Chapter 1 #2
I smirk, flirting a little. “And if I had wanted something else?”
“Then you would’ve said so,” he replies. “No me gusta adivinar.”
I pause, shot hovering halfway to my lips. “Was that… Spanish?”
His eyes flicker with something like amusement. “It was.”
I shrug, tossing the shot back. “Hot. Definitely use that while you’re fucking me.”
He lifts his glass, eyes dark. “I was planning on it.”
God.
“To trouble and bad ideas,” I say, lifting my empty shotglass.
He clinks his whiskey against it. “A mantenerlo simple,” he adds, quiet but deliberate.
I grin. “I’m assuming that means uncomplicated.”
“It does,” he says.
He holds my gaze when he drinks, like he’s cataloguing every reaction I give him. The slight hitch in my breath. The way my fingers tighten around the glass. I can’t tell if he’s intrigued—or trying to solve me like a problem he didn’t know he wanted to work on.
“So why meet here?” he asks, glancing out at the dance floor.
I shrug, then purse my lips, dragging my tongue over my lower one without thinking about it. His eyes follow the movement, dark and intent, and heat shoots straight through me. Or maybe that’s just the tequila talking.
“It’s familiar,” I say.
“Ah.” His mouth curves faintly. “So—safe.”
The word pricks. I tilt my head, unimpressed. “For you, maybe.”
Something flickers in his brown eyes. Not offense or annoyance.
Interest.
That’s right. I’ve got him. Hook, line, and sinker. I know his type—men who like control, who think they’re running the game because they don’t let anyone close enough to matter. The ones who keep things clean, casual, contained.
The fun part is reminding them they don’t have nearly as much power as they think they do.
He sets his glass down carefully. “I don’t do messy,” he says, like it’s a boundary and not a challenge.
I smile, slow and sweet. “Good. I don’t do attachments.”
His gaze sharpens again. “Then we’re on the same page.”
Maybe.
Or maybe we’re just saying whatever keeps this easy.
Either way, I step closer, close enough that my hip bumps the edge of the round table and my shoulder nearly brushes his arm. The music surges, the crowd shifts, and suddenly we’re in our own little pocket of noise and heat.
I snag a shot from a passing server in exchange for a ten, and tip it back, then set the empty glass down with a soft click. “You always this intense over one drink?”
His mouth curves faintly. “Intense? I’m just here for a good time.”
I laugh and lift my hands in mock surrender. “Relax.” I lean in just enough that he can hear me over the bass. “I promise not to ruin your life.”
His laugh is quiet, controlled—like he’s keeping it on a short leash. “That’s usually what people say right before they try.”
I grin, unbothered, already shrugging out of my jacket and draping it over the edge of the table. “Good thing I’m not people.”
The music swells, bass thudding through the floor, and someone slams into my shoulder from behind.
I barely register it before Silas shifts—smooth, automatic—stepping in close and putting himself between me and the crowd.
One solid move, and suddenly I’ve got the table in front of me and his body right behind me.
Turning, I look up at him slowly, deliberately. Yeah. I like this.
“Crowd’s thick tonight,” he says mildly, “hay mucho ruido,” but his eyes never leave mine.
“Riot’s always like this,” I reply, voice a little rougher now, because his Spanish is doing stuff to me. He could murmur nonsense into my ear and it would make me hard. I let my fingers slide along his forearm, following the line of ink curling over his wrist. “Kind of the point.”
“Mm.” His gaze dips—my mouth, my throat, the strip of skin under my mesh—then lifts again. “You come here often.”
“Practically live here when I’m on campus,” I say with a grin, stepping closer so my knee brushes his thigh when the crowd shifts again. “Hence the nickname.”
Silas stills. Just a fraction. But I feel it.
“On campus,” he repeats, eyes sharpening a notch. “You go to school around here?”
There it is. The curiosity that normally comes with these types of hook-ups. The inch he wants to take.
I don’t give it to him.
I shrug, easy and careless, fingers sliding up to the edge of his sleeve instead. “Something like that.”
His gaze holds mine, assessing. “College?”
I smile like I’m humoring him, not answering. “Does it matter? I’m legal.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. He knows exactly what I’m doing—dodging, deflecting, keeping it light.
“No,” he says after a beat. “I suppose not.” Then he adds quieter, “Mejor así.”
I don’t know what it means, but I know I like the way it sounds. Something about hearing him slip into another language without apology makes my pulse kick harder.
My stomach tightens in a way that has nothing to do with tequila.
“Good,” I reply, shifting so I’m half facing the table again and tracing the rim of his glass with my thumb before pulling back. “Because I’m not here to trade resumes.”
Something settles in his expression then. Acceptance. Maybe even relief.
“Fair,” he says quietly.
I grin, already turning my body toward the exit, shoulder brushing his chest as I pass. “Now,” I add, glancing back at him, “are you going to keep interrogating me… or are we going to pretend to dance while grinding our bodies against each other like everyone else in this place?”
And just like that, I’ve made my intentions very clear.