Straight.
Toward.
Me.
The crowd parts as if it knows. Like even the sinners in this place recognise a predator when they see one and instinctively get the fuck out of his way.
And me?
I can’t breathe.
I can’t move.
I’m rooted to the floor like my body wants to be caught. Claimed. Consumed.
He’s still coming.
Slow.
Measured.
Like a storm that doesn’t need to rush because it knows you’re not escaping it anyway.
And when he finally stops — he’s right in front of me.
Towering.
Smelling of danger and something darker.
Leather, steel, and that heady heat that clings to skin after a fight.
I stare at his chest because I can’t look at his face.
Not yet.
Not when I’m this close.
He leans in.
Barely.
But enough to make the world shrink around us.
“Do you always stare at strange men in bars, butterfly?”
His voice.
Holy fucking hell, his voice.
Deep.
Raspy.
Full of gravel and smoke and sex.
It skates across my skin as if he’s dragging it with his teeth.
I blink up at him, and he smirks like he already knows what he’s doing to me.
