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"Not anymore." He shoves my glass at the bartender. "Water for her. Get me a whiskey, neat."
I splutter, then reach for my drink again. The barstool tips in his direction. This is when I fall against him, and my breasts slam into his hard chest, sculpted planes with layers upon layers of muscle that ripple and writhe as he turns aside, flattens himself against the bar. The floor rises up to meet me.
What the actual hell?
I twist my torso at the last second and my butt connects with the surface.Ow!
The breath rushes out of me. My hair swirls around my face. I scramble for purchase, and my knee connects with his leg.
"Watch it." He steps around, stands in front of me.
"You stepped aside?" I splutter. "You let me fall?"
"Hmph."
I tilt my chin back, all the way back, look up the expanse of muscled thigh that stretches the silken material of his suit.What is he wearing? Could any suit fit a man with such precision?Hand crafted on Saville Row, no doubt. I glance at the bulge that tents the fabric between his legs.Oh!I blink.
Look away, look away.I hold out my arm. He'll help me up at least, won't he?
He glances at my palm, then turns away.No, he didn't do that, no way.
A glass of amber liquid appears in front of him. He lifts the tumbler to his sculpted mouth.
His throat moves, strong tendons flexing. He tilts his head back, and the column of his neck moves as he swallows. Dark hair covers his chin—it's a discordant chord in that clean-cut profile, I shiver. He would scrape that rough skin down my core. He'd mark my inner thighs, lick my core, thrust his tongue inside my melting channel and drink from my pussy.Oh! God.Goosebumps rise on my skin.
No one has the right to look this beautiful, this achingly gorgeous. Too magnificent for his own good. Anger coils in my chest.
"Arrogant wanker."
"I’ll take that under advisement."
"You’re a jerk, you know that?"
He presses his lips together. The grooves on either side of his mouth deepen. Jesus, clearly the man has never laughed a single day in his life. Bet that stick up his arse is uncomfortable. I chuckle.
He runs his gaze down my features, my chest, down to my toes, then yawns.
The hell!I will not let him provoke me. Will not. "Like what you see?" I jut out my chin.
"Sorry, you’re not my type." He slides a hand into the pocket of those perfectly cut pants, stretching it across that heavy bulge.
Heat curls low in my belly.
Not fair, that he could afford a wardrobe that clearly shouts his status and what amounts to the economy of a small third-world country. A hot feeling stabs in my chest.
He reeks of privilege, of taking his status in life for granted.
While I’ve had to fight every inch of the way. Hell, I am still battling to hold onto the last of my equilibrium.
"Last chance—" I wiggle my fingers from where I am sprawled out on the floor at his feet, "—to redeem yourself…"
"You have me there." He places the glass on the counter, then bends and holds out his hand. The hint of discolored steel at his wrist catches my attention. Huh?
He wears a cheap-ass watch?
That's got to bring down the net worth of his presence by more than 1000% percent. Weird.
I reach up and he straightens.
