Page 4 of Wicked Savage

“I’d love another drink. Vodka and cranberry, please.”

He doesn’t say a word, his gaze locking on my lips before he turns toward the bar, standing there like he owns the world.

There’s something about him, though—something about tonight—that feels like it’s just beginning.

“Holy fucking shit,” Natalia whispers from right behind me. “The man looks like he could throw all three of us over his shoulder.”

“And look at his hands,” Alisa adds. “I once read that guys with thick fingers have big dicks.”

I elbow her lightly, and she laughs.

“I’m just saying. You could use a big dick. Hell, you could useanydick at this point.”

“Shut up before he hears you.” My eyes widen at her in warning just as he spins toward me.

“Here you go.” He hands me the drink with a slow, deliberate smirk, holding one for himself as well.

“Thanks.”

As I take it from him, our fingers brush—just for a second, but it’s enough. A rush of heat shoots through me, like a surge of electricity racing up my arm, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

His eyes lock on to mine, dark and intense, as if he can feel the exact moment the air between us shifts, crackling with tension so palpable I can almost hear it over the pounding music. I can’t look away, trapped in the depth of this intensity, his presence pressing in on me, undeniable and magnetic.

Before I can even react, his arm slips around my waist, pulling me in close. His body, hard and solid, presses against mine—just enough to make my pulse spike. His lips graze along the curve of my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

“Careful,” he whispers, his tone dark and laced with a teasing edge. “Wouldn’t want you spilling that drink too. Don’t think I could handle you making more of a mess of yourself than you already are.”

His words sink under my skin, stirring something wild and untamed inside me, while his fingers press deeper into my hip—firm, possessive. It’s like he’s marking me, claiming me. Holding me here, right where he wants me.

And for a second, I wonder if he’s just playing me. Toying with me. Trying to get under my skin. Under my dress. But my body doesn’t care.

It wants this.

It wantshim.

Maybe Alisa is right. Maybe all I need to make my birthday more memorable is a healthy dose of big dick.

I clear my throat, trying to mask the heat pooling low in my stomach, and take a long, burning gulp of my drink. The liquor slides down my throat in a fiery rush, the warmth lingering far longer than it should.

“So, do you come here often?” I ask, the question stained with a flicker of curiosity.

I want to know if he's a regular.

“Sometimes.” His lips curl into a knowing smile, and my gaze instinctively drifts to his mouth.

It’s a dangerous thing to do, because the way it tugs at my senses makes me suck on the straw slowly, like I’m savoring the taste of something I can’t quite reach.

It’s not that I haven’t been around handsome men before. Half of the guards at Konstantin’s, where I live, are nice to look at. But none of them have made me feel the way this stranger does. Like I wouldn’t mind if he took me into a dark corner, pressed me up against a wall, and had his way with me. I don’t know if he’s gentle or rough, though a part of me desperately hopes he’s the latter.

Cillian’s eyes narrow, a flash of something dark flickering across his face.

Oh God. He didn’t hear that, right?

A knot forms in my stomach, and I silently curse myself.

I need to stop imagining all the dirty things I want him to do to me before I actually say them out loud. That would be beyond humiliating.

“You seem a bit young to be here.” His palm slides down to the small of my back, tightening against me, making it clear that I belong to him in this moment.

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