“And nothing shakes shit loose like licking tequila off your sworn enemy.” Jeremy signals the bartender. “A round of shots to set the mood, my good sir.”
My eyes swing to Nolan. His jaw is tight. His gaze cutting. But beneath the simmering glare is something else entirely—something bracing.
And those glasses?
Unacceptable.
They make him look smarter than he already is, which, frankly, is dangerous. Add the unfair stretch of his shirt across biceps that deserve their own OnlyFans account and I’m two seconds from abandoning every ounce of self-respect I brought to this bar.
This is a bad idea.
A stupid, unprofessional, wildly inappropriate idea.
The tequila shots arrive. I stare down at mine like it’s the start of a war and I’ve just been volunteered as tribute.
Nolan looks straight at me, “Scared you’ll like it?”
I don’t flinch. Just meet his gaze—blue fire to bronze steel. The space between us vibrates with the kind of tension that unravels good, sound judgment.
My cheeks are already flushed, but I hold his stare. “Nah, scared you will.”
His lips twitch. Not a smile. It’s darker, more heated.
With maddening control, Nolan drags his tongue along the inside of his wrist, slow and precise. A show. Or a promise.
Then his hand rises, steady, holding the shot like it’s sacred. His lips curl around the rim—plush, devastating. He throws it back in one smooth tilt of his throat. I watch the muscles work. Watch his Adam’s apple bob. Watch the drop of tequila he misses trail down his jaw.
And then—God help me—he bites into the lime.
Nolan’s lips seal around the wedge. His mouth pulls back, teeth dragging along the citrus, and I swear I feel it in my spine.
I almost forget how to breathe.
Because suddenly all I can picture is that mouth curling around my clit. That tongue licking straight up my center. That perfect, punishing bite against my inner thigh.
My thighs clench, involuntarily. My breath hitches. My pulse hammers loud enough to drown out the bar.
By the time the glass hits the table, my knees are loose and my brain is soup.
Nolan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still pinned to me.
“I might,” he says, voice low. “But I know you won’t be able to hate me after this.”
His gaze drags down my body, unashamed. Then he leans forward just enough for me to feel the heat of him, his words rough and raspy.
“Not after the way you watched me lick that salt. Not after the way your thighs clenched when I bit that lime. Admit it, Adams. You don’t just want me licking your neck.”
A smirk. A pause. That fucking dimple.
“You want my mouth a hell of a lot lower.”
My jaw drops.
The audacity of him. The arrogance.
The challenge.
I inhale sharply, the tequila burning my throat before I even drink it. Squaring my shoulders, I stare him down like I’ve got something to prove. Because I absolutely do.
