“Blah, blah.” I sit farther back into the soft leather chair. “Haven’t pinpointed your little cockroach yet.”
“Neither has my father’s private investigator. Just find that little fuck first.”
I nod as I take in the room, my attention settling on a man at the bar. He’s cute with his thick, dark brown hair that’s shorter on the sides and longer on top. And the way his trimmed beard frames his jawline is making my dick hard.
Love the whole rugged yet refined appearance. Goes well with that tousled style he’s got going on.
Effortless yet meticulously groomed.
My head tilts, and I look closer at the way he glances around and hunches over, as if he doesn’t belong.
And that suit . . . cheap. Well, cheap for this crowd.
Yep. He’s not supposed to be here.
Bet the fucktard snuck on the yacht. Or maybe he’s one of these rich ole ladies’ side pieces.
Too bad. He’s making my dick twitch, so he’s mine now. “Time to have some fun.”
Zach glances up from his phone. “Don’t kill anyone. None of our fathers will be able to save your ass.”
“Yeah, yeah. Time and place. Heard it before.” I wave a haphazard hand, then straighten my Brioni suit jacket, eye-fucking my toy for the night.
The man’s swirling his near empty glass of whatever, so I take the opportunity to lean against the bar sideways, staring right at him. “Need another?”
“I’m good.” He doesn’t bother looking up and it sends a jolt through me.
A challenge.
“Man of few words. I like it.” I signal the bartender. “Macallan 26 neat. Another on the rocks.”
After showing her my ID, she goes about getting our drinks.
“Said I was good.”
“You’re milking ice water at this point. Just say thank you and stop being so grumpy. It’s a gala.”
He snorts.
“Care to tell me how you snuck onto the yacht? You obviously don’t belong here.”
The grump of a man turns, glaring at me, and holy fuck he’s one of those people with two different eye colors—one green and one blue.
“You’re so pretty.”
The words slip out. Not that I wanted to stop them, but I certainly didn’t voluntarily say them.
Not even sure why the fuck that turns me on. Maybe because I’ve only seen it in movies. Bet it’ll be a sight to behold when I’m on my knees, staring up into them with his dick stuffed in my mouth.
His face softens a bit, the side of his mouth twitching as if he wants to smile but fights it.
The bartender brings our drinks and I pick up my glass, taking a sip. “So, which of these old hags brought you along? Or was I right the first time?”
And now he’s impassive once again. Swear it’s like talking to Zach.
He gets up, then walks away. From me. Leaving the fucking thousand-dollar glass of whiskey on the bar.
Fine, the money I can wipe my ass with. His attitude, on the other hand, is clouding my normally sunshiny—and slightly unhinged—personality.
