Chapter 1 #2
I hate this question, because people rarely take me seriously when I try to explain it to them. They check out the second I mention the social media aspect of the job, completely disregarding the part where I tell them I’m the CEO of my own brand and have a master’s degree in business.
I settle for vague, not wanting this stranger to judge me for some odd reason. “I own a few businesses. You?”
A pause. “Finance…mainly.” He looks away from me while taking a sip of the drink the server set down for him a moment before.
I cock my head to the side, studying him and dragging my gaze slowly down his body. He doesn’t strike me as the finance type, but who knows? I’m learning loads about British culture tonight. Maybe extremely muscular, tall, tattooed men run spreadsheets all day here.
He can spread my sheets.
My obvious perusal doesn’t go unnoticed, because his chuckle snaps me out of it, and my cheeks flame. He, however, looks like a cat who caught the mouse, smiling ear to ear, and Christ—he has dimples.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he states.
“I didn’t give it.”
“You’re a bit of an enigma, aren’t you?” He’s surveying me with a look that says he very much wants to figure me out but isn’t sure if I’ll let him.
And judging by the expression on his face, I think he likes the challenge.
His gaze darts to the far corner of the pub, eyes lighting up with an idea.
“Tell you what, love… How about we play a game?”
“I’m listening…” My fingers dance along the stem of my glass, a foreign lightness filling my chest.
“Back there is a dart board.” He points to the game set up along the back wall. For each game won, the winner gets to ask the loser a question.”
I glance behind me, trying to recall the last time I felt this loose, shoving the voice telling me I should go home and get some work done down to the bottom of my glass. “You’re on.”
“When I suggested the game, I didn’t realize you were going to fleece me.” He drags a palm down his face in mock anguish.
We’ve been playing for over an hour, and I’ve won every game except one, the first one…that I let him win to lull him into a sense of false security.
“Never underestimate your opponent. Answer the question.”
“This is not fair,” he whines. “If I knew I was going to lose so much, I would’ve made my one question so much better.”
“But aren’t you so happy to know my favorite breakfast food is an egg white omelet?” I tease him.
“You’re not going easy on me, love.” He gives me an adorable pout, but I just stare at him blankly, unimpressed.
“Men have it easy enough.”
That earns me a hearty guffaw in agreement, and I almost smile back.
He narrows his eyes, a glimmer sparking in them. “What’s really your favorite breakfast food?”
“What makes you so sure I’m lying?”
“Call it a hunch.” How is he able to read me that easily? I deflect and raise a brow at his brazen assessment, waiting for him to answer my question. His left dimple pops. “Fine. My favorite musician is Harry Styles.”
Now, I do smile. It’s an unexpected answer, but I guess not all that surprising. Other than when he stepped in to help with the guy earlier, he’s been the poster boy for golden retriever men everywhere: quick to laugh, takes everything in stride. It’s been refreshing.
“Solid choice.” I hold his stare. “I like blueberry lemon pancakes.” Something softens in his gaze, and my heart starts to inexplicably race.
I turn abruptly, walking to the dart board to retrieve the needles.
“One more game?” It’s nearly midnight, but the pub hasn’t slowed in traffic at all.
Around us, glasses are clinking, people are laughing, televisions above the bar displaying everything from rugby match reruns to Love Island episodes.
Everyone in the room appears unencumbered and happy, like nothing can touch them here, and I’m starting to feel that same magic weave its way beneath my skin.
“One more game—” he agrees, but quickly adds— “but I want to tell you what my question will be now if I win.”
“Why?”
He ambles over to me, stopping only when his shoes touch the tips of mine. “Because I want you to choose to let me win or lose.” His stare is piercing, filled with an intensity I’m not used to and am not sure what to do with.
“What will your question be?” Butterflies wake in my stomach, wings beginning to flutter.
Slowly, he threads his fingers through mine, grabbing hold of a dart needle, but doesn’t let go immediately. Instead, his thumb rubs against the side of my wrist where my pulse hammers. “If I win, I’m going to ask to kiss you.”
The butterflies have fully taken flight, bouncing wildly against my ribcage. It’s a fight to keep my composure. “Start the game, then,” I challenge.
We throw back and forth, evenly matched.
I don’t know if he can tell I’m going easy on him, but I don’t particularly care when all I can think about is the way his lips looked when he said he wanted to kiss me.
When the turn to determine who wins or loses comes, I look my handsome stranger in the face and throw the dart wide until it imbeds itself into the wall with a deafening thunk.
Slowly, too slowly, as if to give me a chance to run, he prowls towards me. With each step he takes, I take one step back until I hit the wall, left with nowhere to go. When he reaches me, a smirk quirks up the corner of his mouth, and I roll my eyes.
His fingers are featherlight as they trail up my arm until his hand cups my neck, palm warm against my thundering pulse. “Cheeky thing.”
I try so hard not to drift into his touch, to think about how good it feels to be touched.
He leans in, breath fanning against my ear, making me suppress a shiver. “I like your brand of bold.” He pulls back to look me in my eyes before asking, “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
“So enthusiastic,” he jokes to rile me up, and it certainly works.
“For fuck’s sake, just ki—”
He silences me by pulling on my neck, bringing me forward into his chest. “I want,” he places a kiss by my ear, “to take,” another along my jaw, “my time.” I hold my breath when he reaches the corner of my mouth, trying to chase it as he pulls back, feeling desperate and worked up just from a few pecks.
“Look at you,” he says, and I honest-to-God feel his phantom caress on every inch of my body.
Then, he leans in, finally pressing his mouth against mine, and all my good sense obliterates like a hand grenade was just tossed into the room.
The kiss starts off soft, just two pairs of lips tentatively testing and tasting.
When I open to him, needing more, he wastes zero time slipping his tongue inside, and the way it moves against mine is so hedonistic, I absently think he might be winning this particular game.
Before I know it, he’s devouring me slowly, his movements erotic and sensual.
This…I’ve never been kissed like this, so thoroughly and completely that my head starts to spin.
My hands reach out to touch him, anything to ground myself as he matches me stroke for stroke, his hands gripping my hips firmly over the material of my skirt, pinning me to the wall.
I slip my fingers into the top of his jeans and pull him closer to me, feeling something rigid connect with my stomach, and he grunts into my mouth like I’m causing him pain.
“Devil woman,” he mumbles into my lips as he pulls away, trailing a path of kisses up my jaw until he takes my earlobe between his teeth.
I gasp, the sensation welcoming a rush of warmth to pool at my core.
I’m feeling so reckless. This whole situation is so unlike me, and yet there’s something buried deep begging to burst free that craves this carefree alternate universe I’ll never have again.
Tomorrow, I can go back to being Jade McKallen, but for tonight, I want to be this nameless version who takes what she wants because she wants it, not for any other reason.
He works against my neck, driving me half feral as I grind against him, feeling his own arousal against me. All thoughts leave my mind when the next words fly out of my mouth, breathy and uncontrolled, “Have you ever had sex in a pub bathroom?”
He stops his assault against my neck, and I hate myself for asking the question. He’s silent long enough that I start to pull away, but he quickly tightens his hold on my hips, stalling my retreat.
“Are you drunk?” he asks.
“Not even a little. You?”
“Sober as a judge.” His thumb strokes concentric circles on my hip, driving me crazy.
I don’t say a word as I start to pull him toward the single stall restroom a few feet away, flicking on a half-working light as we enter and locking the door.
I waste no time, pressing him against the door, reaching up onto my toes and kissing him again.
He sighs into my mouth as I work my hands down his muscled chest and start unzipping his pants.
My fingers skirt below the waistband of his briefs when he grabs hold of my wrist. “Oh no, that’s not how this is going to work.” Before I have a moment to object, he’s grabbing me by the waist, lifting me, and setting me on the edge of the sink counter. I let out a small squeal of surprise.
“Women first.” He drops to his knees in front of me like he’s ready to pray—to worship.
I’m already so worked up that the sight has the power to send me headlong into orgasm, but I hold off, desperate to see how this will play out.
“May I?” His hand gestures at my short skirt, and I nod my approval.
He wastes zero time pushing up the material until it settles around my hips, eyeing my center appreciatively. My body flushes unbearably hot while he stares at me like no one ever has. He looks starved.
“I am starved, love.” Fuck, I said that out loud? “Can I?”
“Yes.” The needy reply comes out breathy, nearly inaudible, but he hears it all the same.