He pushed the untouched second glass of scotch toward her. “Change your mind?”
She snapped her eyes to his, a little shocked, as if he had suggested something far, far wickeder. As if she could read his mind. They stared at each other in silence for a few heartbeats. Then he thought of that button, that straining button, and damned if his cock didn’t start to stir. He looked into her flashing eyes—flecked with blue, green and amber, they seemed to be made up of little splinters of every color imaginable—and told himself not to be a jerk.
He dropped his gaze. It was an asshole move, but he didn’t have control over himself, that fucking button did. His eyes found it right away. It was just a plain, small, white button. Nothing special. It was the way it was pulled, so that instead of lying flat, the edge pointed toward him. She shifted a little, almost infinitesimally, and the button quivered. So did his cock. God, she was magnificent under there, wasn’t she?
The next thing he knew, a small hand inserted itself into his field of vision. Nicely shaped nails, fingers sprinkled with a few freckles. Did she have freckles everywhere?
The hand clasped around the sweating scotch glass and began lifting it.
He followed it with his eyes. She licked her lips. Slowly. Jesus. Then she tipped her head back and drank. For a moment he thought she was going to drain the whole glass in one swig. But, no, she was a lover of scotch. He watched her neck—she took two swallows. She kept her eyes closed as she righted her head and gave a low hum of appreciation that echoed in his chest.
Plunking the glass down on the bar, she looked at him and said, “I guess rules were made to be broken.”
…
The cold night air was a relief when it hit Cassie’s overheated face. She hadn’t buttoned up her coat, and after she got out of the immediate circle of light cast by the streetlamps outside Edward’s, she turned her head to the sky, looking for stars that the city lights and tall buildings always obscured. Why did she even try? In this city, the stars could all burn out and no one would notice.
As the wind hit her neck, she took a deep breath. Holy cannoli, what a night. If this thing with Ebenezer sitting at the bar was going to be a thing, life was going to get a heck of a lot more interesting. And more lucrative. She patted the pocket where she’d stuffed her tips—Ebenezer’s made up two-thirds of her take for the night.
There was no denying the guy was hot. Not her usual type maybe, but really, what was her usual type? Sensitive, stylish boys whose love of *NSYNC should have, in retrospect, been a red flag that they were complete closet cases? Jovial jocks who, though they were well meaning, probably scored higher in a hockey season than they did in IQ? Because that was the grand sum of her romantic experience. First had been Danny, the high school boyfriend, still her best friend now that he was comfortably out of the closet—but only because they both still loved *NSYNC. And then there was Mark, the only boyfriend she’d had in the approximately eight hundred million years she’d been at university. Set up by friends, she’d gone with the flow, and before she knew it she had a hockey star boyfriend who was…nice. She’d been surprised, then, when he dumped her, showing uncharacteristic signs of wisdom when he said they “just didn’t have that spark.” They’d vowed to stay friends, but without a shared devotion to a 1990s boy band to cement their relationship, they drifted apart.
But this guy. Ebenezer. Jack Winter. Mr. Richie Rich Real Estate Man. Whoever the heck he was. He was something else. He was hot, yes, in a conventional sort of way. Tall, good-looking, and all that. Smart—must be, given that he was so rich, and he always seemed to be poring over accounts. But aside from all that, there was something roiling just below the surface, barely contained. The sense that he was perpetually treading a tightrope of some sort. Like he was capable of exploding at any moment, but had simply chosen, through an act of will, not to. And, oh man, when he’d stared at her boobs so blatantly. She should have been offended, she supposed, but as he openly and unapologetically looked his fill, she’d just been turned on. Like crazy turned on.
She was still staring in vain at the sky when she heard him. “I was thinking about what you said.”
She shrieked and jumped about a foot.
“Sorry,” he smirked. “Did I startle you?”
Ugh. There it was again. Apparently all he had to do was speak, aim that low, knowing voice in her direction, and something spiked through her center. Something that had been conspicuously absent with Mr. Hockey and Mr. *NSYNC.
She hoped he would interpret the time she took answering as a sign of nonchalance. Instead of, say, lust. Because there was no getting around it. She wanted him. But she didn’t want him to know she wanted him. Her insides were turning to mush, and he probably just wanted to ask her something about Edward’s scotch collection. But, fake it till you make it, right? She sent him what she hoped was a skeptical look. “You were thinking about what I said? Remind me what I said?”