Page 15 of The Smoke Hour

“I’m heading back to the office. Get up with me soon. We need to have dinner,” the second man replied.

“A’ight. Let’s link up at the parents’ house tomorrow afternoon for lunch.”

“Bet. They’d like that,” the second man stated and headed out the door.

So they were definitely brothers. I turned my attention back to Smoke, who now sat on the edge of his desk. His feet were crossed at the ankles, and he casually clasped his left wrist with his right hand.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked as he pushed off the desk.

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

“Water? Juice?” he offered as he headed to a small bar in the corner of his office.

“No. I just want my shoes.”

“And you will get them if you win the game,” he stated as he poured himself a glass of whiskey. “But not until after you explain some shit to me.”

My eyebrows shot up, and I scowled at him. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sure you heard what I said. No need for me to repeat it. It’s a waste of time.”

“I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

“The minute you walked up in my establishment, created chaos, concern for the members, and you made this anything except for a peaceful place of relaxation, you bet your fine ass you owe me an explanation, sweets.”

I rolled my eyes and replied, “Please, stop calling me that.”

Deep inside, I loved the intimate nickname. I even loved our banter. His wit and my sarcasm were nothing more than foreplay in my mind.

He rolled his lips inside of his mouth and then back out again before he took a sip of whiskey.

A mischievous chuckle fell from Smoke’s lips, and he rubbed his thumb across the bottom one. I wondered what it tasted like. I wondered if I would have the chance to feel his lips on me tonight.

“Funny. You seem to be operating under the illusion that you have choices here. The minute you stepped foot in my muthafuckin club, you gave up any rights you had. You’re on private property, sweets, which means that you have no rights other than those that I grant you.” Although his words were harsh, his tone wasn’t, so I didn’t take offense to his words.

He walked back to where I sat on the couch and sat beside me. With a firm hand, he set his glass on the leather table in front of us, on top of a wooden tray. Not a drop spilled.

“Now, let’s talk about what brought you into my establishment,” Smoke stated.

When he turned sideways on the couch and stretched his arm out along the back of it, I caught another whiff of his cologne. I recognized the crisp, clean, citrusy scent. It was fruity and sweet but masculine with cedarwood, vanilla, and tonka bean notes. It was bright and refreshing yet seductively sexy.

“Lafayette Street.”

“What?”

“The scent you’re wearing. Lafayette Street by Bond No. 9.”

Smoke smirked.

“I’m in here drilling you about why you ran up in my shit and created chaos, and you’re focused on my cologne. Get the fuck outta here.”

I couldn’t believe that he was laughing at me, and my face flushed with warmth.

“I’m sorry. I just… I love men’s fragrances, and I’m very familiar with them.”

“Mm,” he replied with a subtle nod of his head. “You spend a grip on his colognes?”

“Who?”

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