4

Alexander eyed the stick, a pulse working steadily in his jaw. He took a slow sip of his drink, his voice gaining a jagged, hungry edge. She could hear it then, an edge to his voice. A barely contained need that matched her own. 

“Not waiting for anyone myself. Just wanted to stay for a few drinks.” He replied.

Isabella’s breath was shallow now, her heart a frantic bird in her chest. “Are you finished then?”

“Never even started,” he said, the husky vibration of his voice teasing the sensitive skin of her neck. “Lucky for me, I happened to see you.”

“Lucky?” she asked.

He nodded, his lips quirking over his drink as he took a sip. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Maybe—but I’d like to hear you say it.”

He set his drink down, moving even closer until she could feel the heat of his chest. “Do you always get your way?”

“Most of the time.”

“Why is it I can believe that?” He reached up, his touch impossibly delicate as he brushed a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. He didn't pull away; instead, he trailed his fingers down the side of her neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“What makes you say that?” she asked, her voice barely a breath.

He studied her lips, his gaze darkening as her tongue swept out to dampen them. “I get the impression,” he murmured, “that you can be quite persuasive.”

Isabella knew what she was about to say was out of character, and a little… actually a lot crazy, but she threw caution to the wind. “Does that mean I can persuade you into an evening of pleasure?”

His brow flickered—the first crack in his polished mask—and then he grinned. It was a slow, heart-stopping look that revealed a single dimple in his right cheek. A boyish touch on a man who was anything but a boy.

“Is that what you’re offering me?”

“Would you accept it if I was?”

He leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from the shell of her ear. “Why don’t you try me?”

The world evaporated. Heat flooded her breasts, her belly, her blood. Isabella twisted into him, her lips instinctively seeking his, the magnetic pull finally about to snap shut—

“Your drink.” The bartender’s voice was like a gunshot, interrupting them. Isabella jumped, her eyes snapping to the bar where a fresh, chilled martini was being slid toward her.

“Thank you,” she blurted, her face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and agonizing disappointment. The bartender offered an apologetic, knowing smile as he cleared her empty glass and retreated.

Alexander didn't move away. He watched her, his eyes hooded and heavy with the same frustration she felt. He leaned back in, his voice a low, appealing rumble. “How about we take this conversation to my table? It's a bit more... private.”

Isabella brushed her fingertips across her thrumming lips, her decision already made before he'd even finished the sentence. “I’d love to.”

—------------

Alexander had to physically ground himself to keep from saying ‘my place’ instead of ‘my table.’

The way she looked at him—those heavy-lidded, cognac-colored eyes promising a very specific kind of trouble—made him wonder if she would have followed him anywhere and he wished he’d found out.

"After you," he managed to say, gesturing toward the semi-secluded booth.

He reached for their drinks, but his coordination faltered as she slid off the barstool. The fluid uncrossing of those long legs was a masterclass in slow-motion torture. As she stood, her height caught him off guard; she was a tall woman and met his eyeline with a poise that made the air between them crackle. Her scent hit him—something sophisticated and floral, like night-blooming jasmine and expensive secrets. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

“Don’t forget the drinks,” she threw over her shoulder, the look she gave him a lethal cocktail of mischief and raw hunger.

It took every ounce of Alexander’s legendary self-control to keep his pace steady as he followed her, finding himself mesmerized by the rhythmic sway of her hips and the dark waterfall of her hair as it brushed against the gentle flare of her backside. His imagination, usually disciplined and cold, was suddenly a riot of vivid imagery. What would it be like to have that hair flung across his bedspread? Or wrapped around his fist as he drove himself into her—? Fuck, he was getting hard just thinking about it.

When they reached the table, she perched on the edge of the low-slung seat, staring up at him as if he was seconds away from being devoured. To sharpen the agony, she crossed her legs again, the movement dragging the silk of her dress high enough to offer a fleeting, heart-stopping glimpse of lace stockings.

She knew exactly what she was doing, Alexander was sure, because she watched the reaction play out across his face with the satisfied smirk of a predator who had cornered its prey. He held out her glass, his knuckles white. “For you.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. Her fingers, delicate and cool, brushed against his hand as she took the drink. The contact was brief—a spark of static—but it sent a jolt of pure adrenaline straight to his core, a total dynamite to his over-active imagination as the image of her taking hold of something else ransacked his mind.

He watched, mesmerized and a bit miserable, as she tilted the glass. Her full, glossy mouth parted to accept the chilled liquid, the olive bobbing at the base of the crystal. When she finished the sip, her tongue emerged with agonizing slowness to catch a stray drop at the corner of her lip.

“Are you going to sit?” Isabella asked, her eyes dancing. She had caught him staring again and she was clearly relishing the view of him being brought to his knees by a martini olive.

Alexander didn't even try to pretend he wasn't looking. Did he care that he'd been caught? Absolutely not.

“Apologies,” he said, his voice a low rasp. He dipped his head in a mock show of regret that his grin completely betrayed. “I confess I got a bit lost in the sight of you.” It was the kind of line he usually found beneath him, but tonight, the truth was the only weapon he had. He slid into the seat, feeling the physical weight of her gaze on him.