Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
GAVIN
Meeting Harry for drinks to discuss a potential property after spending the morning in bed with his daughter should have made me feel guilty.
But I didn’t.
Not even a little.
Because right now, all I felt was pure, unfiltered rage as I watched a man sidle up beside Rose at the bar like he owned the damn room.
His grin was the kind of cocky that should come with a warning label—fake confidence, slick hands, too much cologne.
He leaned just a fraction too close, his body angling toward her like he was already imagining what she looked like beneath that dress.
Her smile—the polite one she gives strangers to keep the peace—shifted. It was subtle, but it became tight and strained at the edges.
Most people wouldn’t notice.
But I did.
I knew her. I’d studied every soft expression and every panicked one. I’d watched her come undone for me with a single word, and I could read her discomfort like a flashing neon sign.
Harry and I had been here for about an hour. We’d barely made a dent in the pitcher of beer between us, even though we’d talked at length about square footage, permits, zoning regulations—everything we were supposed to be focused on.
But the second she walked in, that all went to hell.
That green dress. Jesus fucking Christ.
It fit her like it was designed with nothing but the intent to cause a boner that I shouldn’t have while sitting across the table from her father.
Satin clung to her like it had been painted on, outlining the exact shape of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the dip at her waist. When she moved, the fabric shifted like water, catching flashes of light from the bar.
And the slit at the side? Just high enough to be cruel.
I wasn’t the kind of man who tells a woman what she can or can’t wear. That’s never been my style. If she wanted to wear that dress to the grocery store, I’d back her. Hell, I’d buy the whole rack in various colors if it meant getting to see her in it again.
But knowing every asshole in this place was staring at what’s mine?
That tested every ounce of control I had left.
Our booth was raised just a few inches above the main floor—barely a step—but it gave me just enough of an edge to watch her through the crowd.
My beer sat untouched, the condensation pooling on the table, forgotten.
I had one arm draped over the back of the seat, playing it cool for Harry’s sake, but my body was wound tight.
My leg bounced with the kind of restless, territorial energy I hadn’t felt in years.
Then I saw it.
That jackass leaned in even more. Just enough to test a boundary he clearly didn’t think existed. Her smile tightened again, her weight shifting ever so slightly away from him. A flicker of discomfort in her eyes. A signal.
That was all it took.
“I’m going to get us more drinks,” I said, pushing up from the booth.
Harry glanced at the pitcher, lifting a brow. “We’ve still got plenty.”
“It’s warm,” I shot back, already on my feet.
I didn’t give him a chance to respond. I moved fast, threading between bodies, ignoring the buzz of conversation and the sticky floor beneath my boots.
Every step was filled with purpose. I didn’t take my eyes off her.
Not even when I shouldered past a guy who clearly didn’t believe in personal space.
My blood was pounding in my ears.
Just before that smug bastard could touch her—his hand hovering, fingers twitching like he was debating where he’d place them—I slid in between them. My arm hit the bar with a controlled thud. The force behind it was deliberate. A warning.
Mine.
He startled, jerking back like he’d been slapped. He stared at me, then behind me at Rose, doing the mental math and not liking the equation. I met his gaze for half a second—just enough for him to understand exactly how this would end if he didn’t back off.
He got it.
Without a word, he disappeared into the crowd.
Smart bastard.
I turned to Rose. Her eyes were wide, lips parted slightly in surprise. Her breath caught when she saw me up close, and I knew her pulse was racing. I could feel the electricity between us, humming like a live wire.
My own blood hadn’t settled yet—too much adrenaline, too much possessiveness clawing just under my skin. But the second I looked at her, something darker took over. Hunger. Lust. Something feral.
“You okay?” I asked, voice low but not gentle.
“I—yeah. I’m fine.” Her voice wavered. Then she tilted her head. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
She hooked her thumb over her shoulder, gesturing toward Elodie—who was practically sprawled across the bar, shamelessly flirting with the bartender like she was the only customer here.
“Girls’ night,” she said.
My jaw ticked as I glanced back at her. “That dress doesn’t exactly scream girls’ anything.”
She arched a brow, trying not to smile. “You don’t like it?”
“Oh, I like it,” I growled. “Too much.”
I moved closer, dropping my voice to a murmur meant only for her. The music was loud—bass pulsing through the floor, voices competing for attention—but the space between us was charged.
“I’ve been sitting over there with your father trying to talk about a damn building,” I said, “but since you walked in, all I can think about is you in that dress.”
Her cheeks flushed a deep pink. I could practically feel the heat radiating off her skin. She opened her mouth to respond, but she didn’t get the chance. I reached for her.
My hand slid along her hip—slow, steady—the one pressed against the bar. The one no one else could see. Especially not Harry.
“I’m trying to be good,” I said, leaning in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “But Rose … this dress is thin.”
She drew in a sharp breath. Her shoulders rose, her body reacting to the weight of my words.
“I know, because I can see your nipples hardening more and more with each word I whisper into your ear.”
A tremor rolled through her. Her breath hitched.
“And because it’s that thin,” I teased, letting my palm drift over her satin-covered skin, “I also know I should feel an underwear line right here.” I traced along her hip bone, my touch just light enough to tease. “But there’s nothing.”
She let out a quiet, broken gasp. One that had no business being that erotic.
“How many drinks have you had?” I asked, voice thick with intent.
Her reply was soft as she pointed to her glass on the bar. “Just this one.”
“Good.” I grinned. “Because I want to take you home with me tonight.”
She nodded, eyes wide and dark with heat, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip like she was trying to bite back a moan.
“I’ll text you when he leaves, sweetheart.”
I started to step away, but not before letting my hand coast forward—gliding from her hip across her lower belly in one long, deliberate stroke. Just enough to remind her of exactly what I’d be doing the second I got her alone.
She leaned into the contact without meaning to. Her body chased mine instinctively.
I walked away before I did something reckless. Something obvious.
Crossing the room again, weaving back through the bodies, I took a deep breath—but it didn’t help. I could still feel her skin against my palm, still smell the soft scent of her perfume. I adjusted myself just before I reached the booth and dropped into the seat like nothing had happened.
Like I hadn’t just touched the daughter of the man across from me on her hip while whispering a promise of filth in her ear.
Harry looked up from his phone. “Where’s the cold beer?”
Shit.
“The line was long,” I said easily. “Bartender was too busy flirting.”
He snorted, lifting his glass. “Good thing we’re past the age of being ruled by our hormones and bad decisions.”
I let out a dry chuckle, raising the lukewarm beer still sitting in front of me.
“Yeah,” I said. “Good thing.”
But all I could think about was the woman in that green satin dress across the bar.
And how quickly I could get her out of it.