Fallon had watched numerous fights break out in her club over the years, and she’d seen other assholes touch her girls as if they had claim to do so. But she’d never witnessed the expression that she saw on his face before. It was foreign to her, seeing a stranger possess such selfless concern for a woman. A concern that stemmed from somewhere genuine and then manifested into unrelenting anger.
It was a rarity, that kind of passion, that protectiveness. And she was uncontrollably drawn to it—to him.
But Fallon didn’t need to observe the raw emotion that seeped from his movements to feel the pull to him. His eyes alone had already done that.
She didn’t pay attention to the men in the crowd while she danced. She slipped away, engulfed in the high her body provided her as she moved to the music. But she’d seen him. She’d felt his eyes whisper over her body. It was unfamiliar and magnetic and it rolled waves of unexpected sensations through her. She was unexplainably drawn to him—a man she’d never met or seen before. And it terrified her, because in that small moment she’d felt powerless.
She’d stood by the stage and watched him after she’d changed. Fallon wasn’t taken aback by men; she didn’t get that giddy feeling of lust most women strive for. But it wasn’t lust that nuzzled an awakening inside. It was curiosity. And any man who had the ability to steal her attention and deprive her thoughts while she was dancing was worth a closer look.
She’d been out of view, tucked away at her observation post next to the stage. Her eyes followed his as he’d watched Naomi onstage. Na was always a crowd favorite. Tall and dark and lean and just completely beautiful. But he still didn’t give her the attention the majority of the men in the club had. He’d just sat nearly motionless, his face construed as if he was deep in thought while he occasionally glanced at the stage, emptying glass after glass of liquor.
An incomprehensible burn tightened her stomach as a subtle spark lit in his eyes when Amelia had taken a seat on his lap. She’d watched as Amelia pressed the glass to his lips and she’d watched his throat as he swallowed. She’d had a moment’s thought to look away, that she was being ridiculous watching this man, that whatever magnetism she’d experienced while she was dancing was completely ridiculous. But then the look in his eyes hardened. And she was sucked right back in.
Fallon had zero tolerance in her club for fighting. You fight, you’re thrown out on your ass without so much as an explanation. And you can never come back. Period. Had Fallon not been so enthralled with this man, she would have had no problem letting George haul them both to the curb for the police to pick up.
But that wasn’t the case.
She was surprised at how quickly she’d been able to grab his attention. He’d snapped his head to her as if her voice had physically pulled him away. Then his eyes had locked with hers—they were intense and raw, mixed with pain and a passion that sent chills through her entire body. And it was there, that pull. That unfamiliar trance washing over her as the ink in his eyes marked her.
“Fallon!” George called out from somewhere in the tight bodies of bystanders.
She blinked and refocused. “We need to hurry,” she stated calmly, still holding on to the hand of the man who had just beaten the living snot out of one of her headliners.
He didn’t respond, but she was severely aware of the small space between them that he closed. She could feel his body brush against hers as his steps coincided with her own, their pace quickening as they rushed through the club and climbed the stairs that went backstage.
His hand held hers firmly as she led him down the long hall and to her office. “Wait here,” she instructed. She unlocked her door and hurried inside. Her peripheral vision allowed her to see him as he stepped into the doorway while she grabbed her purse from the sofa.
His dark dress jeans fit him perfectly, pulling just the right amount over his thighs and hanging slack and straight to his ankles. The coral color of his shirt was not one every man could pull off masculinely. But god, did he. The soft coastal color accentuated his dark olive skin and warmed his deep sable eyes. One side had pulled loose from his jeans during the fight, and as much as she loved and appreciated a well-dressed man, she wanted to slip the other side of his shirt from his waist and marvel in the way she knew it would drape from his body.
The tie around this man’s neck made him look lethally delicious. Delicious? Yes, apparently he now looked edible. The kind of edible that looked so good but she knew it would be so bad . . . only bad in a way that was so good . . .
Oh god.
She cleared her throat, slid her purse onto her forearm, and squared her body back to face him. Which was probably a wrong move, because now she was looking right into his eyes—eyes that were just watching her. Not judging or appraising, just watching: watching her in a way that softened her slightly.