chapter 4

I raise my glass too, returning his gesture.

He says something to his buddies and grins, then leaves the table to come join me.

“Can’t help but see that you’re all alone,” he drawls, leaning an elbow on the bar between me and the occupied chair beside me.

“Noticed that, did you?” I cock my head, laying on the teasing in my tone. I know the buttons to push. The secret looks to use. The way to pitch my words so that he knows I’m interested.

I came here looking to blow off some steam, and this guy will do just fine.

“Can’t imagine why a woman as beautiful as you would be alone on a night like this,” the man says, his gaze sweeping my face. “What’s your name, sugar?”

Before I can decide whether to give him one of my patented fake names or just play coy, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Goosebumps race over my skin a split second before a cool breeze rushes through the bar from the open door.

I glance over at the newcomer and my heart ceases beating.

He takes up the entire doorway—tall, massive, tattooed, hotter than the Montana sun in August. Everything about him screams danger and sex, from the way his dark hair looks like he’s run his hands through it a few times to the tattoos that climb his neck and arms from beneath his white t-shirt. I can see the shadow of more tattoos beneath the thin cotton and my mouth waters because I want to fucking lick every inch of that hidden skin.

His gaze moves over the crowded bar looking as bored as I feel, and then his eyes lock onto mine.

Thick lashes cradle deep brown eyes with an intense ring of gold around the pupils. I’ve never seen anything like them.

The noise in the bar.

The music.

The laughter.

All of it fades away the moment our eyes meet. Desire unfurls in me just from the way he looks at me, and I press my knees together as my greedy imagination feeds me images of what he might look like naked.

He walks into the bar, and the door slams shut behind him. But the cool breeze doesn’t fade away—it follows him into the room, blowing his scent toward me.

Whiskey and woodsmoke. Jack on the rocks and a campfire and my fingers on his bare skin.

A dull ache starts between my legs, and I throb with every step he takes. His gaze remains locked on mine like he can see right through me, like he can smell my lust, and fuck if I don’t want to bend over the bar and demand he take me right here.

The first guy, the construction worker, is a distant memory. He seems to notice something is up too, because he steps away from the bar, glances between me and the stranger, and cuts out back to his party.

It’s fine, buddy. I wouldn’t want to tangle with a giant, either.

The tattooed stranger takes his time reaching the bar. He steps up beside me and taps my neighbor on the shoulder. The guy sitting on the stool to my right is an older, accountant-looking dude in wire-rimmed glasses, and the poor man takes one look at the sinful Adonis standing behind him and skitters off like a startled cockroach.

Up close, this gorgeous, tattooed hunk of man is almost overwhelming. His whiskey and smoke scent is intoxicating. It covers up the stale beer and fried food scent of the bar until I feel like I’m drowning in his presence.

He’s hardly settled on the stool before Barb shuffles down the bar. “What’ll it be, Rambo?”

The man flashes an amused grin that’s almost feral. “Whiskey. Neat. Top shelf.”

I fight the urge to moan. Fucking hell. A man after my own tastes. He has a deep rumbling voice that sends my desire into overdrive.

Barb nods. “Comin’ right up.”

I stare at him. God help me, I can't stop staring at him. They don’t make men like that around here. He’s a force of nature; he’s got his own god damned gravitational field, and I’m a meteor without a prayer.

Barb returns with a rocks glass half-filled with amber liquid. “You wanna run a tab?”

The man palms his glass, nearly enveloping the entire thing in his huge hand. “Please. Why don’t you go ahead and make another gin and tonic for my companion here and add it to my tab.”

My eyebrows rise a little as I realize he’s talking about me.

Barb turns to me and cocks an eyebrow as if she’s silently double-checking that I want to accept a drink from this stranger.

A drink. A kiss. His cock. I’ll take it all, please.

I nod at her, and she reaches for the Tanqueray.

The man angles on his stool to face me, one palm wrapped around his whiskey and the other resting comfortably on his knee. His gaze latches on mine again. “What do they call you?”

I love the blunt way he asks. He skips the pleasantries and the lines, doesn’t wax philosophical about my beauty. He just asks what he wants to know. It’s refreshing.

“Amora,” I reply, offering him my hand.

He takes the tips of my fingers and presses a kiss to my knuckles, and I swear to God, I feel it all the way down to my clit.

His eyes gleam a little brighter, as if he knows what that slight pressure of his lips on the back of my hand did to me. The gold in his irises is gorgeous, like sunshine manifested in his gaze.

“I’m Kian.”