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I don’t play games.
I’ll indulge in casual sex, but I won’t fuck someone I’ve gone cold on. It’s not about raising the fucking mast, it’s about my time and effort involved. I’d rather cut losses and move on if Daddy doesn’t give me what I want.
I’m also not ready to stop fucking Elsa, but we’re getting there.
Elsa’s feelings on all this? It’s not like we talk about that shit. Or much at all beyond the usual social fuckery. Thing is, I won’t use a woman’s emotions, either. Fuck, I’ve walked away from entanglements that would bring me things because the lady in question had her heart on her sleeve and mine didn’t beat for her at all. Elsa isn’t a rich heiress in love. She isn’t even one who sees me as anything other than what we are. Casual lovers. An arrangement.
She gets to tell her friends she fucked Hendrick Agnossio, and I hopefully get that something I want from her daddy.
Someone bumps into me and every nerve ending sends shockwaves vibrating through my bones. My hand jerks, and a hundred dollar glass of whiskey goes everywhere.
An earthy, smoky scent, one filled with jasmine, ginger and orange flower winds around me in this bar that’s already crowded with perfume, noise and music.
It’s at once dark and mysterious and a breath of fresh air that’s carrying the notes of a secluded garden. It’s the type of scent that invites a man to seek it out against warm, bare skin and breathe it deep.
It tells me two things.
One—it’s the kind of scent that doesn’t come from a bottle of perfume, but instead’s born from a mix of soaps and shampoos and the chemistry of the wearer’s skin.
Two—whoever owns the scent is very close to me.
“I’m so sorry,” says a voice that’s got a hint of smoke and secrets to it. “This idiot knocked me. I’ll get you another.”
The woman slides into the chair next to me at the cherrywood bar. I take my time before I look at her. She’s got long-fingered, elegant hands, almost delicate. No rings, and her nails are short, painted a red so dark it’s almost black.
There’s a magnetism that makes me take my time as I turn to her. A resetting of equilibrium.
She’s average height, slender but sweet in the right places, her cleavage showing what I callhandfulperfectiontits. The column of her throat is the ideal place to lick, bite, kiss, suck, and the mouth that’s painted red is a wet fucking dream. She’s got a pixie cut cap of vibrant red hair and dark amber eyes, the shade reminding me of my favorite Japanese whiskey.
A glass is placed in front of me and one in front of her. I know what it is before I take a sip.
I’m not an easy man to play, but right now, I’m willing to see her game unfold.
“Whiskey?” I ask.
“That’s what’s in your glass, the one I spilled, isn’t it?” That voice purrs and does things no voice should do.
I nod. “Expensive whiskey.”
“Top shelf.” She holds her glass up in the air and I wait a beat before picking up the new one and clinking it against hers. “You live around here?”
I sigh and lean in, mouth against her ear, and breathe in that heady scent. “And you were doing so well, right up to that question. You know where my mansion is.”
“I’ve never had the privilege.” She turns and our mouths are close, within kissing distance and my cock twitches in my pants. Her pupils are dilated, just enough for me to know it’s arousal.
Maybe it’s me, and maybe it’s whatever the fuck she’s up to, but this lady’s turned on.
“No, you haven’t. Are you angling for an invitation?”
Her hand slides down and skips light along my thigh a moment. It causes my cock to harden, and my breath to catch.
Holy fuck, this creature should come with a warning.
She could be some kind of Jac bait, but I dismiss that thought; she’s not an escort and she’s not being paid.
Or rather, if she’s being paid, it’s not for this meeting.
I can smell curiosity.
