Page 2 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

The Ivory Wolf is nothing like I expected.

I stand just inside the entrance, taking in the sophisticated ambiance that somehow manages to feel dangerous at the same time.

The lighting is low and warm, casting everything in shades of amber and gold.

Dark wood panels line the walls, and the bar stretches along the left side of the space, all gleaming bottles and polished surfaces.

Small tables dot the main floor, while booths line the perimeter, offering shadowy privacy.

Music pulses through the space, not too loud but insistent, a steady beat that thrums in my chest.

But it's the clientele that makes my breath catch.

These aren't normal guys out for drinks on a Friday night. They wear expensive suits and don't act like the usual bar guys who yell obnoxiously and try stupid pickup lines. I relax a little.

"Come on," Sharon says, tugging my arm. She looks completely at ease in her black work dress, the fabric hugging her thin frame and showing off her curves. "Let's get you a drink."

I follow her to the bar, hyperaware of the eyes following us. I chose my outfit carefully tonight: a deep green dress that hugs my curves, the neckline showing just enough cleavage to be interesting without being obvious.

The hem hits mid-thigh, and I paired it with black heels that make my legs look longer.

I left my red hair down in loose waves, and I'm wearing more makeup than usual, my blue eyes lined with dark shadow.

I feel exposed and powerful at the same time.

Sharon orders me a vodka cranberry, and I take it gratefully, sipping the tart sweetness while I scan the room. My gaze catches on three men in particular, and my stomach does a slow flip.

The first sits in a corner booth, his posture relaxed but alert. He's blond, with light scruff along his jaw and eyes so pale blue they're almost gray.

Even sitting down, I can tell he's tall, and the way his black button-down stretches across his shoulders and chest suggests serious muscle beneath.

He's talking to two other men, but something about the way he holds himself screams authority.

The second man stands near the bar, about twenty feet away. He's got shoulder-length black hair and the most intense green eyes I've ever seen.

Tattoos crawl up his neck from beneath his collar, and his muscular build is evident even through his dark suit.

The third is older, maybe mid-forties, with brown hair graying at the temples.

He's leaner than the other two but no less intimidating, all controlled power and sharp intelligence.

He's watching the room like he owns it, and maybe he does.

"See something you like?" Sharon asks, following my gaze.

"I see three somethings I like," I admit, my cheeks heating. "I can't decide."

She laughs. "Then go with whoever approaches you first. Let fate decide."

I nod, taking another sip of my drink. The vodka warms my throat, loosening the knot of anxiety in my chest. I can do this. It's just sex. Just research.

I'm so lost in my thoughts that I don't notice him approaching until he's right beside me.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

The voice is deep and smooth, with just a hint of an accent I can't quite place. I turn and find myself looking up at the blond man from the corner booth. Up close, he's even more devastating.

He's got to be at least six foot two, and the way his shirt fits across his broad chest and flat stomach makes my mouth go dry.