4. Neomi
The Angry Tortilla is a food truck about two blocks from the game and one of my favorites. It’s open late, lit by strung up light bulbs and has a menu with only seven items. It’s simple and delicious.
We walk side by side and Lars asks, “Do you normally walk this by yourself at night?”
“Sometimes.”
“You shouldn’t be walking in this area with what I know is in your handbag.”
I chuckle, pulling up my top, revealing my holstered pistol at my side. “Don’t worry, Lars. Playing cards isn’t the only thing my father taught me to do.”
His eyes sparkle. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
Once we reach the truck, we place our orders. Steak for him, barbacoa for me. I reach for my purse when the man inside the truck gives us the total. Lars places his hand on my arm as he extends an unmistakable black AMEX with his other.
“Don’t you dare.”
He could’ve said ‘on me’ or ‘oh no, allow me,’ but instead he gives a command that makes me drop my hands. He notices the movement and simply grins.
The cook hands us our food, and we take our trays to a tiny metal table. Lars sits across from me, forearms braced on the edge, eyes fixed on me like I’m another poker hand he intends to win.
God help me.
I take a bite of my taco, and his eyes follow the juices as they run down my wrist.
“It’s rude to stare,” I say.
“I’m not staring. I’m studying. You’re an interesting subject, Neomi.”
My thighs press together instantly. Studying. Somehow, when he says the word, it’s the filthiest thing anyone’s ever said over barbacoa.
“Studying what exactly?” I challenge him.
“You,” he says, so matter of fact that I nearly choke. “Trying to figure out if you’re better at cards or manipulation.”
A laugh slips past my lips. “Why can’t it be both?”
“Oh, I think it is,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “But one of them is probably more dangerous than the other.”
“And which one do you think it is?”
His eyes drop briefly to my mouth. “Still deciding.”
Feral need. There’s no other way to describe what twists low in my stomach.
I lean forward, licking a bit of salsa from my thumb just to watch what it does to him. His jaw ticks. His hand curls around his water bottle.
“Relax,” I tease. “It’s just food.”
“That’s not the problem.” His voice scrapes low. “The problem is you know exactly what you’re doing.”
He’s right, I do. But I didn’t expect it to work this well. It should be just tacos, but it’s suddenly become a sensual experience.
“Tell me something, Lars,” I say, opening the foil wrapped around my second taco. “Are you always this…intense?”
His hands pause, his eyes still on me. “Only when I want something.”
“And what is it that you want?”
There’s a beat where the air thickens, the street noise fades, and the whole damn city disappears, and there’s only his gaze left in the moonlight.
Then, he leans back, eye raking down to my breasts and back up to my mouth. “Right now,” he says quietly, “I want to get you alone. See what’s under this steely exterior, see what makes you break.”
My pulse slams. I force myself not to look away. “You’re very confident.”
“Accurate, but I know I’m right.” Lars grins, wiping his thumb across his bottom lip. “You’ve been watching me since I sat down at that table.”
I smirk. “Maybe I was just sizing up the competition.”
“You were imagining what my hands would feel like.”
My breath stutters. Because he’s right again—and he knows it.
He leans toward me. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you weren’t thinking about my fingers somewhere far more fun than that table.”
I shrug, cool as I can manage and point to the table. “Eat your tacos, Lars.”
His smile is wicked. “So that’s a no, then? Funny, because every time I touched my chips, or slid my cards forward, your pretty little eyes went straight to my hands.”
I take another bite, holding his gaze. Fuck, I bet he knows what to do with those hands, too. “Finish your food. Then we’ll see if I want to answer that question.”
When he smiles and his eyes promise every filthy thing I’ve been trying not to think about since he first looked at me across the poker table.
After we finish, he offers to drive me to my hotel. I almost decline, remembering that I don’t know this man from David. But shortly after, I’m seated in his black BMW, surrounded by the smell of expensive leather and his cologne.
The Argent Hotel rises ahead of us in neon and chrome edges.
He valets his car and walks me inside. The lobby glows with that curated glow hotels love—sleek floors, an abstract chandelier dripping like molten glass from the ceiling.
Low lounge music thrums under the hum of conversation coming from the lobby bar.
I expect him to leave when we reach the elevators—a polite goodnight, a smile, something that lets us leave this tension simmering instead of letting it boil over.
The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and I step inside, turning to face him. He stays standing at the threshold, his hand holding the doors open.
For a moment, he looks at me like he’s deciding if this is a line he should cross.
So, I give him the permission he’s waiting for.
“Are you coming up?”
He gives me the sexiest, most troublesome grin I’ve ever seen on a man. The kind of grin that promises ruin. The kind that says he’s already planning how to wreck me.
He steps in, and the doors slide shut with a whisper that feels obscene. The air changes instantly, becoming thick and electric. I hit the button for my floor, and the second I take one small step back, he moves.
His hand catches my waist, and he turns me, my back gently hitting the mirrored wall of the elevator. His body lines up with mine, heat and muscle crowding me. His other hand slides up, fingers brushing my neck.
He doesn’t speak because he knows he doesn’t have to. His stare pins me in place, a silent warning that whatever happens next won’t be polite. His fingers curl against my skin, a promise to take, to claim. My throat goes tight and I can feel the heat of his breath before his mouth is even on mine.
And then it breaks.
His lips crush against mine—hungry, savage, all that leashed need snapping free in a single, devastating kiss.
I gasp, and he’s right there, using it, deepening, dragging me closer until there’s no space left to breathe.
His teeth catch my bottom lip, and the sound I make is embarrassingly desperate.
The elevator climbs as his hands grip my hips tighter, his mouth moving to my throat, each kiss sending heat straight through every inch of my skin. He murmurs against my pulse, voice rough and dark, “You have no idea what you started tonight.”
I tilt my head. “Then show me.”
He growls—a low, wrecking sound that vibrates against my skin. And when the elevator doors open on my floor, neither of us is breathing steadily. He grabs my hand, fingers tangling with mine, pulling me into the hallway.
“What’s your room number?”