Page 67 of Pink

He didn’t know what to say to that. She seemed to be okay with his silence.

“You’re a good guy, you know?” Nessa asked, shrugging under her tweed coat with buckles on the shoulders. “That’s all I’m trying to say.”

Was he?

Sometimes, he had to wonder …

“And if it’s not a date,” Nessa said, sliding off the stool with a sly smile, “then why do I smell Creed? Because you only wear that when you want to have a good time.”

His cologne, she meant.

Rare.

Expensive as fuck.

And she wasn’t wrong.

“It’s not a date,” he said, pointing at her retreating back while her laughter echoed in the townhouse. “It’s not.”

But goddammit it … a part of Lev wished it was.

Gigi was still the woman of his wettest dreams, and she had been a feature in all of them for the last five and a half years. That also meant nothing in their current circumstances. A lot had changed.

For both.

• • •

It wasn’t a date. Telling himself that fact when Gigi walked into the quiet bar looking like sex on smooth, long, fishnet-covered legs, however, was easier said than done. Her high-waisted, leather mini skirt fell mid-thigh, and the fishnet tights disappeared into her ankle boots with sharp stiletto heels that clicked on the hardwood floors. What really turned heads—literally everybody in that bar couldn’t help but stare when she came in—was the top she wore.

Lev didn’t know what to call Gigi’s top. Made up of leather panels at the side, and mesh and buckles up the front, it hugged her curves and hid very little of her body. It did the best thing for her tits, though. She almost looked like a Domme that had walked off the set of some erotic film. His cock couldn’t handle it considering he had to adjust his position on the barstool to relieve the pressure growing in his pants—what was a little discomfort, anyway?

Apparently, his brain didn’t know what to do with the sight of Gigi, either. The damn thing decided it didn’t want to work when he tried to stop staring, just like everybody else was doing, but failed miserably. Sometimes, life still liked to have a good laugh at his expense.

Fuck it.

She should be stared at.

The woman was a work of art. Carved from God himself, surely. Sculptors had spent decades attempting to showcase the perfection of female beauty, but Gigi defined it. From the sexuality that she oozed to the softness in her aura. It was in the way she walked, her stride and the sway of her hips graceful and sexy with every step, and in the sweet smile she offered the man who actually turned on his chair as she walked past him to watch her go. She was perfect in every way. At least, that hadn’t changed even if she was way out of his fucking league.

Yeah.

How could he not stare?

“Close your mouth, bro. You’ll catch flies like that.”

Lev glared sideways at the bartender who had offered that comment from behind the bar where he was currently wiping out a wine glass. “Fuck off somewhere, why don’t you?”

The guy—Joey was his name—widened his arms like he was silently saying come on, man, give me a break here. “Do you know who she is? Wait, is she coming to see you—do you know her?”

The second time he turned to the bartender, Lev didn’t even bother to hide the warning in his voice when he muttered, “Get gone. Now.”

“Fine. Fuck. What’s stuck up your ass tonight, Pink?”

Maybe he should have picked a different bar. One that he didn’t frequent, even if the place was basically a hole-in-the-wall inside the city and quiet for the most part.

“Who’s Pink?”

Jesus Christ.