Elena’s Point Of View “Get into your pants?” The words tore from my throat, my voice cracking with indignation as I yanked my hand back.
Heat flooded my cheeks.
“Are you completely insane?” “I’m not, sweetheart.” The man leaned his shoulder back against the leather booth with infuriating casualness.
He didn’t release my wrist immediately… his thumb traced one slow, deliberate slide against my skin, sending an unwelcome jolt through my arm before his fingers finally uncurled.
“But you’re the one sitting in my private booth, drinking my five thousand dollar scotch, and staring at me like you want to bite me.” He paused, his gaze steady and unnerving.
“Tell me the truth.
What is it you actually want?” “I want to smack your face,” I snapped.
The words escaped before I could filter them.
I froze, my throat constricting as I realized I’d actually spoken the thought aloud.
But as I stared at the sharp, mocking line of his jaw… at the way his mouth curved with barely suppressed amusement, I decided I didn’t regret it.
Not even a little bit.
A low, rough rumble of laughter vibrated through the small space between us.
“Feisty.” I rolled my eyes so hard the room tilted again, the edges of my vision swimming.
“I got into the wrong booth, okay?
Don’t think too much of yourself.” I forced steel into my voice despite the way the alcohol made my words slightly loose.
“Honestly, your looks are completely chopped anyway.
Not my style.” “Chopped?” He arched one dark eyebrow, his mouth twitching with barely contained amusement.
He didn’t look insulted in the slightest; instead, he watched me like I was a particularly entertaining street performer putting on an unexpected show.
“Is that the liquor talking, or do you always lie this badly when you’re cornered?” “I don’t lie.” I crossed my arms over my chest, which only made the plunging neckline of the black dress press tighter against my skin.
The movement felt defensive even to me.
“And I am not cornered.
I can walk out of here right now.” “Then why are you still sitting down?” The question hung in the air between us, simple and devastating.
I looked at the heavy crystal glass in my hand, then at the amber bottle sitting on the table, searching for an answer that wouldn’t make me sound pathetic.
“Because…” I lifted the glass slightly, watching the liquid catch the dim light.
“Because your drink tastes nice.
That’s the only reason I’m enduring this nonsense.” His smirk deepened at that, the corner of his lip pulling up in a way that made me want to wipe it off with my palm.
He leaned in a fraction, his broad shoulders crowding my space in the narrow booth, making the air feel thinner.
“Enduring?
Is that what we’re calling it?” His voice carried a note of genuine curiosity beneath the mockery.
“You look like you’re having the time of your life trading insults with a stranger.” “Better men than you tolerate me on a daily basis,” I shot back, lifting my chin in defiance.
My heart hammered against my ribs, though whether from anger or something else, I couldn’t tell.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” “Tolerate.” He tasted the word like it was a cheap vintage, rolling it around with obvious distaste.
A shadow of something… pity?
understanding?… flickered across his features before disappearing.
“Sounds thrilling.
Let me guess… your usual type is the quiet, polite kind who asks for permission to breathe in your direction?” “My type is none of your business.” The words came out sharper than I intended, my cheeks warming under his heavy gaze.
“But I can assure you, it doesn’t involve men who wear too much cologne and think a private booth makes them royalty.” “I don’t wear cologne, sweetheart.” His voice dropped into a low, lazy drawl that vibrated right through my chest, settling somewhere dangerous.
He leaned a fraction closer, close enough that the clean, sharp scent of cedarwood, cold night air, and expensive tobacco washed over me like a wave.
The smell was intoxicating in a way I didn’t want to acknowledge.
“That’s just how I smell.
And if you’re going to insult my style, at least get your facts straight.” “Tsk.
Please.” I waved a hand dismissively, though my heart did a weird, erratic flutter against my ribs that I absolutely refused to examine.
“You probably spent an hour in front of the mirror trying to get that exact ‘messy but expensive’ look.
It’s pathetic.” “An hour?
Try ten minutes.” His eyes crinkled at the corners with a slow, devastating warmth that seemed to light something in the shadows.
“And yet, here you are.
Still in my booth.
Still staring at my mouth.” “I am not staring at your mouth!” “You were.” His voice remained entirely unbothered, dripping with an effortless confidence that made me want to scream.
“You’re doing it right now.
It’s alright, princess.
I don’t mind.
I’ve been told it’s a very nice mouth.” “By who?
Your mother?” His chuckle emerged low and dark, a physical sound that seemed to hum in the small gap between our shoulders.
The warmth of it brushed against my skin.
“Not quite.
But I appreciate the creativity.
Keep going.
I want to see what else you’ve got.” Who the hell does he think he is?
The absolute, infuriating indifference radiating from him drove me mad.
He wasn’t angry.
He wasn’t defensive.
He wasn’t even particularly interested in winning the argument.
He was just…
enjoying me, like I was some amusing little cat scratching at his heavy winter boots.
The realization made something hot and furious coil in my chest.
I wanted to break his composure.
I wanted to see those smoke-colored eyes narrow in real, genuine irritation just once.
“You are a menace,” I whispered, glaring at him with all the venom I could muster.
“I’ve been called worse.” He reached out to lazily tap the rim of my glass with his long fingers, the gesture almost affectionate.
“By better people, too.
But you’re welcome to try your hand at it.” His tone returned to that perfectly flat, entirely indifferent register that made my blood boil.
That indifference ignited something volatile in my veins.
It was the same way Graham used to look at me when I got upset – like my anger was just some minor, inconvenient weather pattern he had to wait out.
Like my feelings were a temporary storm that would pass if he just remained calm enough.
The memory made my hands shake.
I grabbed the heavy bottle by the neck, the glass clinking sharply against the marble table, and poured another three fingers of the dark, cherry-scented liquor into my glass.
I downed it in one long, burning gulp, welcoming the fire that scorched down my throat.
The heat hit my stomach instantly, spreading through my limbs and making my ears burn.
I reached for the bottle again, my fingers slipping slightly on the condensation-slick glass as I tried to pour another round.
The room tilted pleasantly, dangerously.
“That’s enough,” he said.
A large, heavy hand came down over the top of the bottle, his fingers completely blocking mine from lifting it.
The warmth of his palm seeped through the glass.
“Get your hands off me, okay?” I snapped, hitting the back of his hand with my palm.
The contact sent a jolt up my arm that I tried to ignore.
“You don’t know me.
You don’t get to tell me what to do.” “I don’t need to know you to see you’re trying to drown yourself.” His grip on the bottle remained solid as he gently slid it out of my reach, his movements careful despite his strength.
“No one is worth you throwing yourself into a bottle of alcohol, sweetheart.
And besides…” A hint of that infuriating smirk returned.
“This brand is too strong.
If you finally succeed in getting into my pants tonight…
I don’t want you blaming it on the alcohol.” “I told you, I don’t want to get into your stupid pants!” I threw myself back against the leather cushion, my head spinning as I glared at him through the shadows.
The words tumbled out in a rush, fueled by frustration and liquor and something deeper, something that had been building for months.
“Everything just sucks.
Everything.
You think you know someone, you think you’ve built a life, and then you find out you were just…
you were just an interim solution.
A placeholder.” My voice cracked on the last word, betraying the hurt I’d been trying to bury.
The man didn’t interrupt.
To my surprise, he didn’t mock me either.
He just leaned his head back against the wall of the booth, his dark eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that should have made me uncomfortable but somehow didn’t.
He watched the way my chest heaved, listened to the jagged edge of my breathing, and simply…
waited.
Like he had all the time in the world.
Like my pain mattered.
“I was so stupid.” The whisper escaped before I could stop it, the anger suddenly draining out of me and leaving nothing but that cold, hollow ache that had taken up permanent residence in my chest.
“The signs were right there.
I spent years ignoring them because I wanted to believe the lie.
I wanted to believe that if I just tried harder, if I just took another hit, if I just tolerated the comments and the dismissals and the casual cruelty…
it would be enough.
But it’s never enough for people like that.” “It’s never enough for a coward,” he said quietly.
The words landed with unexpected gentleness.
I looked up at him, my vision slightly blurred from unshed tears and expensive scotch.
He was still watching me, his expression unreadable in the dim light, but there was a heavy, grounded weight to his presence that made the spinning in my head slow down.
I didn’t know his name.
He was a complete stranger in a dark corner of an exclusive club, someone I’d stumbled upon by accident and insulted within minutes of meeting.
But for some reason, the words just kept spilling out of me like blood from a wound I’d been pretending didn’t exist.
“They make you feel like you’re the one who’s broken.” My voice barely rose above a whisper, fragile in a way I hated.
“They make you apologize for things they did.
And then they look at you like you’re the crazy one when you finally scream.” “They do that because they’re afraid of what happens when you stop screaming and start walking,” he said.
The observation cut through the fog in my mind with unexpected clarity.
I let out a wet, breathless laugh, turning my head to look him straight in the eye.
“All men are the same.
Just snakes with muscles and expensive suits.” He didn’t argue.
He didn’t defend his gender or try to convince me I was wrong.
Instead, he shifted his weight, sliding closer along the leather cushion until his thigh pressed flat against mine, the heat of his body radiating through the thin silk of my dress.
The contact sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He reached out, his large, warm hand settling firmly around my waist, his fingers digging in just enough to pull me flush against his side.
The gesture felt possessive and protective all at once.
“Well…” His breath warmed my temple, his deep voice sending a sudden, sharp shiver straight down my spine.
“You haven’t tried a man like me, princess.”