A subtle twitch in my suit pants reminds me just how long it’s been since anyone’s stirred this kind of reaction in me. Just the sight of him is stimulating.
I shift lightly and casually run my hand across the front of my slacks, attempting to smooth things over—literally.
Well, this is a welcome surprise.
I’ve been married to this bar for nine years—sixteen-hour days, sleepless nights. Every ounce of me is poured into Bourbon Bar. And I’ve built something I’m proud of. Achieved the success I’ve strived so hard for.
Speaking ofhard…
For Christ’s sake.
Again, I reach down and discreetly readjust my cock as it full-out defies me and stretches to its full length.
This isnota good time to become aroused.
I take a steadying breath and a slow sip of bourbon, waiting for myself to chill the hell out. Then… I sneak another look his way.
And there he is—half-lidded eyes climbing up my body with unhurried intent, exploring me with quiet hunger. It’s all I can do not to shift under the weight of that gaze as it drags over me like fire before finally settling on my face. And… fuck.
Those eyes. Hazel, smoldering, tracing the line of my jaw like a slow burn.
Jesus. I could get lost in those eyes—and for a breathless second, I do, when they crash into mine, and something in me tilts, slips, and starts falling.
A flush crawls up my neck.
And, of course, that’s when Emilio strolls over, smirking like the shit-stirrer he is.
“He’s totally fucking hot,” he teases under his breath, flipping a bar towel over his shoulder like a punctuation.
I chuckle into my glass, take another slow sip, and then glance back toward the man in question, just in time to see him jolt at the sudden glow of his phone screen. He stiffens, clearly caught in his own little daydream.
Smiling, I toss back the rest of my bourbon and push off the bar.
For some reason, I’m feeling bold tonight.
I make my way over and slip into the seat beside him. He’s angled slightly away from the bar—probably for comfort, but it gives me the perfect excuse to observe him up close, without seeming obvious.
Long legs, lean build—fit, but not bulky. Probably about my height, six-one or six-two. Definitely younger than my forty-two years though. Like me, he has dark hair, but his is straight, with a slightly longer top that flops gently over the side of hisforehead, although at the moment, it’s sticking up in a bit of disarray, which only adds to his appeal.
His skin is lighter than mine. Smooth and glowing—clear evidence of someone who takes his skincare routine seriously. Of course, being in the modeling industry, he’d have to, but I haven’t quite landed on that conclusion yet…
Before I can finish that thought, he begins turning back around, slipping his phone into his shirt pocket and… wait. Is that a tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his white shirt?
His knee bumps up against mine, and he startles. The hard set of his jaw and the stiffening of his shoulders give it away, but he makes no attempt to move his leg from where it’s pressing against my thigh.
Instead, he plays it cool, reaching for his glass of bourbon and bringing it to his lips. As he does, his shirt sleeve rises up past his wrist and…yes, yes,I am correct.Definitely a tattoo.
Once again, my dick stiffens.
Clearing my throat, and thankful for the bourbon taking the edge off, I draw in a breath, offer a polite smile, and extend my hand.
“Hola señor. My name is Elijah Garcia.”
ALEX
Oh,for the love of God.
That Spanish accent sliding out from those impossibly plump lips?
