1
Calloway
I lifted the glass to my mouth and felt the ice cubes slide all the way down until they touched my lips. Like pieces of winter, they cooled my mouth just before the burn of the scotch hit my throat and seared me from the inside out.
I lived for that burn.
Jackson was supposed to meet me nearly fifteen minutes ago, but that piece of shit hadn’t shown his face. A hot little number probably got his attention along the way, and like always, he got sidetracked.
Couldn’t blame him.
The black ring on my right hand felt heavy with commitment. It was the only piece of jewelry I wore other than my watch, and it took some getting used to. To everyone else, it was just a ring. It had no meaning and no voice.
But in my world, its significance was quite clear.
Anytime I was out in the regular world, I wondered if anyone recognized me for what I really was—a dark and twisted asshole. The shit I was into turned most women away. The ones who were brave enough to stick around always changed their minds. My tastes were specific and they would never change, which was why I needed to stick to my world and not bother with the real one.
If this really was the real one.
The door to the bar opened, accompanied by an ice-cold breeze. I felt it on the back of my neck, caressing the nearly invisible strands of hair that poked out underneath my collar. The black suit and tie were my favorites—fit to a T. I had work that evening, and I always looked the part.
For whatever reason, and for no reason at all, I turned my attention to the open door. Two women walked inside, one blonde and one brunette. Both petite in stature and pretty in their unique ways, they turned heads as they entered.
My eyes went to the brunette.
I had a thing for brunettes. Always had and always would.
She wore a black pencil skirt that was snug on her womanly hips. Curves that made my throat turn dry caught my attention, and I immediately fantasized about gripping her thighs then slowly raising my hands up her skirt, pulling the fabric along until her panties were exposed to my mercy—or cruelty.
It took a lot to impress me when it came to women, and not because I was picky or superficial, but because I received enough satisfaction every day and every night to dim my desire. My fantasies were a reality, and I had no interest in looking for a woman who couldn’t fulfill them.
But she caught my eye anyway.
She had an hourglass figure, perfect for guiding up and down my length with my hands on her hips. Perky tits were pressed tightly against her pink blouse, and she had a slender neck with a pronounced hollow in her throat—perfect for my tongue to explore.
She wore five-inch heels and rocked them like they were sandals, and thin and toned legs were obvious below the cut of her skirt. They nearly reached her neck because they were so long. Every woman had specific traits that made them sexy. Sometimes they had a nice rack or ass. Sometimes they had a slender waistline that I could wrap my arms around twice. Sometimes they had legs like hers, the kind I pictured around my waist.
But this woman had them all.
My eyes didn’t lose their focus as I watched her like a hawk, my mind obsessed and my cock hard. When she passed through the crowd, she parted the way with her natural power. She commanded the room as she held her head high with the elegance of a queen. But her smile was innocent like that of a princess.
My legs wanted to move in her direction and stake a claim before someone else could make a move. I wanted to tell her my name and hear hers in return. She probably had the sexiest voice, classy like the rest of her traits.
But I couldn’t.
My hands were tied.
I made a commitment to someone else. Our bond wasn’t based on love, friendship, or anything else remotely meaningful. But when I gave someone my word, I kept it. If a man’s word didn’t count for anything, then he automatically lost his self-worth. That was a lesson my father taught me, and it was the only one I respected.
So I turned away and glanced at my watch.
Where was he?
A woman’s voice sounded behind me, and judging by its beauty and power, it could only belong to one person. Without turning around to make sure my assumption was correct, I knew it belonged to the woman who got me harder than steel.
“That guy is such a fucking asshole. I can’t believe he did that to you.”
I smirked at the way she cursed. She meant every word and said it with a backbone, but her stature made it hard to take her seriously. She was simply too soft on the eyes to have a dirty mouth.
Her friend sighed before she responded. “I know… I went home and cried, and I hated myself for doing it. He isn’t worth my tears. He isn’t worth anything.”
“Damn straight.”
I drank my scotch and concentrated on the sound of her voice. Her appearance got me hard, and her no-bullshit attitude got me harder. My attraction usually started with quiet women, the soft ones that were looking for someone to lead them. But her strength was oddly arousing.