The O Intention(2)

Am I on the prowl? I frown. I don’t know… am I? Not going home alone is always nice. I glance around the room once again, but no one in here peaks my interest—except the pretty blonde sitting at the end of the bar, but I’m not into women.

Then I see him.

He walks through the door, raking his long, thick hands through his dark hair, as his black two button suit tightens around the arms. My stare sticks to him like superglue and trying to separate them is physically painful. Of its own accord, my spine straightens and I inch forward in my seat. He walks in my direction, his long purposeful legs stretching out in front of him, each step seeming more powerful than the last. My throat dries so I take an anxious sip of my vodka to quench it, but it only sets my throat on fire, matching the temperature between my legs. I see men in suits come in and out of this place all day, every day, but none that look like him. I’ve never really been into taut business men in expensive, fitted suits. I’ve always wondered if they were actually rich or if they’re just trying to jump on the Christian Grey express straight into naïve pussy town. This man, however, has no false bravado in his steps. He is rich, he is hot, and he probably has no idea who the fuck Christian Grey is. I inhale another mouthful of vodka and swallow hard before gritting my teeth. Maybe I read too many fucking novels. I snort. As if there’s such a thing.

As he rests against the lounge bar, the bar I work in on Wednesdays and Thursdays, I push out of my seat. I’m not beneath going after what I want, and what I want at this very moment is this man’s face between my legs. As I approach, I shrug out of my coat and toss it over the stool next to him. Up close, his shoulders are broad and thick—perfect.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” I ask, batting my eyelashes.

I wonder how I look. After an eight hour shift, it can’t be too pretty.

He angles his head in my direction and my god, is he handsome. Flawless tan skin, dark eyes lined with darker eyelashes, and a strong jaw tinted by stubble. His beautiful irises scan over every inch of my body—appraising and appreciative—I like that.

“Not at all.” His voice is smooth, but rough around the edges—like chocolate speckled with coconut.

I slip onto the stool, cross my legs and lift a finger to the bartender. The bartender looks at me and he’s no one I’ve ever seen before. Another new face. I’m beginning to wonder if this place is becoming incredibly over-staffed.

“What do you drink?” The handsome man asks, staring at the side of my face. I try not to look at him but, holy shit, it’s hard. I’m mesmerized by his face. I want to take in every line and feature, but I don’t. Those aren’t the rules in the game of playing hard to get.

“Vodka, mostly,” I say, doing my best to sound indifferent. I glance at him and his dark eyes flare. “What do you drink?”

He shrugs. “Something that’s worth paying money for, and tastes less like a liquid you’d use to run your car.” I note a hint of an accent—Australian maybe? He’s covered it up really well with American, but the way he said ‘car’ gave it away. The ‘r’ disappeared and sounded like it’d been replaced by an ‘h’. Cah… Caaah… As I play it over and over in my head, it sounds more like a bird call than a word. Either way, it’s kind of sexy.

He signals to the bartender and immediately, he brings a bottle of wine in a chilled bucket with two very, very deep glasses.

Well… I guess he comes here often. The stranger pushes a glass in my direction. “Since you were unfortunate enough to choose the seat next to mine, you have to drink this with me.”

I smile. For a man who looks so unobtainable, he sure is making this really easy for me.

“Okay, Your Highness,” I say, pinching the stem of my glass. “I’ll drink your wine, but only if you tell me where you’ve come from and why you look like you want to shoot yourself in the face.”

And just like that, I’ve slipped myself into a conversation with this sexy, sexy man. The rest is almost guaranteed. He chuckles and it vibrates every part of me.

“I’ve come from a terrible meeting and I’m hiding down here until everyone is gone so I can be alone in my room.” He pulls the bottle from the bucket and pours me a glass. It’s a small amount and a perfect example of what I hate most about wine drinkers. They have such a big glass, but barely use a quarter of it at a time. We all know they’re going to drink the bottle anyway, might as well fill the cup to the brim. I fight the urge to roll my eyes as he pours himself the tiniest amount too.