“To trouble and bad ideas,” I say, lifting my empty shotglass.
He clinks his whiskey against it. “Amantenerlosimple,” he adds, quiet but deliberate.
I grin. “I’m assuming that means uncomplicated.”
“It does,” he says.
He holds my gaze when he drinks, like he’s cataloguing every reaction I give him. The slight hitch in my breath. The way my fingers tighten around the glass. I can’t tell if he’s intrigued—or trying to solve me like a problem he didn’t know he wanted to work on.
“So why meet here?” he asks, glancing out at the dance floor.
I shrug, then purse my lips, dragging my tongue over my lower one without thinking about it. His eyes follow the movement, dark and intent, and heat shoots straight through me. Or maybe that’s just the tequila talking.
“It’s familiar,” I say.
“Ah.” His mouth curves faintly. “So—safe.”
The word pricks. I tilt my head, unimpressed. “Foryou, maybe.”
Something flickers in his brown eyes. Not offense or annoyance.
Interest.
That’s right. I’ve got him. Hook, line, and sinker. I know his type—men who like control, who think they’re running the game because they don’t let anyone close enough to matter. The ones who keep things clean, casual, contained.
The fun part is reminding them they don’t have nearly as much power as they think they do.
He sets his glass down carefully. “I don’t do messy,” he says, like it’s a boundary and not a challenge.
I smile, slow and sweet. “Good. I don’t do attachments.”
His gaze sharpens again. “Then we’re on the same page.”
Maybe.
Or maybe we’re just saying whatever keeps this easy.
Either way, I step closer, close enough that my hip bumps the edge of the round table and my shoulder nearly brushes his arm. The music surges, the crowd shifts, and suddenly we’re in our own little pocket of noise and heat.
I snag a shot from a passing server in exchange for a ten, and tip it back, then set the empty glass down with a soft click. “You always this intense over one drink?”
His mouth curves faintly. “Intense? I’m just here for a good time.”
I laugh and lift my hands in mock surrender. “Relax.” I lean in just enough that he can hear me over the bass. “I promise not to ruin your life.”
His laugh is quiet, controlled—like he’s keeping it on ashort leash. “That’s usually what people say right before they try.”
I grin, unbothered, already shrugging out of my jacket and draping it over the edge of the table. “Good thing I’m not people.”
The music swells, bass thudding through the floor, and someone slams into my shoulder from behind. I barely register it before Silas shifts—smooth, automatic—stepping in close and putting himself between me and the crowd. One solid move, and suddenly I’ve got the table in front of me and his body right behind me.
Turning, I look up at him slowly, deliberately. Yeah. I likethis.
“Crowd’s thick tonight,” he says mildly, “hay mucho ruido,” but his eyes never leave mine.
“Riot’s always like this,” I reply, voice a little rougher now, because his Spanish is doing stuff to me. He could murmur nonsense into my ear and it would make me hard. I let my fingers slide along his forearm, following the line of ink curling over his wrist. “Kind of the point.”
“Mm.” His gaze dips—my mouth, my throat, the strip of skin under my mesh—then lifts again. “You come here often.”
