. And hotter. It’s already a thousand degrees.
“Good?”
He sips his drink nice and slow, watching me over the rim of the glass.
His tongue sweeps out along his lower lip.
It’s like he’s purposely putting on a sex show for me in a parallel dimension where we’re the only two people alive.
In that case, we’d have an obligation to repopulate the world with lots of hot, kinky sex.
“Do you always drink with your customers?”
“Hardly ever.” He takes another long, slow sip. “But it just so happens, I’m parched too.”