Page 11 of Dirty Pool

So did she.

“Michel,” he replied easily.

Gabbie wasn’t innocent when it came to men, but she also wasn’t very forward. Growing up as the daughter of an Irish mob boss meant almost everyone knew who the feck she was in these parts. Just her last name was enough to send a man running away from her lest he find himself in hot water with her family or da.

This man, though?

He was still there. Either he didn’t know who she was, or he didn’t give a feck. She liked that far more than she should.

She really liked the way he was looking at her in that moment, too. Grinning in that way. Like he was the cat looking at a saucer of cream, and he was ready to lap up every single drop of it. She wasn’t going to lie and say she didn’t like it because she sure as hell did. He wasn’t too bad to look at, either.

“I was going to look for my cousins,” she said, “but I was thinking maybe another dance would be good.”

Michel make a noise under his breath, and glanced over his shoulder. “Shit, I … I’m supposed to be working right now.”

“You work at the club?”

And he didn’t know who she was?

Unlikely.

He shook his head, saying, “Not exactly.”

What did that mean?

“But you know what,” Michel said, grabbing the tumbler of whiskey when the bartender slid it over to him, “fuck work. I found something better.”

Gabbie drew her bottom lip between her teeth, asking, “Oh, did you?”

“Looking at her, yeah.”

He offered his hand, and she took it again. The same heat from earlier sparked through her hand, and up her arm. This time, though, it traveled through her body and straight down to the spot between her thighs. She couldn’t take her gaze off Michel, either, or the way he tipped that glass up to swallow the three fingers of whiskey in one go.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t make a sound.

She knew that liquor was harsh.

And damn, she liked that, too.

Michel wet his bottom lip, taking away the remaining whiskey with a single, sexy sweep of his tongue. She had the greatest urge to reach up, and see what his lips might feel like when they were pressed against her fingertips.

Or even better, against her mouth.

“A dance?” he asked.

Gabbie nodded. “You got it.”

She slipped off the stool at the bar to follow him, her fingers weaving in with his as she stayed close to his back. She really liked that view—the way his muscles moved under the silk, and the way the lights shadowed his features when he glanced back at her.

Then, the crowd swelled.

Someone hit Gabbie from the side, sending her to the floor. Michel swung around, his strong arms already reaching out to catch her, but he was just one second too late. She hit the floor alongside someone’s glass that shattered as soon as it hit the tile.

“Gabbie,” she heard Michel say.

Concern wrote heavily across his handsome features, and the first thing she wanted to do was apologize for ruining … well, whatever this was. Although, he simply looked like he was more worried about getting her up from the floor. He called her name again, but it sounded faint. It was too far away even though he was right above her.