The elevator dings. My head snaps up, but it’s just some suit. Disappointment twists in my gut.Pathetic.
I order another drink. The bartender gives me a look but keeps his mouth shut. Good. I’m not in the mood for small talk.
Time crawls. I check my watch.
Again.
And again.
Yebat, this is torture.
Then, finally, the staff door swings open. And there she is.
Wren.
My breath catches. She’s tied her hair back, showing off that face that’s been haunting my dreams. The uniform can’t hide her curves.
Blyat, she’s so fucking beautiful.
She doesn’t see me.
Good.
I watch as she greets the other bartender, her smile lighting up the whole damn room. Her teeth flash white against her olive skin. The overhead lights catch the soft curve of her cheek, and I swear I can see the pretty boy bartender’s eyes following the same path.
Something hot and ugly twists in my chest. I want that smile. I want… That fucking smile. That seductive, knee-weakening look. It’s not for him. It’s for me. I want her, all of her.
My eyes follow her every move.
She grabs a rag, starts wiping down glasses. Her hands move quick, efficient. Professional. But all I can think about is how those hands felt on my cock.
Wren.
My instincts scream at me to shield her. To walk over there and stand between her and every fucker in this room who dares to look at her. But I can’t. Walking away is the only way to keep her safe. My chest aches at the thought of her hurt because of me.
The pretty boy leans in, whispering something in her ear. She throws her head back, laughing.
Her neck stretches, smooth and inviting. I remember how it tasted, how she gasped when I—
Fuck.
I grip my glass tighter, forcing myself to look away. But my eyes are drawn back to her like a magnet. Always back to her.
My mouth goes dry. I take another swig of whiskey, but it does nothing to quench my thirst.
Only she can do that.
Yebat, I’m losing my mind.
I slouch deeper into the corner, my eyes locked on Wren. The fact that I’m here, skulking like some lovesickmudak, says more than I want to admit.
I watch her from where I sit.
Far enough that she won’t catch me staring, but close enough that I can see every goddamn twitch of her lips, every blink of her eyelashes.
She’s wiping down the bar, a little tune whistling through her lips. Is she happy? Or just faking it?
Suddenly, her head snaps up. Our eyes lock for a split second.
