Chapter 2 #3
“I’ve always wondered what the rooms look like in this place,” I muse, letting my eyes drift to his mouth, already imagining how it would feel on mine.
“Bet I could help with that,” he murmurs, his grin turning wicked. But just as the tension crackles between us, his gaze drops to the bar top, a flicker of amusement in his expression. “You know someone’s been trying to call you the entire time I’ve been sitting here.”
“Yeah, I’ve been ignoring it the entire time you’ve been sitting here.” I push the phone away. It’s still my father calling me from that same unknown number.
He needs more money. And Taylor? She texted me she needs more time. Neither of them care about what I need.
“Boyfriend?” he asks, arching one eyebrow.
I wrinkle my nose. “Ew, no. Who needs one of those?”
He holds my gaze, his hazel eyes keeping me rooted in place. "Really? No boyfriend?"
“Nope.”
He leans in, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Not even the ass slapper?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I shake my head.
"Definitely not a boyfriend." Though, I admit shamelessly, "Just a one-time mistake . . . okay, maybe a few times. But can you blame me? Between work and everything else, I barely have time for myself, let alone dating. And who would want to date someone like me? I’m a mess, that's what I am. Would I date me?”
I pause, arms crossed, tapping my chin. "Fuck that. I would. I would date the fuck out of me. I’d be outside my apartment at dawn, in a long trench coat and a Clash T-shirt, holding a boombox over my fucking head."
Oh my God, kill me now. I said all that out loud.
His laugh is deep and rumbly. “You seem fun,” he says, raking one of those tattooed hands through his dark hair.
I lean back slightly, narrowing my eyes.
I don’t want to be the fun girl. I want to be the sexy girl.
I want to go back to this man’s room and forget about my sister, who is probably having sex on my kitchen table, my father, who keeps calling because he needs more money, and the terrifyingly low balance in my bank account.
“Make no mistake,” I say, smiling. “I can go from funny to filthy in the smack of an ass.”
“Funny, filthy, and hot as fuck,” he murmurs, finishing the last sip of his beer.
I want to melt to liquid and slide down his throat too.
Last call crashes over the bar as the fluorescent lights flicker on, too bright and too fast. For a moment, I’m caught off balance—my sangria buzz slipping away, and a gorgeous stranger’s hazel eyes intensely watching me. I slowly wipe the bar towel in a circle on the counter between us.
There are only two other patrons in the bar. I have no idea when everyone else left, but it feels like days have passed since my sister and her wild entourage were here.
My heart races under Trouble's gaze, his eyes burning into my skin.
“Thanks again for your help tonight," Mike says, hopping onto the bar top to face me. He mumbles something else, a complaint about one of the waitresses, but his words barely register.
My attention is locked on Trouble. He said I was hot as fuck, and I want to hear it again.
Mike’s back is to him, oblivious to the way our eye contact hasn’t broken. He doesn’t see that the man across from me is already fucking me—bent over this bar—in his head.
And I’m about to come.
“You want to hang out for a while?” Mike asks, completely clueless.
Come on, man. Read the room.
“I’m going home with him,” I announce boldly, gesturing toward Trouble.
Mike snorts and twists around to see who I’m pointing at.
Trouble stands. The movement is slow, deliberate, and menacing, sending a sharp ache straight between my legs.
Mike stiffens, sizing him up. “Right,” he mutters, sliding off the counter. “You have fun with that,” he adds before walking away quickly.
The moment Mike is out of earshot, Trouble leans in close, his voice low. "Listen, Angel, in all seriousness, I’m not the kind of guy you should want any part of."
I tilt my head, letting a slow smile curl my lips. "Well, damn. Now I just want you more." Heat pools low in my belly, and I swear I see his jaw tighten.
He straightens, folding those thick arms across his chest. “Sweetheart, I’m just going to end up being some dark story you tell at a dinner party one day. A little cautionary tale you tell your girlfriends over sangria and a charcuterie board.”
“Look, Trouble. I’m literally one traumatic event away from getting a forehead tattoo, so what’s this story you’re going on about?” I flash a wicked grin. “I like stories, especially dark ones.”
“I’m not a boombox-over-my-head kind of man,” he says.
“The only thing I’m looking for right now is a shoulder to put my leg on. I’ve had a rough day.”
His eyes darken and I can hardly breathe.
“I’m not looking for dinner or anything like that. I just want to be dinner.”
His phone lights up on the bar, displaying a contact named Jackass. A smirk curls on his lips as he glances down at the screen.
“Do you need to get that?” I ask, tilting my head. I don’t want him to. I don’t want the spell we’re under to break.
“No, I’m a little preoccupied right now,” he murmurs, his voice rough around the edges.
“May I?” I nod toward the phone.
He grins, biting the corner of his bottom lip. "Go for it."
I tap open the phone and try to answer in my best sultry voice. “Hey, there. Jackass. Sorry, but your friend is too busy to talk right now. His face is in between my dripping wet thighs. He’ll return your call when we’re both thoroughly satisfied.” I end the call with a giggle.
He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh. “That was fun.”
I smile. “I hope that wasn’t your boss or anything.”
“It wasn’t. No worries." His fingers curl around mine, and a jolt of electricity shoots up my arm as he tugs around to the front of the bar top. "Come on," he says, his voice thick with heat. "I’m suddenly really fucking hungry."
"Same."