Logan (Wild Boys After Dark, #1)(2)
So far so good.
A large hand landed on the bar just beneath her chest, fingers splayed. No wedding ring, soft, unmarred hands, manicured fingernails. The hand of a wealthy man, that much was for sure. Her eyes traveled up to a thick, masculine wrist, suit jacket stretched tight across flexed biceps, to the piercing blue eyes she’d been fantasizing about. Her breath caught in her throat at the intensity of his stare. He circled her wrist with his index finger and thumb, drawing her eyes downward and sending her heart into panic mode. She’d been here before, restrained by Kutcher, unable to break free.
She forced her mind to function and pulled her arm free, rubbing it as if it had been burned.
“Sorry, darlin’. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His deep voice slithered over her skin as his gaze softened, penetrating in a different way. Not intense and threatening, but the kind of heated gaze that felt safe and seductive at once.
Stella swallowed her initial fear, gathering her wits about her. She wasn’t a meek girl. At five foot five, a hundred and twenty-five pounds, she was curvy and solid, and until Kutcher, she’d had the confidence to match her strong body. Now it took a few minutes to reclaim that confidence. She hated that even after a few months Kutcher’s memory could still swamp her.
“Just one of those nights.” With her words his eyes went from seductive to assessing, his dark brows knitted together, and he lifted his hand from the bar and rubbed the sexy scruff peppering his chin. A slight smile curved his full lips as he glanced over his shoulder at the loud bachelor party, then turned and lowered his voice.
“Yes, I can see it is.” He held up his glass. “When you have time?”
“Sure.” She picked up on a faint Midwestern twang that came and went and pictured him in tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a Stetson. She turned to mix his drink, thinking about the man behind her whose eyes burned a path through her back. She wondered what he did for a living, dressed like that and alone at a bar on a Friday night. A man with eyes like Chris Pine’s, a face like Channing Tatum’s, and a voice like melted chocolate, which made her want to lick him from head to toe. Unaccompanied on a Friday night? Gay? No way. Not with the way he’d been eye-f*cking her all night. Freak? Probably.
On that lovely thought, she turned and pushed his drink across the bar. “That’ll be—”
He placed his hand over hers, stopping her cold and making her body hum and rattle with fear in equal measure.
“I know how much it is, darlin’. Thank you.”
She withdrew her hand from beneath his, instantly missing the connection. It’d been too damn long. She just might have to break out her battery-operated boyfriend tonight and satisfy the itch she’d been ignoring since arriving in the city.
He handed her a twenty. “Keep the change. You’re new here.” He sipped his drink, eyes locked on her.
She worked the register, trying not to think about the man behind the generous tip. Yeah, right. She wiped the bar to give her hands something to do besides wanting to touch his again, and eyed him warily.
“I started a few weeks ago.”
“That explains it. I’ve been in and out of town the last few weeks. Where’d you work before this?”
She leaned one hand on the bar, finding her confidence once again. It came and went like the wind these days, and she was glad when it decided to blow back in. The guy’s eyes turned sultry, and a rush of excitement heated her insides. It’d also been a long time since she’d been properly flirted with.
“Around,” she answered, toying with him.
A blond guy leaned in over Midwestern hottie’s shoulder. “Can I get another gin and tonic, please?”
She took his glass and turned away to mix the cocktail.
“She’s so f*cking hot,” the tall blond said. Stella hoped to hell he wasn’t talking about her. She’d heard enough about her ass, her tits, and her f*ckable mouth for one night.
She handed him his glass and he shoved a ten across the bar with a wink. A fifty-cent tip. Jesus Christ. She used to earn six figures, and now she was schlepping drinks in a bar for peanuts.
The familiar mantra played in her head like a broken record, giving her strength and perspective.
At least I’m alive.
I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.
***
LOGAN WILD COULD watch the sassy bartender all night long. He was a regular at NightCaps, his buddy Dylan’s bar and his go-to place after a long week of tracking down cheating spouses, embezzlers, and thieves. He hadn’t been interested in getting laid when he’d come into the bar. Two busty blondes had satisfied that urge earlier in the week when he’d been in Memphis working on a case, but now he was reconsidering his evening plans. There was something about the sharp-tongued brunette with plump lips he’d like to see wrapped around his thick cock and eyes that said “f*ck me” and “don’t touch me” all at once.
She moved at record speed as the night wore on, dodging offers of sexual escapades with married men like bullets and always with a smart-ass retort. But she wasn’t hardened, not like most of the sharp-witted women around New York City. She held her head high, like she wouldn’t take shit from anyone. But as soon as those big talkers turned their backs, he swore he saw her exhale and her body become less rigid, more feminine. Not that she wasn’t feminine when she was talking smack. With a body meant for loving, a mouth made for kissing, and hands that gripped a glass with surety, she was a fine mix of strength and delicacy.