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The bartender leaned in, his eyes flicking briefly to the target. “Yeah… I can tell you.”

Isabella licked her lips, her gaze locked on the man whose name she didn't know, but whose touch she could already feel and she swallowed hard. Okay. Yes, she admitted to herself. I want this. I want a crazy night with him.

“Tell me,” she whispered, “and then send him another. On me.”

—-----------

Alexander Bolton shifted in his seat. 

If he had to watch that lady pop another olive into her mouth—her eyes hooded, alive with a wicked, silent suggestion—he was going to lose his damn mind. He circled the rim of his glass with his index finger, the movement rhythmic and agonizingly in sync with the heat coiling through his gut. He really should have left with his father. He should have been halfway home, thinking about Monday’s meeting. Instead, he had stayed for a few drinks, and now here he was, caught in the gravitational pull of a woman who seemed to be enjoying her drinks with a sensuality that felt like a personal attack.

Between the way she licked the salt from her fingertips and the slow, deliberate sucking of those olives, Alex’s lower body was in a state of permanent riot. And those eyes—dark, piercing, and utterly depraved in the dim light—kept snapping back to him, demanding he acknowledge the fire she was starting, giving him hope that she wasn’t waiting for someone else to appear.

She was chatting to the barman now, her perfectly poised body leaning in as they exchanged words. The guy nodded to her and moved away, and he sensed her attention returning to him. Her phone lit up; she offered it a flicker of annoyance, a quick tap of her thumbs, and then it was back on the bar. Then, she looked at him again and Alex felt the air in his lungs stall.

“For you, sir.”

Not now. The interruption was like a bucket of ice water. Alexander grudgingly tore his gaze away to find a blonde waitress hovering, a tray in her hand holding a lone, condensation-beaded glass.

“From the lady at the bar,” she whispered, setting it down.

Alexander’s gaze dropped to the drink, and a slow, dangerous smile pulled at his mouth. 

—-----------

From her elevated vantage point on the bar stool, Isabella watched him. She watched him straighten his spine and plant his feet on the floor, the sheer physicality of the move sending her heart hammering into the back of her throat.

Oh, yes. Come to me, she thought.

He lifted the glass and began to walk towards her. His tall, imposing frame seemed to swallow the light, his eyes raking over her with an appreciative heat that lit up every nerve ending in their path. Isabella didn't look away. She turned her stool to face him fully, taking a slow, steadying sip of her martini as he came within earshot.

“How nice of you to join me,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

He tilted the glass she’d bought him in a silent toast. “I wanted to thank you for the drink.”

The voice hit her like a physical blow. It was deep, husky, and carried a rough edge that suggested he spent more time giving orders than following them. It was the perfect auditory match for a man who exuded that much raw power.

“And I wanted to thank you for improving my outlook this evening,” she replied, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw.

He rewarded her with an easy, devastating grin. Up close, his eyes were the color of dark, expensive chocolate, and they were currently burning with a flame that threatened to consume her. 

“You and me both,” he rumbled.

“Is that so?” she asked, teasing him, and enjoying every second of it.

“You know it is.” 

“I know no such thing,” she continued, though the lie felt thin.

He let out a low, vibrant chuckle and reached past her to place his glass on the bar. The movement brought him deep into her personal space and Isabella instinctively twisted toward him, her senses immediately swamped by his scent—a heady mix of sandalwood, expensive perfume, and clean, warm skin.

“Perhaps I can convince you over another drink?” He leaned back against the bar-edge, his proximity a silent dare. “What can I get you?”

“I’m already being taken care of,” she said, nodding toward the bartender, though the word ‘you’ was screaming in the back of her throat.

He followed her gaze to her glass. “Is that another vodka martini?”

“It is.” She toyed with the empty olive stick, her fingers trembling slightly. “I think I’ve found a new favorite drink.”

His eyes dropped to the stick in her hand, his expression darkening. “It’s quickly becoming one of mine, too.”

The air between them was thick enough to choke on and Isabella swallowed hard.

“So, I'm guessing you're one of the guests from the wedding reception?" He angled himself towards her, his forearm resting on the bar-top, his fingers coming to hover just above her knee, the heat from his hand radiating through her dress “I was too… Kinda, although I arrived very late and only attended because my father was one of the guests and insisted I attend as well,” 

“Hmmmm, you're right. I was one of the guests,” Isabella replied. 

It’d been a big party, and her parents had invited so many people, especially their friends. Those people had invited a few people themselves that it wasn't possible to keep track of everyone. She briefly contemplated telling him that she wasn't just an ordinary guest, but also the sister to the groom, but he obviously didn't know her, and he said he'd only attended because of his father, which made him the perfect candidate for her ‘no name, no expectations’ hookup date. She preferred to keep it that way. The mystery was too delicious, and he was the perfect blank slate for her night of reckless choices.

“Beautiful woman, no companion…” he continued, his voice dropping to a seductive low. “Is there a date you're waiting for?”

Beautiful? She loved how that sounded coming from him, loved how close his fingertips were reaching. If she just uncrossed her legs they would brush against her, those long, capable fingers that were sure to possess such skill… 

“No. No date. I was waiting for a friend though…” she whispered, her thighs clenching. She was barely aware of the words coming out of her mouth.

“Was?”

“She left already,” To keep her hands from reaching for him, she lifted the empty olive stick and nibbled at the end of it, her eyes locked on his. Anything to keep herself busy. “What about you?”