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“Love you,” Sean growls, pulling her close.
She blushes. “Stop it, I’m a sweaty mess.”
“Yeah?” he grins, nuzzling her neck. “Good.”
She kisses him once more before she dashes back into the kitchen.
“Seriously. Likeyesterday, you dumb Irish fuck,” I mutter under my breath. “I’ll shove you into traffic myself if you don’t marry her.”
He laughs, draining his glass before motioning to the bartender for another.
“Yeah yeah yeah. I know. Look, anyway, I wanted to ask your opinion on something else, too.”
“Shoot.”
“You know Bob Warren?”
I stare at him. “Bob Warren as in the boxing promotor Bob Warren?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah I’ve heard of him. Have you heard of this guy Michael Jordan who used to play some basketball?”
Sean snickers. “Well, he wants to work with me. What do you think—”
“I think if you have to ask me another dumb-ass question like ‘should I marry the best woman I’ve ever and will ever meet’ or ‘should I work with the most famous boxing promotor in the world who will make my career’, I’m going to have you fucking committed. Jesus fucking Christ, dipshit. You call him right the fuck—”
I don’t finish my thought. I can’t.
Because behind Sean, Elsa Guin just walked into Shank.
Elsa, who is lookingstunningin a dark gray—of course, but here it works—sleeveless dinner gown, her hair swept up.
Elsa, who is clearly herewith someone.
Something vicious and monstrous snarls and claws inside of me. A red mist I don’t quite understand, that I haven’t met before, creeps around the corners of my vision as my eyes land on the two of them: Elsa, and the fucking guy she’s out to dinner with.
The guy I want to, for whatever insane reason, break in fucking half with my bare hands right now.
He looks old enough to be her fuckingdad, for fuck’s sake. And he’s got “schmarmy moneyed douchebag” written all over him. I could overlook the cocksucker grin he flashes at the whole place as if everyone should stand and applaud him for simply existing. I could ignore the overly-bronzed tan from whatever island he just came back from, and the comical combover to hide his baldness.
But I cannot—cannot, for reasons that mystify me in this moment—overlook the way he puts his hand on the small of Elsa’s back as they follow the maître d’ across the dining room.
Suddenly, I want to kill him. I want to rip that fucking hand away from her, remove it and the arm its attached to from his body, and beat him to death with it while she watches.
Or, even more disturbingly, maybe while she rides my cock.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Sean is saying something to me. I have no idea what. I can’t look away from watching Elsa and this fucking dude walk across the restaurant and into one of the private, glass-walled dining rooms behind me, where they sit across from each other with smiles on their faces.
I’m filled with rage.
And it’s all very, very confusing.
Why the fuck should I or do I care who Elsa goes out to dinner with? Because I fucked her? I’ve fucked more women than I can remember. And I’ve never once given a single shit about them the second it’s over.
I don’t do followups. I don’t call. I don’t have second encounters.
