He strode down the sloping yard toward the quiet of the dock, letting the night swallow the temptation whole.
***
Gaby slid onto a barstool, the leather cool against her bare thighs as she waited for Mateo, who was tending bar tonight.
He approached, easy grin, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, casual in a way that screamed dom whether at the office or the playroom. She knew she wore far less than she ever would at work, and heat crept up her neck to her face. The overlap between the staff at Devlin & Associates and this place still surprised her.
“What will it be?” he asked.
“Vodka and lime—” She caught herself. “Actually, I’m driving. Make it a ginger ale. Lots of ice.”
He grabbed a glass. “Why are you heading out already? It’s early.”
“I’m more tired than I thought.”
Mateo snorted. “It’s just past ten o’clock. You’re twenty-eight, not eighty like my abuela.” He glanced over her shoulder, understanding clicking into place. “I see the problem. A British one.”
It had to be Rhys. She forced herself not to swivel on the stool and look for him.
“That’s not it,” she lied, heat creeping up her neck.
He ignored her denial completely. “I don’t know what Langston’s issue is, but I’m off in thirty. I’ll introduce you to someone who’s interested in a pretty little newbie with a head full of curls.”
She resisted the urge to smooth her hair, which had probably frizzed to three times its volume in the humidity.
“No thanks. I’ll just head home.”
Mateo muttered under his breath, something that sounded like, “Stubborn. Just like him.”
He finished making her drink and slid it across the bar. The glass arrived cold and sweating, bubbles snapping above the rim. She lifted it and took a long swallow. It didn’t come close to cooling the ache in her chest.
She hadn’t come for the club. She’d come for Rhys, hopingto talk to him away from work, to finally explain. Since the rescue, they’d spoken about business, nothing more. They disagreed on some things, but she’d tried to keep it professional. He’d been guarded. Nothing like the man who had tied her wrists beneath a waterfall and made her feel so much, it both overwhelmed and scared her.
They’d shared one scene, but before that, they’d talked. Flirted. He’d shown her around and answered her relentless questions. She’d given her newbie status away, but he hadn’t seemed to mind. They’d really connected, and she couldn’t get him out of her head.
A presence slid into the space beside her.
“You look like a woman who deserves a better drink than soda.”
She glanced up.
Dark-eyed, broad-shouldered, ruggedly handsome in the way men at the Pointe often were. His smile was easy, wicked. Confidence worn like a second skin. On any other night, if steel-blue eyes and a subtle British accent didn’t occupy her every thought, she might have said yes.
“Tonight, ginger ale is all I can handle, I’m afraid.”
His brows lifted, amused. “It sounds like you’ve got a story. I’m a good listener.”
“Thank you, sir. But I’m not good company tonight.”
And you’re not the man my traitorous heart wants.
“Don’t be surprised if I ask again,” he said as he slid off the stool as smoothly as he’d arrived. “I hope your evening improves, little one,” he murmured, brushing her knuckles with his lips.
She watched him go, noting absently how every man here seemed tall enough to dwarf her 5’8” frame—yet all of them insisted on calling her little.
A familiar voice spoke at her other shoulder. “Gaby. We haven’t seen you at the Pointe in weeks. Have you been well?”
She turned to Master Everett, steady, kind-eyed, and perceptive. He’d checked on her at the charity event, too. She’d come in third place in the kinky labyrinth race and got her pick of doms for the evening. Her consolation prize had been a lonely, tear-streaked ride home after Rhys, with a single glance, dismissed her in front of God and everybody.
