Epilogue Elena #4
"Dangerous? Yes. Obviously." I smooth my hands down the front of my dress, adjusting where it's ridden up from dancing, and roll my shoulders back.
"That's part of the fun, isn't it?" I lean in and kiss her cheek quickly, leaving a faint mark of lip gloss she'll probably complain about later. "I'll be fine. I always am."
I move through the crowd, my heart starting to beat faster.
Women in places like this are often reduced to being prey, but right now I feel like the one stalking my target, zeroing in on this man with the full intent to find out whatever walls he has up and dismantle them until he's panting and desperate for me.
My pulse throbs in my throat, the anticipation rising as I let a seductive smile curl the corner of my mouth.
I'm almost there, and I wait for his eyes to turn toward me again.
I want him to look at me, and I want to see what happens on his face when he does.
The alcohol has softened the edges of everything. I see men glancing at me as I pass, but I ignore all of them. I've decided who I want, and now it's just a matter of getting him. It's never hard, but I can't wait to find out what he's like when he is.
Up close, he's even more overwhelming than he was from across the room.
I see a scar through his eyebrow, and another lower on his cheek, a little deeper and more ragged, cutting into his jaw.
His hands, I see, are scarred too, white marks crisscrossing his knuckles.
I sidle up next to him, and he turns when I move into his periphery.
He doesn't move quickly, but he's not a man you sneak up on, I can tell.
His gaze is impartial, as if he's just checking to see who's moved into his space, but I feel that look all over my body anyway.
Every hair stands up, my skin tightening, my heart racing so hard I can feel it in my throat.
He's gorgeous. Definitely pushing forty if not there already, but fuck, he's hot.
And older isn't bad. It means experienced.
It means he'll probably do more than fumble halfheartedly to find my clit before he sinks into me and his own desire to come takes over.
His eyes are a deep green, with flecks of gold. My pulse stutters in my throat.
"Is this seat taken?" I ask, already sliding onto the stool before he can answer.
"It's not really mine to give." His voice is low and rough at the edges, with the faint trace of an Irish accent worn smooth by years in this city.
He doesn't look at me when he says it. His attention has drifted toward the upper level and a man in a black t-shirt moving along the edge of the railing.
I watch his jaw tighten fractionally before easing again when the man disappears around the corner.
"I'll take that as a yes." I signal the bartender for another round, mostly to give my hands something to do. "I'm Oksana."
He doesn't offer his hand. He doesn't offer much of anything, actually, just a short nod. "Cormac."
"Cormac." I let it purr off my tongue, but he seems surprisingly unaffected.
His eyes follow a waitress cutting through the crowd with a tray held high, then a bouncer near the far exit who lifts two fingers toward him in some small signal I don't understand.
Cormac's chin dips barely in response, before his attention comes back to me like he's making himself do it.
"You're not much of a talker," I say, tilting my head and letting that smile curl my lips further. "Or is that just for pretty girls who sit down uninvited?"
"I'm working." He says it flatly, almost dismissively, but something in the way he says it makes the back of my neck prickle with interest instead of discouragement.
"Working." I raise my eyebrow. "At a nightclub?"
"Something like that." His eyes flick toward the entrance again, toward the line of people still filtering in past the velvet rope. I notice again how he seems to have positioned himself so that he sees as much of the space around us as possible.
"You don't seem like the type who works in a club.
" I lean in slightly, testing the space between us.
"No offense." He's not the slick type who does marketing or runs the back office or manages the staff, and he's not quite thick enough to be a bouncer.
He's muscled, that's for sure, but he's not a bodybuilder. He's built more like a fighter.
"None taken." Cormac pauses, and then says, almost as an afterthought, "You should get back to your friends."
The way he says it isn't unkind or rude.
It's oddly almost gentle, like he's giving me some friendly advice, but there's a hard edge to his words that tells me he's trying to give me the hint he's not interested.
He's not playing hard to get or hoping I'll chase him harder. He genuinely wants me to walk away.
Which, infuriatingly, only makes me want to stay.
"They're fine without me for a few more minutes." I watch his face for some flicker of amusement. There isn't one. His eyes have already moved past me again, and I have the distinct sense that I'm the least interesting thing happening in his field of vision right now.
"Suit yourself." He lifts his whiskey, takes the last sip, and sets it down. "But I've got somewhere to be."
"You just got here."
"No." For the first time something almost like humor appears in his eyes, gone as quickly as it came. "I've been here all night."
Before I can ask what that means, his attention snags on something past the dance floor.
Two men are near the far wall, one of them gesturing too sharply, too fast, and Cormac's whole body shifts, moving off the stool in a single motion that makes it clear exactly how strong he is. He doesn't look back at me.
"Careful, Oksana." It takes me a second to realize he remembered my name. "This isn't the kind of place you want to be too curious about."
Within seconds he's swallowed up by bodies and lights, and I'm left sitting alone on a barstool with a half-finished drink and a pulse that hasn't slowed down at all. I watch the space where he disappeared for longer than I probably should.
This isn't the kind of place you want to be curious about.
I've never in my life been good at taking that kind of advice.
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