Chapter 11
Salacious
brIGIT
Three steps through my front door, I stop dead in my tracks, eyes freezing on the bottle of familiar wine sitting on my kitchen counter, accompanied by two glasses waiting to be filled.
Heart rate skyrocketing, I consider stepping right back out the door before I can be caught in the trap set for me.
I turn to do just that and find myself staring into amber eyes as he leans against the door, arms folded. The mischievous smile gracing his handsome face only makes him appear more sinister as he waits for my reaction to his surprise appearance again.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
He smiles, pushing off the door and heading into the kitchen, searching through my drawers.
"You did better this time," he comments.
"For a second, I thought maybe you had it with you before I spotted it taped under the coffee table.
" When he grabs my corkscrew, he waves it in the air to show me his find before using it on the bottle.
"Is it in your pants again?" I scoff.
His replying smile is wholly unrepentant, "Why don't you come find out?"
I don't respond. Can't actually. Not with the image of reaching into his pants lingering between us.
"Nah," he finally laughs. "Don't you worry, though," he flashes a knife, the silver shimmering in the light of my kitchen, making my heart pound with fear. "I have other means of ensuring you behave."
"What are you doing here?" I press again, terror weaning into my voice as I set my purse on the counter and grab my phone from it. His eyes track the motion, that wicked smirk sitting on his full lips as he does.
"Well, I figured I owe you a glass of wine," he beams, pointing at the bottle with his knife before folding the immaculate, black serrated steel weapon and sliding it into his pocket.
As he works to pull the cork, his biceps flex, peeking out from the short-sleeve tee he's wearing, the immaculate dips and lines of his muscles drawing my attention whether I want them to or not.
More of his tattoos are on display in this shirt, though I can't quite make them out. All dark gray and black lines that follow the way his arms ripple as he pours us both a glass of deep red liquid.
"You expect me to drink something you brought?"
His smile grows, "That's why I didn't open it before you got home. It's 100% sealed and safe. I have no need— or desire— for you to be incapacitated. Not tonight, anyway."
"What are you doing here?" My voice grows irritated.
Sipping his own glass casually, he leans his hip against my counter, all long limbs and casual arrogance, pushing mine towards me silently.
"Okay, forget it," I scoff, "I'm calling the police."
As I pull my phone up to do just that, he moves with the speed and strength of a jungle cat, wrapping his long fingers around my hand and phone, pinning them to the counter beside me, using his other hand to wrap around my waist, holding me captive against his warm, hard body.
He tsks, "Come on, Brigit. There's no way you thought I'd let you do that."
"I—" all rational thought ceases from how close he's pressed to me, crowding me into my counter with his hand firmly in place on mine. My gaze drifts up, catching on his lips for just a beat longer than appropriate before continuing up to his eyes.
They glitter, the honeyed amber warm with something akin to hunger, but far, far more dangerous.
"I don't understand what you want from me," I admit, releasing my phone and hoping he'll release me in turn.
His gaze burns with hunger as it licks down my face, lower still, his expression hot enough to melt the last of my resolve if I had any to begin with, before it finds its way back up to my mouth.
"We have a problem, my little bunny,” his voice rumbles over the syllables, his chest pressing against mine.
There’s absolutely no reason for his calling me that should be eliciting this reaction.
It’s demeaning.
It’s degrading.
It’s intimate.
But him saying it in that gritty tone somehow feels like a compliment, like one of my biggest insecurities is something to hunger over.
Taking my phone and slipping it into his pocket, he returns his hand to my side on the counter, close enough that his thumb drifts across the sliver of bare flesh between my blouse and dress pants, teasing me with practiced ease.
I swallow, fighting back the desire to moan.
Jesus Christ, get it together. It's a single touch against your hip.
But the relentless circles make my head spin to the rhythm of his touch, leaving me unable to say anything besides, "Problem?"
All too pleased with himself, he nods, "Mhmm."
"Wha- what problem?"
"You lied to me last time I was here," he mutters, his eyes flicking down to his teasing finger. Fuck. I knew he caught my slip-up. “You said you recognized me from the news."
My eyes blink rapidly, trying to clear away the fog from his touch and that fucking scent that surrounds us and turns me into little more than a wanton teen discovering hormones for the first time.
Shaking my head, I finally pull myself together enough to slide out of his grip.
He allows me to leave, watching me with that playful intensity and keeping himself turned to face me, never letting me out of his sight or reach. If he wanted to, it would only take a single second to trap me in his arms again.
Not that I want him to.
Definitely not.
"What I said was that you've been in the news a lot lately," I mutter. "Which is true."
Tilting his head, he presses. "You knew my name but not that I was released."
"I— yes, that's true," I swallow.
"So you weren't following the case, yet recognized me right away," he nods to his own explanation, finding the truth even through the half-truths I shared in hopes he would leave me be. "And you called me by my name, not what they call me."
My eyes fall on the bat at his neck, the namesake for his moniker. My curiosity begs to be unleashed, but I don't think asking him about a tattoo he might not even remember getting is the best choice right now. I can't let myself get distracted from the very real danger I'm in with him here.
"Anyone who paid even a little attention would have known your name," I suggest. It's not a lie, but it's also true that his name doesn't carry the sensationalism that his nickname does.
"The longer you avoid the answer, the more convinced I'm going to be that it's something indecent,” he comments. "Maybe even something a little more gossip worthy than a prim and proper lawyer that frequents an underground fighting ring."
Fuck.
"How do you—"
That wicked smile comes back with a vengeance as he interrupts me with an answer that drains the last bit of hope I had of remaining uninvolved with all of this: "As it turns out, Mingle is part of Balor Industries.”
My mouth goes dry, "Like your liquor company."
Now it makes sense why they carry every single one of their products, both the liquors and the wines.
"Balor Mead & Spirits, yes," he takes a step closer, angling his body to trap me against the island again without so much as touching me. "Now, I've answered your question, Brigit, and I highly suggest you answer mine, or this conversation might not stay so friendly."
"You call this friendly?" I scoff, "You broke into my home. Twice. Threatened me with my own gun once then a knife the second time."
Tilting his head, he drags himself closer to me, his proximity sending both fire and ice through my bones, “You knew who I was before. Tell me how.”
"It's really nothing," I shrug.
He quietly laughs, hanging his head before meeting my eyes again, "Humor me."
I don't really understand why that's so funny, but I relent, hoping it might get rid of him before his flitting emotions and completely debilitating smile make me do something reckless.
"We met less than a handful of times," I force a polite smile.
His eyes narrow for a split second before he raises a single brow, the expression taunting, mischievous, and nearly obscene in its blatant desire.
Shaking my head, I realize the mistake I made.
"No, we met very briefly," my smile turns nervous. "Professionally. Nothing as salacious as you're implying.”
"No?" With the question on the air, he stares intently at me. "No salacious activities at all?"
I shake my head.
"Shame," he mutters, covering me completely with his large frame, crowding me against the counter, his face only inches from mine as his eyes lock on my mouth, "What did these professional meetings consist of?"
Before allowing me to answer, his hands both land on my hips, bracketing them with a commanding hold.
"We just happened to be at one of the same major charity fundraisers,” I close my eyes, willing myself to just breathe and not think about the calloused fingers pressing into my skin with intentional fierceness.
His grip doesn't hurt, but I feel the force of it from the top of my increasingly foggy head to the tips of my toes. "And then you offered me a job."
"Then why would there be photos of us together?
" His left thumb slides a few centimeters beneath the waistband of my pants, and that tiny indecent touch sends waves of need through me.
His right reaches behind him, pulling out his phone and flashing me pictures of the two of us from the night in 2021 I've tried countless times to forget.
How ironic it is that he's the one who has no recollection of that night, instead of me.
"Those galas always have like-" I shudder out a breath, "They have, umm, professional photographers. You probably share pictures with half the city. Not that anyone would admit that now."
“Mmm.”
I can't think clearly enough to tell if the sound he made was one of thought or approval. The longer his hands are on my skin, the further I melt into little more than a bundle of sensitivity.
"And the job?"
"You needed a corporate lawyer," I shrug, "I wasn't qualified."
Not a complete lie, but certainly not the whole truth either.
I wasn't the right fit for the job, and that's what matters.