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“Can I go home instead? I’m not hungry.”
“Sorry, kid.” The fake remorse is another slap in the face, but I swallow it back. I just need to get through this and leave. I’ll begin planning once I’m home. “Family dinners are sacred, and you know this.”
“Of course.” With a heavy sigh, I stand and make my way toward the entryway, and I’m almost through it when he speaks again. It’s not what I’m expecting and not a single piece of me believes him, but the man knows how to hit low.
“Aliana, you might not believe me, but I do love you. You are my daughter.”
“I know you do, in a very self-serving way,” I whisper under my breath. Tears brim my eyes, but I blink them away before looking back from over my shoulder. “You just love money and power more.”
Present...
I’m frozen. Unable to so much as blink while he pulls back to stand at his full height.
Christ, out of all the men to flirt with. This isn’t good.
Because I know him. Know men like him and those that he surrounds himself with.
Just like my father, Aurora’s father, and plenty of other power-hungry jerks who step on others while maintaining full control of everyone and everything around them.
And yet, I’m not scared. I should be, but the feelings he’s bringing to life are anything but. It also doesn’t help that I’ve been drinking since leaving my parent’s house after a disastrous dinner. I’ve been here for a while—after being home just long enough to shower/change and call two friends to meet me here. This now my personal area, rented by me with no plans of calling it a night any time soon.
My inhibitions are low. My desire to control any aspect of my life is a wrecking-ball-sized force I’m not willing to subdue tonight.
Not after being pushed into a panic attack.
Not after being choked into complacency.
But instead of pulling away, I take a step closer. I also find my fingers curling in the material of his shirt, stretching it, and all the while he watches with an expression that makes my cheeks heat up while he blindly places his glass on the bar top behind us.
It’s want and amusement with just the right amount of cockiness.
This isn’t an average man; I should leave.
My father would kill me if he knew I was here flirting with this man, the second-in-command to a family that has transatlantic criminal ties from here to London.
This I know for a fact. Because there’s a fundamental survival instinct that a lot of people forfeit in their ignorant bliss, yet I don’t.
I watch. I listen. I remember.
I want to lick each tattoo, starting from his neck and moving lower.
The blush spreads, skin tingling from my face to the top of my breasts.
He’s dangerous. Turn around and go.
However, a low whimper escapes me instead when Callum cups my cheek with a gentle squeeze, his touch lighting me from within. “You are truly beautiful.”
His accent alone incinerates any reason I have to leave.
His tone, that gravelly cadence, makes my thighs clench while the lace material covering my mound clings to my labia.
Dios mio, he’s got trouble written all over him.
“Thank you,” I say, voice low as unpleasant thoughts drifts across my processors: I’m a pickup. Just another woman in a bar with a random stranger, and I need to view it as he does. Like two people meeting and having fun. Nothing more. Nothing less. And yet, as I’m busy tracing a circle around his stomach, ignoring the way the muscles there clench while pursing my lips, I feel bothered by the thought. Why does it taste so bitter? What is wrong with me? “Now, is that the best pick-up line you have?”
Why am I even asking him this? He does not matter.
We will never be anything past what I’m allowing tonight.
