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Thick neck. Broad shoulders. Veiny arms. Tattoos everywhere. Blue jeans and a tight-fitted white t-shirt that I’d love to peel off him. Just to reveal what I imagine is a very hard-muscled chest.
The list goes on as my gaze drinks him in.
But, while I like what I see, the same can’t be said for him.
“Who’s this?” he demands, looking at me.
“Mace, this is Sydney. She’s our new waitress,” Velma answers.
He ignores her, stepping toward me. I don’t move out of hope it’ll show I’m not intimidated. I’m here to stay.
Forget the old ladies not liking me.
From the first time Mason lays eyes on me, one thing’s clear: he hates my guts.
It’s in the hard glare he pins me with. The aggressive manner he gives off as he begins circling me like an animal debating how to devour his dinner. Everybody else stands off to the side as he does so, circles around and around me in slow but purposeful steps. I stopped breathing a long time ago, unsure what to expect.
He comes up from behind, his lips so close, they almost graze my ear. Instead, it’s his warm breath I feel that draws a shudder out of me.
“Sydney, huh? I’m going to make your life a living hell.”
5
MASON
Sydney isn’twho she says she is. That much is obvious from the moment I lay eyes on her.
I know a liar when I see one—and Sydney’s got liar stamped on that plump ass of hers.
She’s easy on the eyes. Probably why I’m the only guy bothering to be suspicious. Everybody else is too busy noticing the double Ds in the tight top she’s got on. They’re charmed by the bright smile she flashes.
I don’t give a fuck how good looking she is. If she’s here to stir up trouble, then she’s got to go. I want her gone.
I stalk toward her as the rest of the bar floor falls silent. Immediately, tension cuts the air. Uncertainty lingers. No one’s sure what’s going to happen next.
My eyes never leave her. I stalk toward her with heavy footsteps that clack on the wooden floorboards.
This ain’t no friendly greeting, and I’m not here to make nice. I’m about to show this bitch who’s boss. She’ll be running for the hills before she can blink twice.
As I approach, she wears her confidence like a second skin. Her hand rests on the swell of her hip and she tilts her chin up. Not once does she break eye contact; not once does she even blink.
She gets it. She knows what this is—that doing so means she loses.
It pisses me off that she does. That nobody else gets it. They don’t realize she’s playing some game. That there’s some angle she’s working.
I circle her. My gaze rakes over her as I do. She doesn’t dare move, still stuck on proving she’s unfazed. I take my time. I drink her in.
About five-six. Maybe five-seven. Classic hourglass. Big tits in the front and a fat ass in the back, so going and coming she’s worth eyeballing. Her midriff shows, revealing a taut stomach and a belly ring with a diamond that fucking sparkles. She’s got thighs to match that ass, and that look damn good in her cutoffs.
All wrapped up in rich brown skin that gleams like some earth stone.
Topaz or some shit.
But it’s her face that’s really got my attention—the natural smirk her full lips make. The way they look so damn soft and moist as if to make them that much more tempting. It’s her fire-lit brown eyes and the long lashes that go with ’em. The enticing beauty mark on the apple of her cheek and the honey-colored sheets of hair that fall over her shoulders.
She looks like she belongs in my bed. Not on my bar floor.
The more I circle her, the more her scent permeates my sense of smell. I pick up on it without even trying. Something spicy and sweet.
