He entered with his eyes on me, closing the door behind him and flicking the catch so the door was locked.
“Should I start to call you Goldilocks?” He folded his arms.
I couldn't tell if he was amused or pissed off.
“I wanted to apologise for Monty yesterday. He was rude to you.”
“He was trying to piss on his territory.”
“You didn’t need to leave.”
“I didn’t. But I wanted to.”
I glanced at my feet. There was blood on my toe, and a chipped nail. Somewhere I’d caught it, something I was prone to doing and not feeling it till later.
“I’m sorry he made you want to do that.”
“Not your fault, Lady Jameson. Why are you here?”
I looked back up at him. “To apologise.”
“No you’re not. Why are you here?”
I bit my bottom lip before I spoke. “Because I wanted to see you.”
He was silent for a moment, and I felt heat start to burn in my cheeks, and the floor and the blood on my toe suddenly looked very interesting.
Then he laughed. A deep bellow, and moved something in my core.
“Why the fuck did you want to see me?”
I made myself look at him again. “Why not?”
“Because…” He stared at the ceiling. “Because why the fuck would you want to? Girls like you don’t come near men like me. We bite and curse and fuck and fight, and that doesn’t match your tea parties and yoga retreats, sweetheart. I’m bad news and you should drink your cocktails outside, give me your money and stay far, far away.” He took a step towards me with each word, stopping less than a half a foot from where I was sat.
I tipped my chin, holding it high, feeling his heat radiating from him, seeing the muscles in his arms tense. His eyes were dark and they burned, incinerating my chest and making my racing heart feel as if it was about to escape.
Maybe it needed to. Maybe it needed to save itself.
The fear of falling off a barstool, like I had when I was younger, had me already clutching onto it, so my hands were too occupied to stop him from leaning in closer, the scent of cologne and cigarettes sultry against my fresh linen.
I didn’t stop him from leaning in; I didn’t stop his hand from holding the back of my neck, his fingers entwining into my hair with a slight tug as his mouth pressed to mine.
He tasted of coffee and tobacco, his lips smooth and his face rough with stubble. It wasn’t a kiss any more than I was a still a girl; it was something more than that. He demanded and I gave, one of my hands still gripping the bar stool, the other raised to his shoulder, needing to touch, needing more than the points of contact we already had.
His tongue invaded my mouth, the kiss deepening, wetness growing between my legs and my nipples hardening into tight buds.
His hand that wasn’t in my hair had been on my waist, until it shifted it up, grazing over my breast and roughly palming it. The moan that escaped from me sounded feral, and that seemed to break his spell.
He stopped everything too soon, and never would’ve been too soon.
The step away felt like a continent away.
“Go back to your sister, Jameson. Find your model. Let him fuck you nicely and show you off like the pretty thing you are. Forget about me. I’m just the fucking bartender, and you need to remember that.”
I slid off the barstool, legs the same consistency as overcooked spaghetti. “I won’t remember that. And you don’t want me to, either.”
“You going to tell me want I want?”
