Empire of Sin(Empire #2)(3)

His hair is light, but not as light as my platinum blonde that’s almost white. His is somewhat chestnut, somewhat sandy, and it’s styled, which showcases his forehead and killer cheekbones. He has a straight nose and a square jaw that gives him a sharp type of masculinity.

Then I find it.

The reason I associated him with the people from my life.

It’s his eyes.

They’re greenish with a golden ring, or maybe they’re hazel and the lack of light is making me see otherwise. Either way, those eyes are too intense for someone who should be nothing more than a businessman.

There’s a fire in them.

A lulling element that appears dormant but could combust at any second. A current that’s building in the background. A predator who’s watching from the sidelines, waiting for the right moment to strike.

And they’re staring right back at me.

Shit.

I quickly drag my gaze back to my martini and finish it off. When I spot Simon close by, I blurt, “Vodka, neat. Make it a double. Actually, a triple.”

The last part is whispered, as if I’m ashamed of my drinking habits. And maybe I am a little. I started the night with sophistication and martinis, but now, I just want my vodka, because something alien happened to me just now.

I made extended eye contact with a stranger. A stranger. What the fuck?

Maybe I need to run now.

Maybe I need to disappear without carrying out this stupid part of my plan.

What was I thinking anyway? Me, a one-night stand? I must’ve overestimated my abilities.

Simon flashes me a small smile before he goes to get me the drink. When he hands it to me, I finish half of it, then stare intently at the other half.

Mainly to stop myself from stealing peeks at the stranger next to me who’s leisurely sipping from his own drink. His movements are smooth, too smooth, like a lion who’s lounging on his throne while watching the peasants.

“You can watch. I don’t mind.”

British. The accent that’s spoken near my ear is sinfully British, and now, I’m about to choke on my spit because no one has ever been this close to me aside from my family.

No one.

But instead of bolting, I freeze. Or, more like, I’m frozen by the sudden attack. Logically, I realize this isn’t in fact an attack and that I’m exaggerating, but my brain doesn’t recognize that. It’s trapped in a static state and all I can do is slowly lift my head.

I’m not ready for how impossibly close he is, how those eyes are shining, more inwardly than outwardly. And why is he so close, again? Or maybe I’m imagining it because my heartbeat is throbbing in my throat. “Excuse me?”

“I said you can watch, beautiful. I’m better to look at than your drink.”

Arrogant. Okay. One point to deduct from the perfect score.

Though he really shouldn’t have called me beautiful with that illegal accent of his. It might have added a few more points that even I don’t approve of.

“I happen to love my vodka, but thanks for the offer.” I sound confident and in my element, when I am, in fact, shaken to the bones by his presence.

His infuriately attractive presence.

The bottom of my belly contracts in short intervals, and I’m going to bet it’s not due to the alcohol.

“Does that mean I have to compete with your drink?” There’s a unique quality to the way he speaks, a bit amused, a bit flirtatious, and so assertive, I hate him a little for it.

Why do some people get to play the social game so well while others, like me, can barely get words out?

“Why would you?”

“Why do you think? For your attention.” His voice drops at the end and so does my stomach. The sensation is so novel that I can’t fathom it.

My neck and cheeks heat and the butterfly pendant feels like lava on my skin. “You want my attention?”

“Amongst other things.”

“Like?”

He takes a sip of his whiskey, but his intense eyes haven’t left mine long after his Adam’s apple bobs with the swallow. I can’t help gulping the saliva gathered in my mouth as well, then taking a drink. Either the alcohol is loosening my nerves or there’s something wrong with me since I can’t stop staring at him.

At the way he seems confident in his own skin, unlike me, or the way he takes each action with a simmering control that I feel but can’t see.

After he’s finished, the British stranger places his elbow on the bar, which allows him to get close. So close that I smell his cologne. A mixture of lime, clean laundry and male musk. It’s not strong, but it’s as lulling as his presence, trapping me in the confinements of its walls.

The space between us becomes nonexistent when he turns sideways and his breath skims the shell of my ear. It takes everything in me not to go into flight mode, considering how much of an expert I am at that.

But not tonight.

Tonight is different.

“Like making you squirm.” The whisper of his words makes me shudder. It’s a full-body one that I can’t suppress, despite my attempts.

I don’t know where I get the courage to ask, “That’s all?”

“Oh, I can do so much more.” He licks the shell of my ear and I bite my tongue to suppress a moan.

Holy shit. It’s like I’m on an aphrodisiac. One touch and I melt. One touch and I’m wiggling and clenching my thighs in search of something. What, I have no clue.