Page 3 of Wicked Love

She turned my way, and I noticed how pretty she looked. High cheekbones, straight nose, pillowy lips. Too bad she felt like she had to hide under the black armor as if it protected her from the world.

I savored my whiskey while scrolling on my phone until a notification of low battery popped up on the screen. Fucking great.

I got up, careful to not touch anything, and weaved around the tables toward the restroom. A man and a woman in their late fifties were making out—full tongue and groping hands—by the restroom door. In the point two seconds I looked their way, I swore I saw both their tonsils as they were about to eat each other out without an ounce of discretion.

Glad they could get some.

I’d been a monk lately. Since I started my new job in New York, I had the opportunity to fuck as much as I liked, yet I kept pushing away all the women showing an interest in me.

Perhaps I needed that. A reprieve. After fucking my way through college, my dick needed a more than deserved vacation.

Behind me, people started cheering, and I turned around, wondering what the commotion was about.

Hurrying back to my stool, I noticed the girl, who had been nursing a drink alone, standing on the bar and guzzling vodka straight from the bottle. I noticed a butterfly tattoo peeking out from under the waistband of her skirt.

“Chug. Chug. Chug.” Everyone chanted as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She threw both arms in the air and did a victory dance. Tipsy, she lost her footing, and most patrons were either too dumb or too drunk to notice.

I hurried over and caught her, honeymoon style, before she hit the floor.

“My hero,” she singsonged.

“I’m nobody’s hero.”

She looped her arms around my neck. “I beg to differ. You’re mine.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I think I am dead.” She stared into my eyes and nodded as if to convince herself.

“You look pretty alive to me. Sloshed. But alive.”

“You look like an angel. A troublesome angel, but—” She studied my face, squinting. “A badass angel. One who can’t behave but loves every minute of it.” A hiccup. She placed a hand over her mouth, her cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink. “Sorry. What was I saying...? Oh yes, that you are beautiful.”

I snorted. “Beautiful? Maybe you’re more drunk than I thought.”

“Men are allowed to be beautiful too. We’re not in nineteen sixty anymore. Just say thank you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re sure I’m alive? I feel cold.”

I looked at her, not sure how she had succeeded in fascinating me in just a minute. I trained my eyes on her figure. With her in my arms, I had a great view of her cleavage, the band T-shirt she was wearing unable to cover the swell of her breasts and the black lace of her bra. My body tensed in the best of ways, and I grinned. “To me, you feel hot.”

“Oh, you are a smooth talker,” she gushed, batting her eyelashes, her gaze following my line of vision as I admired her voluptuous curves. “Are you ogling me?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“And you have no shame. That’s refreshing. I think I’m in love,” she declared, slurring her words.

“Good for you. I prefer love to war, don’t you?” I chuckled, not drunk enough to engage in her line of conversation. “Well, when tomorrow comes, you may change your mind.”

Her fingers toyed with the locks of my hair, sending an electricity discharge down to my toes.

Before I could reel it in, I growled, enjoying the attention a bit too much.

Her gaze traveled the length of my arms, and it felt like a burning caress. She eyed my white T-shirt as if staring at it long enough would dissolve the fabric.

“Love what you see?” I winked.