Page 18 of Seeking Vengeance

My body doesn’t care though. My blood pumps faster at the diluted comparison. My cock hardens, wanting relief from the obsession.

I watch her, pretending the swaying woman is mine, not taking my gaze off her as the flashing lights blink over her body.

Need pulses in my throat by the time our eyes meet. It’s a simple travelling glance at first. A brief scan of her surroundings. Until she notices me staring. Then her intent snaps back to mine, her smile quick to form.

That’s wrong, too.

The curve of lips doesn’t dazzle or intrigue.

It’s fucking disappointing. Almost deflating. But my cock doesn’t get the memo because it’s still in full-blown Denver mode.

My libido thinks she’s here.She’sthe one dancing before me, her wild eyes intoxicating, her delicious body coaxing.

The woman continues to hold my gaze, her hips rolling, her arms moving above her head. I cling tighter to the banister, my knuckles aching, my throat drying.

I’m going to succumb.

After twenty-four hours obsessing about a mystery woman—living and breathing the questions that continuously slam my mind—I need relief.

I fucking deserve it.

I crook a finger at the dancer. Her mouth flattens for a shock-filled moment before she lowers her arms to her sides and saunters toward me.

The closer she gets, the paler the comparison, but I’m too far gone to divert this train wreck.

She stops on the lower level before me and calls out, “Did you want me?”

No,I want Denver.

“Yes.” I rake my gaze over her, my pulse lessening with the new misgivings now apparent up close. The irises that are brown not blue. The bump on the bridge of her nose. “Care to join me in the VIP room?”

Her eyes widen, then she swings around, glancing toward her friends in the crowd. She waves them farewell without a thought to her safety and returns her focus to me with a grin. “Let’s go.” She hustles along the outside of the dance floor, up the three steps, then straight to my side.

Self-loathing is a constant companion as I lead her to the upper level filled with more dancing drinkers, then through the guarded doors to the quieter, exclusive part of the club.

But it’s early on a Thursday night, so nobody with a glowing reputation has arrived yet.

It’s just us, the bartender, and two couples who would’ve shed a couple hundred bucks for a once-in-a-lifetime experience that reeks of egotistical exclusivity.

I buy my companion a drink, pretend to listen to her life story, and flash my winning grin whenever I feel it’s necessary. But I can’t hold her gaze. She’s nothing in comparison to Denver. Not with her over-the-top bubbly personality or her constant need to flick her hair as if she’s involved in some fucking pathetic mating ritual.

Problem is, my dick won’t cooperate. He’s still all in, demanding something to numb the infatuation I hold for someone else.

“Have we met before?” The woman asks in a garbled rush. “Do we know each other? Because I’m sure I’ve seen you around. Your face is familiar. Handsome, too. You’re like this quiet, mysterious type. It’s so chill.” She pauses for a breath and a sip of her cocktail, then giggles to herself. “This is surreal… But damn, I really need to pee.”

She’s fucking high—the frantic speech, the glazed eyes.

I’m fully aware I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel, and I still can’t stop.

When she stands from our booth to go to the bathroom, I escort her, always a fucking gentleman. Then I wait in the hall, my shoulder leaned against the wall, my arms crossed.

These minutes alone, with the bass thumping beneath my feet from downstairs, and my hunger building for a stranger, only increase my impatience. My fucking addiction.

I have to find Denver.

The restaurant staff told me her reservation was made under the name Adley Javernick. A ghost. Someone who doesn’t exist in Colorado or any of the surrounding states. Not even online.

She covered her tracks, which only reinforces my belief that she was spying for underhanded reasons.

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