The Wildcard

Chapter Three

He fascinated me.

That was the only way to describe his effect.

His inky black hair hung slightly longer than you’d expect from a man in an expensively tailored Armani suit – curling slightly over the back of his collar, urging me to reach in and pull away the trapped strands with my fingertips. His pale eyes a startling contrast to his ruggedly golden skin – the tan was almost dirty in its intensity.

He could almost be described as divine – if he didn’t have sin writhing over every inch of his delectable flesh – if he couldn’t have seduced a nun to drop her drawers with just a quirk of his thick eyebrows.

If he wasn’t staring me right in the eyes, draping his arm scant inches from my bare back – his thumb almost brushing my spine as we faced each other on the luxurious cherry red leather of the booth.

“So,” he drawled, his eyes darkening as they ran down the length of my body, “You never did give me an answer.”

“You won’t get one,” I shrugged, reaching for my brand new Mojito before it was even set on the glimmering glass table – almost snatching it from the waiter’s hands in an attempt to give my hands something to do that wasn’t drag this beautiful man’s lips down to mine and ravage them.

I know Ryan said I was supposed to let my hair down – but this felt like I was maybe taking it a little too far, and I was nervous – palms sweating, feet twitching – out and out nervous.

I wasn’t intentionally cold with him – although I knew I probably seemed like it. But he was whispering in dark, desperate corners of me that I’d been trying to hide for so long.

I’d been exhibiting signs of what my shrink calls sexual deviance since the age of eleven – constantly gartering male attention – constantly acting upon it – and constantly believing that sex and love were two sides of the same coin – completely interchangeable emotions. After almost seven years of abuse from my older brother, who’d whispered broken, twisted words of endearment throughout every single second of it, it was safe to say I was somewhat fucked up when it came to sex.

Because it couldn’t be rape if he told me he loved me even as he was forcing himself inside me, right? Everybody said it hurt the first few times – maybe this was just what they meant.

See? Fucked.

I’m a walking, talking cliché.

But I was trying to get over that – I’d been doing well, to be honest. My libido seemed to be wavering somewhat, helping out my fragile heart so that it didn’t break after every Walk of Shame by becoming increasingly satisfied by the constant thrumming presence of Dear Frank – the good old trusty battery operated boyfriend.

That seemed to be enough. And besides, I had more control over my own life in the city – my mother wasn’t terrorising me in my own small town, for putting her baby boy behind bars.

It’s all a little fucked up.

And Mr. Tall, Dark and Deadly wasn’t helping matters with the erratic touches he kept accidentally brushing against my exposed skin.

“So ...” he drawled, before cocking his head to the side, watching me expectantly.

“Jodie.” I replied quickly to his implicit question.

“Cayden,” he nodded, eyes narrowing on my lips as I drew a scratch of salt from the rim of the glass away from them with my tongue, “So what’s your story?”

His voice reminded me so much of practised seduction that I almost told him my favourite position – he’s not new to picking up random women in casinos – he’s not a stranger to a fuck on the first date.