Page 3 of Wicked Savage

“What are you guys doing? I know I’m a mess, but can someone get me some napkins so my nipples don’t freeze to death?”

Better yet…

I start to turn.

Then I feel it. A hand, strong and firm, settling on my shoulder.

“You’re not wrong,” a low, masculine baritone husks in my ear, thick with confidence and something else. Something I can’t quite name. “You’re quite the little mess.”

I pivot quickly, turning toward the voice, and my breath catches when I realize the hard object I had bumped into was actually this man, towering and built like a Greek god.

His eyes meet mine, the piercing pale green intensity sending a jolt through my chest. He’s holding a stack of napkins, and his large hand—thick with veins—sends a rush of heat through me.

I take the napkins from him, avoiding his gaze at first, but it’s impossible to ignore him.

His full lips curl into a playful, devilish smirk, and my stomach flutters in response. His eyes flicker over my body as I blot my dress, his gaze lingering there just a moment too long before he looks up again.

The fabric of his dress shirt stretches taut across his firm chest, two buttons undone, exposing just enough to make me want to see more. And the way his thick, sculpted biceps flex causes my breath to hitch.

It’s a shame most of his face is hidden behind the sleek black mask resting on the bridge of his nose. But somehow, the glimpse of his sharp jawline beneath it only makes him more irresistible.

I lower my eyes, catching sight of a wet spot on his abdomen.

Crap. I made him spill his drink too.

“I’m sorry about that,” I say, grimacing at the stain.

His deep chuckle vibrates through me. “It’s okay, love.” He dips closer until his mouth is against my ear. “I didn’t like this shirt anyway.”

His breath skims the side of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.

You shouldn’t be wearing one.

Just because I’m a virgin, it doesn’t mean I’m not a dirty one.

“What’s your name?”

I tense, suddenly aware of the intimacy of the question, the proximity of his body.

“I’m Cillian.”

Should I tell him? Konstantin never said I wasn’t allowed, only that everyone must keep their masks on. Not like I have to give him my full name.

Fuck it.

“Dinara.”

“Pretty.” His lips curve into a smile that makes my knees weak as his gaze runs over me again, taking in every curve, every movement.

“Are you new here?” His voice is like velvet, rough at the edges.

“Yes.” I discreetly pull at my wet dress. “It’s my birthday.”

He glances down, his eyes narrowing briefly before he meets mine again.

“Then I’ll have to buy you a drink,” he says smoothly, his smile deepening. “Seeing as you’ve managed to spill yours all over your beautiful dress.”

I swallow, suddenly aware of how much he’s watching me. His eyes don’t leave mine, and a warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

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