by Monroe, Max
“A gin and tonic for the lady and a whiskey, neat, for me.”
Lena’s beautiful neck elongates even further as she turns to me with an excited smile. “Whiskey, huh?”
I nod, and my eyes latch on to the small tattoo on her shoulder. It’s a cartoon butterfly, and it’s fucking smiling. It might be the most oddly adorable tattoo I’ve ever seen in my life. And like my own personal treasure hunt, my gaze manages to find two more tattoos in record time—a little black heart on the inside of her right wrist and a colorful peacock feather just below her collarbone.
While tattoos aren’t normally my thing, tattoos on this gorgeous creature only make me more fascinated by her.
“You know, there’s a lot to be said about a person’s choice in drink,” Lena says, and I meet her steady gaze again.
“Is that right?”
“Oh yeah. Trust me, I’ve spent enough time, in enough places, around enough people, to have an honorary degree.”
“A PhD in drinking?”
She shakes her head, a low, gritty giggle peaking with each turn. “A PhD in people. All a PhD in drinking gets you is liver disease.”
A smile starts at my face, but I swear to God, I feel it all the way in my chest. As a man in my industry, I’ve spent the last decade of my life in nightclubs, observing all kinds of people, drinking all kinds of drinks. I’m well versed in my own findings, but the intensity with which I’m curious about what she’s going to say suggests the opposite.
“If it’s beer, they’re laid-back. They don’t want anything too high-maintenance, and they don’t want to lose too much control.”
I nod, but she bites her lip and holds up a finger.
“Or…they have no idea what drinks are or what drinks mean or where to begin, so they just order the easiest thing on the menu.”
I laugh. “And what about wine?”
“Confidence and classiness. They usually don’t change their drink, no matter the venue. They know what they like and stick to it.”
She points down the bar, over my shoulder, and I twist around to follow her direction. “See her?” she asks. “With the vodka?”
I nod without turning around and watch surreptitiously as a redhead puts a straw to her lips and sucks down half of her glass.
“Those who prefer vodka are a good time. They love going out, they’re not about to fuck around, and they will most likely be the last one to go home at the end of the night.”
I turn back around just as Sergio slides our glasses between us and retreats to helping the rest of the thirsty mob.
Lena jerks her head at my glass and hums meaningfully. “And whiskey…well.” Her eyes are mischievous as she asks, “Are you sure you want to know?”
I laugh. “Go ahead. Tell me. What’s my whiskey mean?”
“Let’s just say it goes really well with a lack of smile.”
“Hey,” I contest. “I’ve been smiling a lot. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
My eyes follow the line of her delicate neck to the silky skin of her cheeks and stop at her mouth—full, pink, and downright kissable fucking lips—as she wraps it around her straw and takes a sip.
Five minutes ago, I was consumed with a million different details and responsibilities related to this club. The bar, the kitchen, the security, the waitstaff—they’re all fluid features, best managed with a close eye and willingness to change. Even after this many years opening clubs, it’s impossible to get it right on the first night. Hell, it’s impossible to work everything out in less than a week.
She turns back to the bar, brings her straw to her mouth again, and sways her body to the music. What she doesn’t do is continue, and I’m not letting her off the hook that easy.
“And what about gin and tonic? You don’t think I’m going to let you analyze everyone else—including me—and then just move on before you tell me about yourself, do you?”
She shrugs slyly. “A woman who drinks gin and tonic?”
I nod again.
“If she spots you at the bar and sparks up a conversation with you, consider yourself fucking lucky.”
I laugh out loud. “Noted.”
She waggles her brows and then shakes her head. “I’m kidding—”
I put a finger to her lips, and just as I intended, she stops talking immediately.
“No. Don’t take it back. It’s true, and you should own it.”
She jerks her head a little as her eyes search mine. I hold them just long enough to feel warmth pour out of her and wash straight over me.
Then I grab my whiskey and take a sip. “So, Lena, where are you from?”
“Ah, sorry. I don’t give out any personal information to strangers.” She shakes her head as she licks two drops of gin off her lips, and once again, my cock takes notice.
With no more than the prompt of my surprised brows, she continues. “Statistically speaking, let’s say this club has a thousand people inside it,” she says. “That means that at least one person in this room is or will be a murderer. For all I know, that person could be you. Now, it wouldn’t be smart of me to give my personal information to a future murderer, would it?”
“First of all, I think your statistics might be a bit off.” They’re very off, in fact. I raise a challenging brow. “And, secondly, you already told me your first name…”
“Well, I never said I was some kind of statistical genius,” she challenges. “And how do you know it’s my real first name?”
I don’t even second-guess it. Lena is her first name. Just as I suspected before, the chance to appreciate her name further has arisen, and the verdict came in quickly and without contention. Those sexy four letters ooze from every pore on her curvy little body.
“Okay, Lena,” I say, leaning forward to whisper into her ear. “Answer me this. How do you feel about dancing with a potential murderer based off your very inaccurate statistics?”
She turns her head so that her lips almost brush mine and eyes me skeptically.
I almost laugh. “I’m not one, by the way. A murderer, past, present, or future.”
I step back and hold out a hand.
She doesn’t hesitate to place her hand in mine, and I take the gift in similar regard. My steps are swift and sure as I lead her out onto the dance floor, spin her around, and get a quick look at her long, tanned legs and black leather skirt before pulling her body against mine.
A seductive beat blends her heartbeat with mine. I slide my hands down her arms and settle them on the supple fabric at her perfect, gently rounded hips.
Lena moves exactly how I imagined she would, and my fingertips squeeze reflexively with every confident, sexy sway.
She is sex and sin and lust and seduction all rolled into one, and I have never felt more present in a moment than I do in this one.
Normally, my brain is going a mile a minute, obsessed with work, planning and plotting and always looking five steps ahead to the future.
But not right now. Not here. Not with her.
Right now, I’m a man dancing with a woman—one who screams trouble and spontaneity and wild, passionate sex.
Everyone wanted me to let go and live a little, and I’m finally starting to agree. I thrive on control and order, but with Lena, not knowing exactly what’s coming seems like it might be a good thing.
From the booth at the center of the room, the DJ shouts something to the crowd, and everyone throws their hands in the air and shouts their excitement.
The song switches over to a house remix of “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish, and the thumping, addictive beat is the perfect excuse to pull Lena even closer, sliding my leg between her thighs.
She grinds her hips against me as she sings along to the song, her full lips doing an erotic dance with each word of the lyrics, and I can’t stop my gaze from flickering down to her mouth.
Goddamn, I want to taste her.
She leans forward and starts to whisper the lyrics into my ear, and the warmth of her breath send
s a shock straight down my chest, across my abs, and right into my dick.
She sings about being the bad guy, about doing what she likes whenever she wants, and about being good at being bad.
It’s like she’s trying to warn me, but I’m well past rational thinking at this point.
Instead, I slide my hand beneath her chin and move her gaze to mine.
And instead of saying anything, I prove to both her and myself that I can be the bad guy too.
Lips to hers, I take her mouth in a kiss. Soft and slow at first, until I feel the vibration of her moan, and then so deep I can taste the gin all the way on the back of her tongue.
Fuck me.
Lena
Flirtation is a staple of my existence. I’ve used it on every man I’ve ever had in my life, including my father and brother. Of course, it’s a different kind of flirtation with your family; otherwise, it’d be creepy. But I’ve been doing it forever.
Most families wait with bated breath for their children to roll, crawl, walk, and talk. But about the same time I was reaching those milestones, I was creating a new one of my own.
And it’s gotten me a lot—men I’ve wanted, compassion from my brother, material possessions from my father.
It’s only in the last two years that I’ve realized it’s also gotten me a ton of things I don’t want, too—heartbreak, stalkers, miscommunication, an overly protective brother, and a father who spoils me too much, to name a few.
I’m fortunate to have a dad who’s nothing like my mother, but the need for parental support from somewhere has put an emphasis on his need to take care of me that doesn’t exactly endorse independence.
It’s been a bumpy ride on the flirtation roller coaster, but tonight—when I honestly expected it the least—I’ve crested a hill and ended up right here, in this moment I can hardly believe I’m living.
Theo kisses me with the kind of reckless abandon that spurs a deep throb between my thighs and commands my lips and tongue with a confidence I’ve never known from a man.
Usually, I’m the one putting on the show—the one making an effort to entice and pleasure—but Theo has shown me in under twenty minutes that it’s entirely possible to have it the other way around.
The realization feels almost as life-changing as this kiss.
Heart-pounding, breath-stealing, it’s the kind of kiss I both fear and worship at once.
My mind dances with visuals of what he looks like beneath that suit of his, mental slide after perfect mental slide of firm, heavy muscles beneath tanned, toned skin.
Fuck, I want him.
All I need is one night. One night to feel uninhibited pleasure and orgasm-assisted self-discovery.
I mean, what could it hurt? Technically, I’m on vacation, and it’s not like spending a night in the sheets with him is going to derail my career plans…
I’m about to start my three-month internship, and when I’m done, I’ll graduate and be another step closer to following through with my career goals—becoming a fashion designer and having my very own line of clothes in stores.
One night with the best kisser of my life isn’t going to get in the way of that.
Yep. I’m definitely going all in.
Theo starts to lean back and, firmly rooted to the side of the fence I’ve chosen, I can’t stop myself from pulling his mouth to mine again and kissing him even harder.
Giving nine months’ worth of pent-up arousal the permission to exit means I lose myself in the feel of his lips and tongue quickly, and I moan when his hands move to my hips and then to my ass, gripping the pliant flesh and keeping my body pressed against his.
I can feel his cock beneath the zipper of his slacks, and my body screams at my brain to move things along faster.
I’m a millisecond away from taking one tiny breath—long enough to suggest he gets us the fuck out of this club and into my hotel room—when a far-too-familiar voice comes over the speakers—over the song—and starts screaming.
“Hellooooooooooooo!” the voice shouts. “I’m bloody pissed, and it’s chuffing awesome!”
Oh shit. Pippa!
I pull away from Theo’s lips and look toward the DJ booth to find my now very drunk friend in a tug-of-war with the DJ over the microphone. She is giggling and grinning and completely oblivious to the fact that she should not be up there—and that the DJ is about two seconds away from strangling her.
Mid-pull, she leans toward the mic again and shouts, “Put your hands in the air if you’re pissed like me and you just don’t care! Everyone say A-OH!”
Surprisingly, the crowd joins in on her shenanigans and exclaims their enjoyment through hoots and hollers and, you guessed it, A-OHs!
The DJ, though, is none too thrilled.
“Ah fuck,” I mutter, glancing back at a beautifully disheveled but altogether confused Theo. My lipstick has left the evidence of our passion on his lips, and his hair looks like we made it all the way to the bedroom.
And he is still the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“That’s, uh, that’s my friend up there,” I say with a bashful point.
He glances toward the DJ booth and smirks. “Kathy Karaoke?”
I laugh and nod.
“Well…good news is she’s enjoying herself.”
I snort. “Uh, yeah, probably a little too much…” I tuck my hair behind my ear and worry my lip over giving in to what I know I have to do. My friend’s safety comes before my horniness, whether I like it or not. “I think I need to go get her before she gets arrested. I’ve seen way too many E! True Hollywood Stories about getting arrested in a foreign country.”
I’m not sure how in the hell she got away from Sophie, but that doesn’t matter now. All that matters is getting Pippa’s drinking debut under control. I can ask Sophie about the jailbreak later.
“A-OH! Yay-OH!” Pippa manages to shout into the mic again.
“Shit,” I mutter. “This is not good.”
“Don’t worry.” Theo places a reassuring hand on the small of my back. “I’ll help you get her out of here.” He ushers us in the direction of the DJ and puts his lips to my ear as we walk. “Are you staying at a hotel close by?”
“How do you know I don’t live here?” I ask, and he chuckles.
“No offense, but your American accent kind of gives you away.”
“Sort of like yours?”
He winks. “Exactly like mine.”
“We’re staying at Cruz Resorts. It’s about twenty minutes from here, headed toward Amalfi.”
“That works out well.”
I raise a brow.
“I’m staying there too,” he says, and my pussy does a herkie before shouting, This is a pleasant surprise!
“Errybody in da club get tipsy!” Pippa’s slightly slurred, completely off-key voice calls out again, and I grimace.
“So…uh…how exactly are you going to help me get Twenty-Five Cent back to the resort without her being put in handcuffs?”
Theo’s responding smile is downright enthralling. “Twenty-Five Cent?”
“I know the song is by J-Kwon, but if she’s gonna try to be a rapper, her name definitely needs a discount.” I shrug.
Theo pushes us through the thickest part of the crowd, right in front of the DJ booth, and leans down again to whisper in my ear. The vibrations of his lingering laugh send a jolt of electricity all the way to my toes. “I happen to know the guy who owns the club,” he says. “Give me a minute, and we’ll get your friend out of here safely.”
For some strange reason, I don’t question him. I don’t even doubt him.
Instead, I follow his lead up the steps to the DJ booth, and while he’s busy chatting with the now extremely irate DJ and another man who looks to be in charge, I wrap my arm around Pippa’s waist, put my yoga muscles to good use, and practically carry her away from the booth and toward the front of the club like a baby on my hip.
Thank God I’m getting her out of here now. I can only
imagine if she’d been left to her own devices a little longer; I’d have had to find a Baby Bjorn carrier and sunglasses to support my role as Alan in The Hangover Part IV.
By the time I get her mostly dead weight out the front door, Theo has joined us, and a black Mercedes has pulled over in the extremely limited space across from the club.
Theo puts a shoulder under Pippa’s armpit and holds her up while I scoot into the back seat and ready myself for her.
Once I’m settled, he helps her duck, making sure to put a gentle hand on her head just in case she makes any sudden movements while sliding into the car, and looks to me with earnest, powerful deep-blue eyes. “You got her?”
I swallow around my nod, appreciation thick in my throat as Pippa giggles and leans into my lap.
Theo shuts the door and climbs into the front seat, but not without smiling at me first.
He speaks quickly and quietly to the driver, who nods and gets underway immediately.
I send a quick text to Sophie to let her know we left, pull Pippa deeper into my lap, and run my hand through her blond hair, hoping it’ll help to calm her down. The gesture buys me ten minutes, but when a second wind hits her, I swear, her volume increases.
“YOU GUYS!” Pippa shouts. “I…haaaaaad…the…time…of…myyyy…life!” I don’t know what made her think of the song from Dirty Dancing since there’s no music playing in the car, but I’m starting to wish someone would put this drunken baby in the fucking corner.
Honestly, it will be a miracle if we all make it back to the resort with functioning eardrums.
“Hey, Pippa,” I say sweetly, and she turns her lazy, boozed-up face toward mine, a blissful curl rounding the edges of her mouth. “Mind turning down the volume a little?”
Her head jerks so hard, I have to grab her hand to keep her from falling back into the window. “Am I being too loud?” she asks on a yell.
I wiggle a finger at the base of my ear to stop the ringing and smile slightly. “Just a little bit.” Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Theo’s gaze. He’s watching the two of us as I tuck Pippa back into my shoulder and smooth the hair out of her face.
When I look up and meet his eyes, the intensity of his stare penetrates my entire body. “Sorry,” I mouth.