Remy

2. Olivia

OLIVIA

The wayhe says my name—all confidence and charisma—has my pulse surging.

He oozes sinfully dangerous vibes with the profoundly teasing glint in his eyes sending a million red flags ascending to full mast in my mind. Flags my ovaries seem to mistake for green if the way they flutter is any indication.

“No, thanks.” I drag my gaze from all the gorgeousness to do another scan of the room. “I’m not staying.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I insist. You can’t bump into me like some fairy tale princess, then disappear from my life. That would be cruel.” His gaze lowers to take in my work clothes—white blouse, navy pencil skirt, and matching mini heels. “You don’t seem like the cruel type.”

My cheeks heat under his appraisal. My entire body follows. I should walk away. Skedaddle. The warm sensation weighing down my belly keeps me rooted in place.

I’m not used to being seen. By anyone. Let alone an attractive god who screams trouble.

I’ve never even met a man who fell into the bad boy category—not one that was breathing anyway. The closest I’ve come is when I’ve prepped tattooed gang members for cremation and the few men who had been incarcerated at the Baltimore Correction Center at their time of death.

Ivy was right; I need to get out more. The way my body has instigated a meltdown over this guy is ridiculous.

He strides around me, taking the few steps to the bar before gaining the female bartender’s attention with the jut of his chin. “Macallan, thanks.” His gaze returns to mine. “What do you drink?”

I open my mouth. Close it again.

I will not fold for this man. This deity.

I ignore him and continue the visual search for my father, not wanting to be out in public when whatever spell I’m under breaks.

From the corner of my eye I see the guy’s smirk increase, still understated yet impeccably striking. “Do you always play hard to get?”

“I don’t usually play much of anything.” Where the hell is my father?

“One drink, Ollie. That’s all I’m asking.”

God, why does he have to say my name like that? All sinfully rich and smooth as if the syllables dance around his tongue.

“You’ve piqued my curiosity,” he admits. “Indulge me a little.”

My heart pitter-patters.

Pitter. Goddamn. Patters.

It’s ridiculous. Top-tier insane.

And the rest of my body? It tingles like I’ve been hooked up to a low-voltage live wire.

“What would you like to drink?” He keeps staring. Keeps casting his magical trance with those dark eyes.

Like an idiot, I clear my throat again, unsure if I should run or ask him to impregnate me.

I hear myself say, “Champagne,” the word spoken by whatever man-hungry demonic force has possessed my body.

I rarely drink. The last time I indulged was four years ago at my twenty-first birthday, and the only reason for the indulgence was to ease my way through the forced social activity when Ivy and Allison dragged me to a club.

“Champagne for the lady.” He instructs the bartender.

The woman nods and gets to work on our order.

“So who are you looking for?” My new deity friend grabs a coaster from the bar, drawing my attention to the rings on his fingers. Thumb, pointer, and pinky.

A confirmation of the bad boy trait, no?

He has strong hands. I bet they’re talented, too. Rough. Warm. A pretty necklace.

“Ollie?” He grins. “Tell me who you’re looking for.”

I shake my head, trying to think of a less embarrassing response than the truth when my gaze catches sight of my father seated at a table in the far back corner of the building.

Shit. I lunge toward the stranger, crowding into his larger frame, using his personal space as a hiding spot.

“You okay?” He stiffens, standing taller, broader, creating more of a shield. “Are you in trouble?”

“No. Nothing like that. I just don’t want to be seen.”

He inches closer, wrapping a protective arm around my waist, the delicious scent of his woodsy aftershave sinking into my lungs. “Need me to get you out of here?”

“No.” I chance a peek over his shoulder. “Just, um… don’t move. Please.”

My father’s back is to me, his younger dark-haired companion facing the room. I don’t recognize the guy, but like the man beside me, he’s wearing a suit, the strong stance of his shoulders and posture speaking of power and prestige.

“How ’bout I do you one better?” The deity protects me from view as he pays the bartender and hands me my flute of champagne. “I’ll walk behind you to keep you hidden while you lead the way to the free booth at the front of the building.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” I stare up at him. At such close proximity, he towers at least a good six inches above my five-three height.

“Trust me, I have no intention of letting you out of my sight until I learn your secrets.” He taps the bar, murmurs to the waitress to keep our drinks coming, then indicates the booth with a nod. “I’ll follow close behind.”

I should decline the offer.

Should’ve declined the drink and those to come, too.

I’m not sure what has me acting outside my normal hibernation regime—maybe the guilt over Dad’s birthday or Ivy’s taunts that I don’t have a life—but I lead the way, downing half my flute of champagne in the few yards it takes to reach the booth.

“He’s going to recognize me.” I absently touch my braid. “I always wear my hair like this.”

Now that it’s confirmed there’s no date, I don’t want my father knowing I was crazy enough to follow him.

The walking wet dream takes in my hair with open reverence. “The room’s dark. I’m sure he won’t see.”

I’m not as optimistic. I feel like I’m a bright beacon waiting to draw my dad’s attention.

“Here, let me help.” He pauses a few feet in front of the booth and hands me his tumbler.

I stiffen, juggling both drinks and my cell. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing untoward.” He reaches for my hair, then pauses. “Am I likely to get my hands broken for touching you?”

I balk. “No, why?”

“Because if you were mine I’d do far worse to any man who dared to do far less.”

All my nerves dance as he undoes the elastic holding my braid, our gazes entranced as his fingers gently loosen my hair.

My sanity blows me a kiss of farewell and flees the building, leaving attraction to grasp the controls of this high-speed train derailment.

I hold my breath, my tingles turning into tremors when his touch reaches my nape, gently massaging my scalp. I’m forced to smother a groan, but it’s still audible, the needy sound meek in my throat.

He doesn’t smirk. There’s no longer cocky confidence in his expression. What stares back at me is curiosity. Intrigue.

He continues to undo my braid until the shoulder-length strands of my brown hair are tangled waves around my cheeks, my heart a rampant vulture beneath my ribs.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

The words steal my thoughts. My composure.

I swallow to alleviate the ache in my throat. “How long have you had sight problems?”

“How long have you had self-esteem issues?” he counters.

“I don’t. I’m just smart enough to know something isn’t right here.”

He continues to massage his hand through my hair, his fingertips causing mini orgasms along my scalp. “You don’t like my attention, Ollie?”

“I don’t understand it,” I correct. “You’re an incredibly attractive gu?—

“You think I’m attractive?” His smile returns.

I roll my eyes and pull back until his hand falls to his side. “I’m sure you’re well aware of your appeal.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But it’s always nice to receive praise from a gorgeous woman.”

“Oh, my god.” I chuckle and slide into the booth, discreetly gazing around the wall of my wavy hair as I glance behind me.

My father remains at the back of the building, his companion leaning closer as he talks.

“Who are you spying on?” Mr. Deity startles me by sliding in beside me. I would’ve assumed he’d take the opposite side of the booth, not nestle into my personal space close enough to awaken goose bumps along my thighs. “A boyfriend? Your husband?”

“Who says it’s a guy?”

“You,” he states simply. “When you said he’s going to recognize me.”

Shit. This man is paying attention.

So much dreamy, gratifying attention.

I place his Macallan on the table, still too embarrassed to admit the truth, and chug the remainder of my champagne.

“Would you prefer if I didn’t sit so close?” His eyes narrow, reading me, increasing the scrutiny. “I thought you could use me as cover instead of making it obvious when you glance over your shoulder… but if you’d prefer?—”

“No, it’s fine.” I shake my head. “I appreciate it.”

“Then tell me who you’re hiding from. Is the situation scandalous, Ollie?” His voice dips to a deep purr. “Are you dating a married man?”

I want to swoon at his tone. Instead, I lick my drying lips, my pulse thudding when I return my gaze to his and find his attention on my mouth. “It’s far from scandalous.”

My cell vibrates in my hand, thankfully giving me an excuse to look away in case I break into a fit of idiotic giggles. I check the latest message in my long-standing group chat with Ivy and Allison.

Allison

Update please.

I type back?—

Me

I found Dad in a darkened corner of a dive bar with a younger man.

Ivy

Has Daddy found himself a twink?

I choke on air.

Me

What the hell, Ive? No. Why does your mind always default to sex?

Ivy

Why doesn’t yours?

“I admire how you don’t hide your emotions,” the stranger murmurs as if to himself. “Usually women are cagey in an attempt to be mysterious. Yet your feelings dance across your features untamed.”

“They do?” I slide my cell onto the table and raise my gaze, becoming dumbstruck by his heated scrutiny all over again.

Nobody has the right to have eyes so dark and hypnotizing.

“Yeah, Ollie, they do. I’m going to need all the details on this man of yours. The jealousy is eating me alive.”

I scoff, not buying his player game, but enjoying it all the same.

With any other person, in any other place, I’d be attempting to frantically escape the social interaction. In fact with any other stranger, I’d be in a full-scale meltdown over being caged in this booth. Instead, I find myself wanting to scoot closer. To sink deeper into the woodsy scent invigorating my lungs.

“Well, you can inform your jealousy that the reality of my current situation is extremely dull.”

He raises a brow. “I find it hard to believe that there’s a single thing about you that isn’t entirely fascinating.”

There are more tingles. Flutters. Pitter-patters.

“Nice line.” I chuckle.

“Not a line.” He takes a mouthful of scotch, the bob of his Adam’s apple making me salivate. “If I thought I was worthy of a woman like you, this conversation would’ve breeched X-rated territory the moment our eyes met.”

My cheeks flame. Parts down south do, too.

He smirks. “You’re too fucking cute.”

I force myself to maintain our stare even though my blush spreads, the heat traveling down my neck. “What do you mean by a woman like me?”

“Timid. Respectable. Innocent.” He casually places his tumbler on the table. “I would ruin you, and hate myself as I enjoyed every minute of it.”

“Ruin me?” The question whispers between my lips. “I think you’ve got the wrong impression.”

“Really? I’d place a solid bet that you’ve slept with no more than five men.”

Ha. That’s five too many, bucko.

His eyes narrow further. “Make that less than three.”

Perceptive bastard.

I school my expression. “I don’t like this game.”

He gives another sinful snicker, but it’s short-lived. “You’re wholesome, Ollie. Far too virtuous for a guy like me.” He reaches out, gliding my hair behind my ear with an electric touch. “That’s not a bad thing.”

It kinda feels like it is when my so-called wholesomeness is the reason why being ruined isn’t on the table.

“Do I get a turn at making unsubstantiated assumptions?” My gaze is drawn to the female bartender who arrives to deliver another round of drinks, then grabs my empty flute before leaving.

“You think you can read me?” He hands me my fresh glass. “Let me have your worst.”

I take a strengthening sip and sit taller, taking my detective role seriously despite the ache between my thighs.

I leisurely scan my gaze over him, from the tousled hair that seems freshly cut, along the slightest trace of stubble peppering his chiseled jaw, to the perfectly fitted suit clinging to his broad shoulders.

“You come from money,” I say with confidence. “Your suit is tailor made, and from memory, your shoes were Italian leather.”

Enough of my clients have been laid to rest in designer brands for me to tell the difference between a luxury and a knock-off. This guy oozes wealth.

He inclines his head. “Does money excite you?”

No, it doesn’t. I don’t bother telling him, though. “Please don’t interrupt my assessment. The customer is to remain quiet so I can focus.”

He grins. “My apologies.”

God, the tingles.

“Whatever your job, it’s a position of power. You hold yourself to a high regard.” It’s his posture. The almost arrogant tilt of his chin. “But I wonder if that confidence hides something.”

His humor retreats as he raises a brow, silently questioning.

“Your eyes, they’re soulful.” I stare into the rich depths, swimming in the earthy brown peering back at me. Without the smirk he’s almost someone else entirely. “Your eyes hold pain. Or maybe sorrow.”

Something flickers in his expression.

It’s slight. Maybe I imagine it.

Then leisurely, his grin returns, from subtle to blinding in the space of a few heartbeats.

“Have you been spying on me, too, Ollie?”

I snort. “I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m starting to think that’s for the best,” he drawls. “You already know too much.”

He’s mocking me. Damn it. And here I was thinking I’d been somewhat flawless in my assessment.

“You’ve never been in love,” I say, desperate to make an accurate claim—to find something to knock this deity off his pedestal and send him toppling to mere mortal status.

“True.” He inclines his head. “But I’m creeping closer by the second.”

I bark a laugh and quickly clap a hand over my mouth to obliterate the sound. “Shit. That was loud.”

“It was.” He leans closer, shielding me further from prying eyes as he discreetly glances over his shoulder to the bar. “Nobody is paying us attention. Your cover remains intact.”

Dear Lord, he smells incredible. If flawless confidence had a scent the intoxicating elixir sinking into my lungs would be it.

I want to nuzzle my face against him. To lick the deliciousness right off his skin.

God, I’m turning into Ivy.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you never told me who you’re hiding from,” he murmurs.

“And don’t think I haven’t noticed you never told me your name,” I counter.

Dark eyes return to mine. “Has this become a negotiation?”

“Does it need to be?”

His smile softens, another glimpse of sorrow making my chest ache. “You don’t want to know me, Ollie.”

“And why is that?”

“I’m not a man that women like you want to get acquainted with.”

Aww. What a cute yet ridiculously ill-advised assumption.

“You’re wrong, kind sir.” All thought of my dad vanishes. Poof. Gone. “I want to know everything. Most of all how you would ruin me.”

I attempt to play it cool, marking the end of my declaration with a casual sip of champagne.

I don’t know who this woman is, the one who volleys outrageously flirtatious lines with a straight face. But I like her. She’s far more fun than the hermit with flunking social skills.

He slides one arm along the top of the booth behind my shoulders, his other hand coming to rest on my knee.

I tense at the sizzling contact, my skin erupting in blissful goose bumps.

He leans close, his scotch-sweetened breath warm against my lips. “Tell me what man has claimed so much of your attention and maybe I’ll give you a taste of what it’s like to be ruined.”

I swallow. Lick my lips. Perish.

It takes what little grip I have on my composure to speak without groaning. “It’s my dad.”

“All this time I’ve envied your old man?”

All this time?

I swear I only just met this guy, but it feels like I know him. That I could trust him. Maybe even hand over my beating heart neatly wrapped in a nice little bow.

It’s weird, but after living and breathing death for years, I feel alive.

The switch is euphoric.

His heated palms slides up my inner thigh, scorching my skin. “Tell me, Ollie, why is a gorgeous woman spending her Friday night spying on her father?”

“We had plans.” My breathing turns ragged, his touch driving me wild, his gaze holding me captive. “At least I thought we did. Then he told me he had a business meeting. He wasn’t himself and I thought…” I place my flute back on the table.

This guy doesn’t want the inane intricacies of why I’m here. I don’t want to give them to him either. Not when the conversation would inevitably lead to the family business, then devolve into the usual morbid questions that inspire my lack of faith in humanity.

“You thought?” he prods, his lips a slight tilt from mine.

I could kiss him. Could incline my chin and claim his mouth.

Would the contact scorch me as much as his hand?

Would it ruin me like he promised?

“Ollie?” he whispers. “Tell me your secrets.”

“They’re not worth knowing.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” He moves in and nuzzles the sensitive skin below my ear. “At least tell me if I was right earlier.” His hand creeps higher. So slowly. So teasingly painful. “How many men have had the pleasure of touching you? Tasting you?”

Oh. Dear. Lord.

I shake my head, denying him an answer.

“How many?” he murmurs.

I clamp my eyes closed, hiding from humiliation as I dig my nails into the leather of the booth seat. “None.”

His hand pauses its ascent, his body turning rigid.

Silence rings in my ears.

There’s nobody else. Only him and me. Only my mortification and his unease.

He pulls back, his gaze like a beaming spotlight behind my closed lids, his attention illuminating my inexperience.

Goddamnit.

I force my eyes open and face the regret staring down at me.

A battle wages war in those deep brown irises—one I don’t understand.

“Forgive me, Ollie.” His voice is barely audible. “But I don’t mess with virgins.”

Rejection leaves me chilled. “I may be a virgin, but I’m not virginal.”

His nostrils flare. “It’s not because I don’t want you.”

“Please.” I glide my hand over the wrist between my thighs like a lust-drunk fool. “I haven’t come close to tasting ruin yet.”

I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. What the hell I’m begging for.

I just met this guy and he’s touching me in public, for heaven’s sake. But I can’t help craving more. He’s got me hooked. Drugged.

His jaw ticks.

I hold my breath.

Heartbeats pass. Wild and crazed.

Then his fingers move again, the slightest brush of fingertips teasing over the elastic bordering my crotch. I suck in a shuddering breath, the exhilaration from the simplest of movements almost blinding.

His other arm slides around my shoulder, his hand returning to my hair, my scalp. “Are you wet for me, Ollie?”

My throat restricts. Every part of me is alive for this man—nerves jangling, heart thrumming, soul dancing.

I nod.

He leans back in, his stubble grazing my cheek as his mouth moves near my ear. “Such a good girl.”

I shudder and clench my legs to stem the needy ache in my core, trapping his hand between my thighs.

A deep grumble emanates from his chest in delicious approval. “I bet you taste so sweet.” His voice is low, dripping with lust. “My perfect, pure princess.” His fingers shift, the slightest brush of contact over my panty-covered clit nudging me close to the precipice.

I dig my nails into his wrist. Gasp for air. “I’m…” I swallow. Gasp.

I’m lost for words. Drowning in greed.

I’ve never craved anything like this before. Never yearned with a ferocity so fierce it made me mindless.

I want to touch him. To be so daring as to slide my hand over his crotch. To feel his length. I’m summoning up the courage to reach for him when a masculine throat clears close by.

I startle. Panic.

I grasp the handsome stranger’s shoulder and push back an inch, mortified to find another suit-clad man standing at our booth, his expression emotionless as he looks down his nose at us.

“Boss,” the intruder drawls.

My deity doesn’t move. Doesn’t seem to care as he remains focused on me, his fingers continuing to gently slide back and forth along my underwear-covered slit. “Russo,” he growls.

“We’re ready to leave. I’ve already fixed up your bill.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

I keep clinging to his shoulder, praying the dim lighting and the tilt of his body hides where his hand is hidden.

“I’ll meet you at the car.” The interloper walks away, unfazed.

I slump into the booth, my breathing ragged while the touch withdraws from beneath my skirt, the fingers in my hair retreating.

“It was a pleasure, Ollie.” The slightest shadow of guilt creeps across his face as the mysterious stranger slides along the bench seat.

“Wait. I don’t even know your name.” I reach for him, but he’s already moving to his feet. “Will I see you again?”

His lips kick at one side, the most solemn grin hitting me in the chest as he smoothes his ring-covered hand down the front of his suit. “Not if you’re lucky.”