"Almost," I call back, applying one final swipe of lipstick. Deeper red than I'd normally wear. Bolder. Like me.
When I step into the living room, the reaction is everything I hoped for. Ryker freezes mid-movement, keys dangling forgotten from his fingers. His eyes darken instantly, stormygray turning to midnight. His jaw clenches visibly as his gaze travels from my face down my body, lingering on the strip of exposed skin at my waist, the length of leg my short skirt reveals.
"No." One word, flat and final.
I cock my hip, newfound confidence surging. "No what?"
"You're not wearing that to work." He stalks toward me, emanating dangerous energy that should frighten me but only makes heat pool low in my belly.
"I am." I stand my ground even as he towers over me. "It's perfectly appropriate for a bartender."
His hand reaches out, fingers skimming the bare skin at my waist. Just that light touch sends electricity racing through me. "You want every drunk asshole in that bar imagining what's under this tiny excuse for a skirt?"
"No," I reply, holding his gaze. "Just you."
Something flashes in his eyes—possessiveness mixed with grudging admiration for my boldness. He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "You're playing with fire, princess."
I turn my head slightly, let my lips graze his jaw. "Maybe I want to get burned."
He groans, his massive hands gripping my hips. For a moment I think he'll take me right there, bend me over the couch like he did last week. But he releases me with visible effort.
"We're going to be late," he growls before he stomps out of the door muttering about how he’s going to have to kill every motherfucker at the bar tonight.
The drive to The Dive Bar is charged with tension. Ryker's hand rests on my thigh, fingers occasionally slipping under the hem of my skirt, never quite reaching where I want them. By the time we arrive, I'm squirming in my seat.
Inside, Mike raises his eyebrows at my outfit but says nothing. Probably afraid of Ryker, who's taken to hangingaround the bar every night I work, even when he's not on shift. No one questions it. No one dares.
I slip behind the bar, immediately falling into the rhythm of Friday night service. Pour, mix, serve, smile. But I'm hyperaware of Ryker's eyes tracking my every movement from his post near the door. Each time I bend to grab a bottle or reach up for a glass, I feel his gaze burning into me.
Two hours in, the bar is packed. I'm busy, but not too busy to notice the man who's been nursing the same beer for forty-five minutes, eyes following me constantly. He's good-looking in a polished way—designer clothes, perfect hair, manicured nails. Not my type at all, but persistent.
"Another?" I ask when he finally drains his glass.
"Please." His smile is practiced, confident. "And maybe your number?"
I shake my head, already turning to grab his beer. "Sorry, I'm taken."
"I don't see a ring." He leans closer across the bar. "Come on, one drink after your shift. What's the harm?"
"Not interested," I reply firmly, sliding his beer toward him.
He catches my wrist before I can pull away. Not roughly, but presumptuous. "Don't be like that. I'm a nice guy."
Before I can respond, a shadow falls over us. The man's hand vanishes from my wrist as if burned.
"Problem?" Ryker's voice is deceptively calm, but I know better. I've learned to read the tension in his shoulders, the dangerous stillness that precedes violence.
"No problem," the man says quickly, recognizing the threat. "Just being friendly."
"She's not interested in friendly." Ryker's hand finds the small of my back, proprietary and unmistakable.
The man raises his hands in surrender, backing away. "Got it. My mistake."
I expect Ryker to return to his post, but instead, his hand tightens on my waist. He leans down, lips brushing my ear. "Storage room. Now."
Heat floods my body at his commanding tone. I glance at Mike, who's handling the other end of the bar. "I can't just?—"
"Now, Amanda." The way he says my name—part growl, part plea—makes resistance impossible.
