5

“A penny for your thoughts?” she asked, her smile widening. “You could ask me as well, though something tells me a man like you should know better than to ask a woman that question.”

He let out a short, dry laugh, trying to ignore the fire raging below his belt. “What if I said there’s something about you that makes me want to ask regardless?”

Isabella leaned in, pressing her elbow into the arm of the chair. She was so close now he could smell the vodka on her breath and the heat coming off her skin. She began a slow, rhythmic caress over the exposed valley of her chest, her fingers tracing the edge of her gown. “Then I would tell you…” she began, her voice a husky velvet drawl, “exactly what I’m thinking.”

Alexander felt a surge of possessive need so sharp it was dizzying. He wanted to drag her out into the cool night air and find the nearest flat surface. He wanted to taste the arrogance right off her tongue and hear her scream his name—a name she didn't even know yet.

“Perhaps we should start with introductions?” he suggested, trying to claw back a shred of decorum.

She laughed, a rich, melodic sound. “Introductions?”

“Yes,” he said, surprised at her reaction. “You know—me John, you Jane,” he joked, waving a hand between them. “Before we get completely swept away by this... undercurrent.”

“Undercurrent?” she repeated, her fingers continuing their slow, torturous tour of her collarbone. “You know, I think you’ve summed it up perfectly.”

Alexander’s focus was splitting. Half of him was trying to be a gentleman; the other half was ready to succumb to the hunt. “So? A name?”

“So…?” she mimicked, her eyes dropping to the olive stick floating in her glass. She began to stir it, the little green orb circling the ice like a countdown. “Who needs names in this day and age? Don’t you think there’s something to be said for a little mystery?” She looked up, her gaze pinning him to the spot. “It’s not like I’m here looking for a meaningful relationship.”

The words were like a match to a powder keg. Alexander stared at her, stunned into a rare silence. This was the perfect scenario: a woman with the pedigree of a queen and a 'fuck-and-leave' policy that matched his own. He usually avoided relationships like the plague; he’d seen what they did to people. He’d seen the ruin they left behind. And, hell, if you weren’t weak at the off, you soon would be

when it fell apart or, in the case of his dad, got ripped away. Then it would ruin you.

He took a slow, grounding sip of his drink, drowning the unwelcome memories. “‘You and me both,” he agreed.

“Well, then,” Isabella whispered, leaning across the table until the air between them was non-existent. She brought the olive to her lower lip, her cleavage a devastating distraction. “Wouldn’t you rather we just got the hell out of here and had some fun?”

She popped the olive into her mouth. He watched, transfixed, as she closed her lips around the stick and pulled it out with a slow, outward roll of her lips, stripping it bare.

“I make that three olives now,” Alexander rasped. His mouth was like a desert.

She swallowed, her throat moving in a way that made his hands twitch with the urge to touch her. “Three? Really?” She smiled, dropping the stick into the glass with a sharp ‘ting’. “You’re very observant.”

“When something is worth observing, I don’t miss a detail.”

“Is that what I am then? Worth observing?”

“You with that drink? Definitely.” His voice was tight, the control he prided himself on finally snapping like a dry twig. “In fact, if I were a religious man, I’d say the devil himself invented martinis.”

“The devil?” Her brow furrowed as she nibbled on her lip—an innocent gesture that was the final straw. “Because of the alcohol?”

“No,” Alexander interjected. He stood up abruptly, the movement jolting the small table.

She looked up at him, a bit startled, her eyes wide. Before she could speak, he reached down, took her hand, and tugged her to her feet with a firm, uncompromising strength. She didn't resist, much to his satisfaction. She came up and off the seat, her body colliding with his in a tangle of silk and heat.

“Because they make me forget every bit of my decency,” he growled, his face inches from hers. “And do this.”

He cupped her chin, his thumb forcing her mouth open, and then he claimed her lips with a rough, desperate hunger, his tongue seeking hers with a wildness that promised the rest of the night would be anything but civilized.

The explosion of sensations was absolute. She tasted of heaven and sin—vodka, the briny salt of the olive, and the floral sweetness of her gloss. When she sighed, a soft, broken sound that vibrated against his chest, Alexander felt the last of his restraint dissolve. He lost himself in the invasion, his tongue tangling with hers in a desperate, probing dance. The world outside their contact ceased to exist; there was only the scent of her perfume, the crushing pressure of her breasts against his chest, and the insistent, heavy throb of his pulse in his throat.

The spell was shattered by a jarring scrape of wood on marble behind him. “Excuse me,” a voice muttered, thick with annoyance. “Get a room.”

The comment filtered through the haze of Alexander’s lust like a bucket of ice water. Was it a real person? An internal warning? He didn't know, and frankly, he didn't care about the witness—but he cared about the interruption. Reality came crashing back, bringing with it a sharp, jagged urgency. He needed her out of here. Somewhere they wouldn't be interrupted by other people.

He forced himself to pull back, his breath coming in ragged hitches. As he tried to create an inch of distance, Isabella’s teeth nipped playfully at his bottom lip—a sharp, stinging protest that made his vision swim.

“Spoilsport,” she murmured, her pout so devastatingly beautiful it was a physical ache.

Alexander took a lungful of air, trying to steady the frantic thudding of his heart. “You’re cheeky, sweetheart,” he rasped. He kept one hand cupped around her jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of her bone, while he used the other to rub his face, trying to summon a shred of the composure that had completely abandoned him. He should have been unnerved by how easily she’d dismantled his self-control. Usually, he was the one in command, the one who dictated the pace. But with her, he was just a man trying to keep his head above water.