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My mind is reeling trying to make sense ofanypart of what happened.
Sources in the police.
Accusations.
Cash’s tattoo.
Concealed guns.
Cash spins around and yells, “Place is closed. Get out. If you haven’t paid, dinner’s on the house. Now, go.”1
Confused patrons scuttle out of their seats, slinging their purses and jackets over their shoulders and hustling out. Once the last customer leaves, he storms off, pushing past me like I’m not even there.
“Hey, wait.” I reach for this arm. “Who was that?” His darkened gaze bounces between my face and my hand, like he’s confused why I am touching him. Honestly, I am too. I drop his arm.
“Russian trash,” he mutters and walks away. He only makes it a few steps before turning back around and getting in my face.
“That table is reserved for us.” He slaps his chest. “Me and my brothers. Only. Ever. Who the fuck do you think you are? Coming in here with a tight ass and pretty face, thinking the rules don’t apply to you.” He’s taunting me, there isn’t any real venom in his words, but it still makes my cheeks burn being yelled at in front of the whole staff.
My eyes can’t help but scan their faces, all in various expressions of fear or secondhand embarrassment. “You’ll look at me when I’m speaking to you.” He wrenches my chin forward. “You’re just a fuckingtease.”
My mouth falls open, stunned. I don’t know if I’m terrified, outraged or—for fuck’s sake—turned on. I swallow hard, and his eyes drop to the bob of my throat and any shred of attraction evaporates when I wonder if he’s imagining slitting my throat. I do know how much he likes stabbing pretty things.
His fingers dig into my jaw as I speak, my voice stone cold. “I have no fucking idea what rules you’re talking about.”
“The rule is that no one sits at that table that doesn’t carry the name Fox. And especially not some Putin-loving fucker.”
Oh, so this is some sort of pissing contest.“Well, no one told me that, asshole. And get your fucking hands off me.” Every overwhelming feeling of anger, fear, and hatred boils over, and I spit in his face.
I brace myself for a slap, hell, even a fucking knife. But instead, he wipes it off with his hand while shouting in a deep monotone, “Everyone. Out.”
The rest of the staff race out, not daring to retrieve their things from the lockers.
“What should I do with you?” His voice is cold as he wraps a hand around my throat and walks me back until I hit a table.Histable.
He squeezes—not enough to restrict my airflow, but enough to let me know he could—the corded muscles of his forearm flexing under his inked skin. My pulse thumps against his grip, every nerve in my body on high alert. It isn’t until I catch a glance of his growing arousal that I know for certain he isn’t going to kill me. He likes toying with me too much.
“I should bend you over this table right now and teach you a fucking lesson on respect.” His eyes are bordering on manic, his jaw clenched so hard I’m surprised I don’t hear his teeth cracking.
“Why aren’t you?” Again, I don’t know if I’m incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.
He laughs. It’s a cold, menacing sound, rich and harsh like scotch. “Because,a chuisle, the first time I turn your sweet ass red with my mark, you’ll be begging for it.” He releases my throat and drags the back of his hand down my neck, over my chest, and around the swell of my breast.
I hate the heat that pools in my core, and I have to clench my thighs together so I can focus on sounding bitter and sharp. “That will never fucking happen.”
He laughs again and his eyes, which had been mesmerized by his hand's journey, flash to mine. “Get dinner with me.” My head rears back in surprise.
I can’t help but bark out a laugh. “You’re fucking insane, you know that?”
“I’ve been called much worse, baby.” I gasp when he grabs me by the hips and lifts me onto the tabletop.
“You’re crazy.” I gulp as his hand slides down my thigh to the hem of my skirt.
I’m unable to break his gaze, captivated by the raw hunger I see in them. His palm slips under, and the feel of his skin on my flesh makes my breath hitch.
“Unhinged,” I say breathlessly, and his hand snakes higher. I don’t know what to do with my own hands other than palm the table until my fingers whiten.
He sets his other hand on my knee and gives it a little push. “Tell me to stop,a chuisle.”
