Chapter 3
Roxy
Imight chafe my eye sockets from all the eye-rolling. “Not being bothered would be nice.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“I said not being bothered.”
His lips curve, and fuck, they are kissable.
“Exactly.” He rests his elbow on the counter beside me, which somehow makes him closer.
I don’t recoil this time. He had already won when I got spooked from the brush-off with his leg.
“Your presence—” I start.
“Stops men from bothering you.”
Asshole. He’s so full of himself. “Your balls haven’t dropped yet? Because I’m sure that even with a small dick, you’re a man. Bothering me.”
He frowns, but a ghost of a smirk lingers on his face. Like he’s entertained by me. But now I’m noticing not only his lips. The sharp line of his jaw.
I forget myself for a beat, admiring, and of course, he catches me, the smirk spreading across those beautiful features.
“Come on, Foxy, rather me than him.”
I follow his gaze, only to be saluted by a guy at the end of the bar who looks like he could be my father, if not grandfather. I shudder.
What the hell. I have time to kill. If I talk to Romeo, it will keep the others at bay. Hopefully. Not that it makes this situation any safer.
But I stepped into the lion’s den voluntarily, and God knows how long I’m stuck here waiting. At least this guy seems reasonably adept at verbal sparring.
I might not fall asleep or die of boredom, so that gives him another unwarranted advantage.
“Okay, I’ll have one drink with you.”
He smiles. “Good girl.”
I try my hardest to cover my reaction to his words. Praise always breaks my defenses. Goddammit.
He threw it out there only to assert his dominance. And still, the shiver that runs through me is real. Too real for comfort.
“I don’t need a protector,” I snap, just to regain my composure.
“I’m well aware,” he says simply.
If his good girl chipped at my defenses, this matter-of-fact acknowledgment disarms me.
“I’m going to add observation skills to the list of your good qualities,” I quip, hoping he doesn’t see my internal, and very untimely, turmoil.
He hums as if he’s savoring something. “You already have a list of my qualities?”
I walked right into that one. “It’s quite a short list.” Not my best retort, but I’m distracted by his closeness.
By his unassuming presence. He came to chat me up, I assume, but I don’t mind it. It’s light and flirtatious. Kind of “let’s see where it leads us.”
It’s not a direct proposition. Or an assumption he could have me and I should be grateful. It makes me want to know him more, and that’s not why I’m here.
He takes a sip of his drink, and I see my way out of this confusing situation. A safe topic. “What happened to your hand?”
He runs his fingers over the bandage around his thumb and wrist. “Sometimes I like to get my hands dirty.”
I roll my eyes. He scored a few points, but the double entendre is bringing his appeal down to a level I can handle. “And then you wash them so much you scrape your skin?”
He shakes his head. “Just a minor cut.”
“Shaving your pubes?” I smirk, taking a sip from my drink. Now I’m weirdly interested in his injury.
He laughs. “For someone so bothered by my presence, we’re getting very personal.”
I pretend-yawn. “The conversation is stale, so I’m trying my best… since you’re saving me from the perils of this place.” I grin, not even sure why.
“Nothing about this encounter is stale, Foxy.”
The suggestion in his voice. Fuck. I cross and uncross my legs, and immediately regret it. I can’t show him he’s affecting me.
I swallow. The air between us is thick with something that I haven’t felt in a long time.
Desire.
Lust.
Need.
“What’s your agenda, Romeo?”
“I’m not sure yet.” He utters the sentence with a level of dryness, and a hint of disdain.
I smirk. “And you’re trying to find out by staring at me?”
He blinks a few times, and then turns to watch the scene around us, seeking distance. Like he’s as surprised by the ease of our interaction as I am.
“Why are you here?” he asks, not looking at me, propping his elbows on the counter behind him.
I play with my drink and lean back on my stool. We’re like two observers, sitting in the middle of a playroom but not interested in joining in.
“Same reason as everyone else.” I shrug.
“Now you’re just lying, Foxy.”
“And you know that how?”
“You’ve been uncomfortable, chugging down drinks and rubbing your legs together.” He turns his head to me, his eyes sparkling with jest. “It’s like you don’t want to be here, but somewhere deep down, there is a part of you that would like to let loose.”
“You don’t know me.”
“No. But I’d like to.”
My pulse betrays me before my brain can object. I blink at him. He doesn’t lean in, laying it hard on me. Demanding my attention. Declaring his intention.
He leans back, watching me, giving me space.
Space I don’t have to fight for like I’m used to.
“Don’t waste your time, Romeo. Go and join the fun.” A small part of me regrets the words, but I need to stay focused here.
He leans closer, his lips almost touching the shell of my ear. “Something tells me I’ve joined already.”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
He laughs. It’s a low, raspy chuckle, and I like it. For some outlandish reason, I don’t mind his company.
Sparring with him isn’t about making sure I’m taken seriously. It’s just a light flirtation. In fact, I’m not even sure we’re flirting. We’re just… What are we doing?
His eyes on me now are offering something, but I’m not sure what it is. Like he likes what he sees, but it’s my turn to make a move.
It’s an appreciative scrutiny, yet I don’t feel like prey. I feel like a goddess. Like he respects my boundaries.
Respect shouldn’t be seductive, but here we are.
The air between us thickens with anticipation, and I break our eye contact, because suddenly I’m getting ideas I shouldn’t have. Reaching out to touch his bulging biceps. Maybe find out how he tastes?
I shake my head and focus on the stage. Not that the show helps me clear my head. I watch it stubbornly, regardless. His scorching gaze burns into my side.
“You keep looking at me.” The words barely pass through my throat.
Okay, I find him attractive. That doesn’t mean I’m going to act on it. He probably finds a victim here every night.
“I can’t help it.”
“Most men here assume they can have what they are looking at.”
“I assume nothing.”
He doesn’t say I’m not most men. In some ways, his answer feels like a rejection. But it’s not.
His look says he’s interested, but he doesn’t act on it. The freedom of choice he’s awarding me is either a genius move, or this man is simply comfortable enough having me lead.
“Why?” I lick my lips, and my heart flutters when his gaze falls to my mouth.
“Because you’d make a terrible possession.” He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles.
His palm is surprisingly calloused, as if he’s used to manual labor. But it’s his warmth that sends an electric current through me.
It momentarily distracts me from his words, but they finally push through the alcohol-and touch-induced fog. I snatch my hand back. “Excuse me?”
“You, Foxy, are too alive for that.”
I hate how much I like that. I hate how much it feels like the truth.
Not sexy. Not untamable. Not too mouthy.
My heart pounds in my chest. Why is that the best compliment I’ve ever gotten? And he stares at me with an intensity that threatens my underwear.
I swallow, my mouth dry for no reason. I put the glass to my lips, drinking slowly to gain time. To regain composure. To find my sanity.
I let the liquid wash down my throat slowly while my gaze stays on Romeo’s, drowning in the buzzing energy of our eye contact.
Heat slides under my skin, low and insistent, like my body’s already decided before my brain catches up.
I’m stalling because, for some outlandish reason, my instinct to rebut him doesn’t show up. Instead, I want to take his hand and walk with him upstairs.
Like my dry spell ended the moment I set foot into this place, whether I like it or not. I might be stalling, but I’m also enjoying his blatant perusal as he rakes his hungry eyes over me while I drink.
Finally, I put my empty glass down, and I lick my lips extra slowly… Oh shit, I’m really flirting here.
His Adam’s apple bobs. I glance up the stairs and back at him.
It feels like an hour has passed since his last words, but he says nothing else. He doesn’t pressure me further.
Only our bodies are having a mute conversation. His silence isn’t empty—it’s a dare wrapped in restraint.
I might have just met a man who doesn’t kill the vibe because he gets off on listening to himself or on conquering. I’m making assumptions here, but his silence is the biggest turn-on.
It’s an illusion, but somehow, I feel like he gave me the freedom to choose. And few men in my life show me that courtesy. One that should be a given.
Before I overthink it, I slide off the stool and take his hand.
I lead him toward the staircase, hoping he’d know how to find a private room. He follows me without a word.
On the second step, I turn to him. “Masks stay on.”
He nods.
“Make it quick.” I might be lust-ridden, but I can’t miss Pascal.
At that, he smirks and leans to whisper to me, “I aim higher than that, Foxy. I guarantee you will be the one asking for more.”
Jesus, the arrogance. God help me, I believe him. “Keep dreaming, Romeo.”
“Let’s find out.” He pulls me up the stairs.
As soon as we reach the upper landing, a woman appears at our side and leads us down the hallway without a word.
The carpet is plush, the space lit with ambient lights and covered in complete silence.
Romeo drops my hand but puts his on the small of my back, and I barely stifle a gasp.
His touch quickens my breath. When we stop at the last door, I’m practically vibrating with need.
The hostess, or whoever she is, taps a card on the reader, and the door clicks open. With a smile, she hands the card to Romeo and leaves.
I glance after her, expecting a moment of hesitation and doubt, but before I can find any of that, Romeo pulls me inside and locks the door behind us.
I blink a few times, taking in the room. The flickering faux candles soften the space, with an enormous bed as its dominant feature.
Suddenly, I feel out of my depth. Mostly because I am out of my depth.
I turn, and my gaze collides with Romeo’s.
Intense.
Penetrating.
Imprisoning.
Somehow, he already took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. The glimpse of the masterpiece of his torso and abs quickens my pulse.
“Now what?” I blurt out.
A lazy smirk curves his lips as he shrugs the shirt off his shoulders. God, the man is built for sin.
“Now, Foxy, you let me admire that ass of yours while you walk toward that bed.”
I swallow and briefly consider flipping him off and leaving. But the option he offered… the confidence in his demand… is more intriguing.
As gracefully as possible in those stupid heels, I sway my hips and walk to the bed.
“And now?” I look at him over my shoulder.
“You take the dress off and spread those beautiful legs for me.” His voice is laced with a need that rivals mine.
I reach for the hidden zipper on the side and let the dress fall to the ground, finally free of it.
This time, when I look over my shoulder, his appreciative gaze floods my insides with a heady feeling.
He swallows. His jaw ticks. He stills completely, minus the flexing of his fingers. Even from here, I can see his pants are tenting already.
“I said, spread your legs.” He prowls toward me. “Bend over, Foxy. I need to taste your pussy.”
His words shoot through me like a lightning bolt, and I obey. Romeo drops to his knees and hums… he fucking hums in appreciation.
And the worst part? I get wet from it. It’s like my pussy has completely disengaged from my brain, the traitor.
“You should see yourself now, Foxy. Such a needy pussy.” He traces the sides of my thighs and I grip the sheets, anchoring myself, stifling a moan.
He drags down my underwear and spreads my legs further before he blows over my sensitive parts, taking his time. I clench at the contrast of the cold air on my hot skin.
Jesus.
This might be the most embarrassing one-night stand in history. I’m about to come and he has barely touched me.
It’s the anticipation, his confidence, his praise, and I guess this stupid room—it all crashes together into pure, reckless desire.
“Are you just going to stare?” I look over my shoulder.
“Patience,” he murmurs and finally darts out his tongue, teasing my opening.
This time I don’t manage to stifle the sound, burying my face in the mattress. And he makes that sound again. Like this is the best dinner he’s ever had.
But as his tongue plunges deeper and his hand finds my clit, all coherent thought evaporates and instinct takes over.
God, he’s good. Only a few moves and he already knows where I’m most sensitive. My knees tremble. If it wasn’t for his strong hands digging into my ass, I would collapse to the floor.
It doesn’t take long and I’m writhing, pushing my hips into his face, seeking more friction. My release crashes through me without warning.
I’m still dazed when I hear a wrapper rip and Romeo nudges my entrance, sliding in an inch.
“Fuck,” he growls and thrusts forward.
The moan that rips out of me doesn’t even sound like me. Romeo—apparently a gentleman—stills briefly, letting me adjust.
And then he starts moving, hitting the spot that makes me see stars. His hands are everywhere at once. Caressing my back, gripping my hips, pulling my hair.
And somehow he maintains an inhuman tempo. Our bodies fall into sync immediately.
Pure lust.
Raw hunger.
Shameless chase.
I’m right on the edge again when he stops moving. Confused, I glance over my shoulder. Romeo is looking upwards, his jaw clenched, the hold on my hips almost painful.
He pulls out and buries himself deep again, his face contorting with effort. Or with restraint? Is he trying to delay his release?
Jesus. This is an anonymous one-night stand, but it’s like my pleasure matters as much as his.
He truly wants to deliver on that asking-for-more promise.
“I’m close,” I pant.
He mutters something under his breath and picks up the pace again. My body tenses almost immediately, a wave of pleasure crashing through me.
Romeo comes shortly after with a rough groan that sends heat curling through me. He collapses beside me.
And as spent as I am, I still want more. The thought terrifies me. Our eyes meet in tense silence. Is he thinking the same?
“And I’m not asking for more.” I smirk, but there is no bite behind my words.
He studies me for a beat and then chuckles. “Your loss.”