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.
His eyes, his posture, hell, even the tones in his husky voice – I know they’ve all been honed and perfected in years of scenes just like this one, but I couldn’t help but find myself responding to the small touches he was giving me – gently easing my shoulders back as I felt his thumb shifting in the air behind me. I was listening to that devil on my shoulder, who seemed to be aiding him – pulling on the strings to the centre of arousal that was slowly burning and smouldering away in the pit of my stomach.
“I um,” I shrugged, a little lost for words beneath the intense scrutiny of those spectacularly pale eyes, “Well, I ... we ... we just moved here.”
“Ah,” I felt him retreat slightly, as his fingers bunched into a tense fist behind my back and he reached for the stout glass of single malt on the table in front of him, swirling the amber liquid around the glass – watching the fiery colours blend and bounce against each other, before taking a long swallow in a short and sharp burst of movement. A slight grimace – almost imperceptible – as he set down the glass again, leaning his head back against the leather, before slowly rolling his head to look at me affectionately, “The could-be boyfriend?”
I said nothing in response, lifting my cocktail glass to my lips for a demure sip as I turned and surveyed the room – an effort to calm my arousal as it responded to that sharp burst of intensity that had flown from him in those few palpable seconds of silence between his words.
I felt a soft snicker of laughter behind me – as though he knew what he was doing to the raging, pummelling hormones that were lingering under every nerve in my body – urging me to reach out to him – to clasp the crisp collar of his shirt in my hands, and drag his lips to mine.
“What’s your story?” I turn on him suddenly – beyond irritated – beyond aroused – beyond intrigued that he can read me so clearly. And every one of those emotions was quite shamefully evident in my tone. I sounded pained – desperately in retreat – even to my own ears, and by the slight curve to one corner of his full lips, he knew he had me on a plate.
“My story?” his fingers once again resumed their steady tease, knead and retreat on my shoulder – steadily moving closer to that tell tale pulse at the base of my neck as he spoke, “I came,” his thumb resting at the curve of my jaw – eyes clasping mine in their greedy grasp, “I saw,” lips inching closer – his breath played teasingly over my bottom lip – still, with my eyes beneath a tantalising spell, “I conquered.” His words teasing, mocking, even as they moved against me – igniting that smouldering ball of arousal inside me as I gasped, at the very moment that he thrust his tongue between my lips.
I arched into him with a groan of satisfaction, running the crisp collar between my thumb and forefinger – my other hand fisting in the soft curls at the base of his neck. I felt vividly alive as he kissed me – vibrant and effervescent with the intensity of my desire for this stranger – his lips sparking inside me against long dormant passions, and I could only cling to him.
It was only when I could no longer breathe that I pulled away – almost shy to face him after I’d let loose such a torrent of emotion into a single kiss – with a stranger, no less. But he almost couldn’t let me go as I retreated – his mouth almost bruising against mine as he forced me back against the cold leather one final time, before pulling back his entire body with an erotic, primal growl that was almost preternatural in its sound.
I turned my entire body towards the table, bracing my hands either side of my legs on the seat as I looked to the floor to drag deep pulls of oxygen back into my body.
Somehow, he didn’t just ... kiss. Somehow, it felt as though I had been claimed – in the middle of Pearly Gates Casino in view of at least four hundred other patrons. Even he had a look of wonder and surprise in his dark features – his eyes darting over to watch me closely, even as he appeared completely unaffected in his posture as he sipped a little more whiskey – swirling the taste around his mouth discreetly, before those corded, thick muscles moved in his throat as he swallowed.
“It seems, though you give me nothing to work on,” he was drawling – his eyes everywhere in that room except on me as I struggled to regulate my obviously erratic breathing, “I’m clinging quite pathetically to the notion that if Blondie really is your lover, then you are in some kind of open arrangement. Otherwise, Jodie, he’s going to be sorely disappointed – possibly even heartbroken - when you’re not in his bed tomorrow morning.”
I looked up sharply in response – a part of me wanting to throttle him for making such an assumption – tear him down in the middle of this very classy establishment – call him an arrogant prick and walk away.
“There’s absolutely no way I won’t be fucking you tonight,” his voice wasn’t cocky swagger – the words weren’t delivered with a wink and a cheeky grin. His eyes were back to that bewitching stare – as though he could see every demon that danced inside of me – every shadow.
It wasn’t a cocky threat.
Yeah, I definitely wanted to kill him.
Another part of me, though, wanted to kneel at his feet in gratitude for taking the decision out of my hands.
I was so fucked.