It doesn’t make sense, the way that simple question and his touch eases me and makes me feel like he’s got me. I tilt my chin up and give him a quick nod. With a newfound focus, I tip the bottle of Amarino into the shaker first, followed by the bitter orange liquor. Stevie glides behind me with a half of a lemon already stuffed into a juicer. She knows what I’m making justbased on the ingredients and gives an assist by squeezing it into the shaker.
With a side-eye glance and a smirk across her lips, she asks, “Which whiskey?”
“Any whiskey preference?” I ask him, my attention stopping on his lips. I can almost feel mine tingle when I think about the last time I felt them kiss mine. I swallow roughly, remembering the details, the things he said to me, and the way they made me completely unravel.
“You’re in charge,” he interrupts my wayward thoughts. Slowly, and so smooth that it sounds as if this drink has already dripped down his throat, he says, “I’ll takewhateveryou give me.”
Well, fuck me.
I clear my throat. “Grab a bottle of ours,” I call out over the music to Stevie.
Seconds later, a bottle from my distillery is placed in my hand. I give it a long pour into the shaker, making a little show of it, and then slam the heel of my palm against it to lock the silver tumbler over the top. My sisters are the ones with the bar tricks, so I look up at Jo and tip up my chin. She reads what I’m asking just as I toss it into the air. Without missing a beat, she catches the silver-frosted shaker.
Instead of watching her and paying attention to the show that both she and Stevie are putting on, I shift forward, closer to the man between my legs.
“What did you make me?” he asks.
“It doesn't matter, right?” I smirk. “You’ll take what I give you.”
He hums, and then says, “See? Sounds better when you say it.”
I take a quick breath, not allowing myself to linger on how good it feels to say what I want, play with it, and get rewarded.
He surprises me when he yanks my ass forward, closer to the edge of the bar, and into him. “Who was the guy?” he asks, catching me off guard. “The one you were with at Moonie’s.”
I look at my sister with a smirk pulling at my lips.He’s jealous.
Jo clears her throat loudly over the mic, drowning out the band. With the shaker in one hand and a strainer in the other, she stands there, watching and waiting for her next cue from me.
Julian guides my chin with the curve of his pointer and thumb, back to look at him. “Who. Was. The. Guy?” he asks, low and slow.
“Just a friend,” I rush out on a breathy whisper. Tipping my chin down, I move my lips closer to his. “And you’re sounding a little jealous.”
He doesn’t hesitate when he says, “More than a little, Crowne.”
Why does that level of confidence and honesty hit me so hard? I can’t help but smirk at his words and shift my legs wider to get just a little closer. I pick up the empty coupe glass perched next to my leg and hold it out. It’s Jo’s cue, and she strains the drink into it with precision.
With my free hand, I swipe my thumb along his lower lip and then move my fingers along his jaw and down the side of his neck. I stop at the small tattoo that peeks out and tap the dark triangle.
“Made you a paper airplane,” I say, referring both to his tattoo and the drink. “Would you like a taste?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to, not with the way he watches what I’m doing as I press the edge of the cooled glass against my lips and drink.
“Yes, I want a taste. But the thing that I want most,” he breathes out. “Should be tasted without this kind of audience.”
He didn’t just say that.I can’t avoid the gasp that pulls from me, my thighs tensing like they want to clench—except they can’t because he’s standing between them.
Fueled with a boost of confidence, I grab at the front of his shirt, making a fist to pull him closer. I hold the glass up, but just as he moves in, ready for the drink, I tilt it toward my mouth and finish what’s left. “Dealer’s choice means what I want and how I want it.” I smile, looking into those hazel eyes of his. “Thank you for the drink and the lovely tip.”
He watches my mouth for a moment as a smile dances at the corner of his lips. “You’re playing dirty, Crowne.”
The sounds around us creep in—people calling out shots, a saxophone mingling with the bass from the band. And what was only a few minutes has put me on edge, now feeling needy and turned on. Even as the echoes and whistles die down, and my sisters move on to the next spectacle, Julian’s hands haven’t moved.
“Julian,” I tsk, leaning in closer. “You have no idea.”
His eyes glance down to my lips as a smirk plays out along his. He doesn’t move away from between my legs, instead his hands flex as they still grip along the curve of my ass. He leans in, the scruff along his cheek grazes mine, just before he says, “Show me.”
A loud commotion at the front door pulls my attention away. I sit taller, trying to peer above the crowd and catch sight of two police deputies spilling into the room. Jameson’s speaking to my mother, coaxing her outside, while Sheriff Fury’s scanning the space. I look behind me at Jo, whose focus is on all of it, and then up to the balcony at Birdie, who leans over, resting on her elbows, seeming not the least bit concerned. Instead, she’s staring down at me.
