Page 61 of Seeking Vengeance

I meet his hungry gaze and fight a needy whimper.

He evokes so much animalistic ferocity it’s agonizing. I’d give anything to be alone with him. One-on-one. Naked.

“You have the same effect,” I admit, raising my hand to trail my fingers over the red mark on his left cheek. “Who was that woman?”

His expression doesn’t falter. I don’t catch the slightest glimpse of guilt. “Do you really want to know?”

Yes.No.

I sigh. “Unfortunately, I can’t unsee what happened and my imagination isn’t kind.”

He straightens his shoulders. “Let me get you a drink first.”

Shit. Is it that bad?

“Wine?” He raises a brow and steps away to walk around the bar. “Vodka? Maybe a cocktail?”

“Surprise me.”

He smiles as if appreciating my trust, and begins making my concoction, swirling bottles, deftly adding shots while the bartenders ignore his liberties.

He needs to quit impressing me, otherwise I’ll never return home.

Never ever.

He snatches a bottle of gin and pours the liquid into a tall glass, his gaze downcast. His confidence bolsters mine. I don’t get it. In a new city, in an unknown club, I should be cautious and concerned. Instead, his presence empowers me, turning me into a wildcat, my claws barely hidden below the surface.

The only thing decreasing my self-assurance is that other woman. I’m not sure I want to hold his gaze while he tells me about her. I’ll be a slave to my emotions. How I feel will be written all over my face. Then he’ll know exactly how much power he has over me.

“Who was she?” I take the opportunity to have the unwanted discussion while he’s occupied.

He grabs for the vodka, adding a nip of alcohol to the glass. “Obviously someone who doesn’t appreciate my charm.”

I swallow the dryness building in my throat. “Is that all you’re going to give me?”

He looks up at me, stray strands of hair shading one eye. “She’s someone I almost slept with.” He holds my gaze for a beat, then returns his attention to the drink, adding juice, before stirring with a plastic swizzle.

I don’t want to ask. It makes me nauseous thinking about it, but the question slips free. “Almost?”

“Yeah.” He pours himself a scotch, then rounds the bar, placing my drink in front of me before raising his own to his lips. He holds my attention over the rim, his focus intense in its honesty. “Things got heated. But I didn’t follow through.”

Jealousy eats me from the inside out, the sharp teeth burrowing deep. “When?”

“A few weeks ago,” he admits.

A few weeks?

After we’d met, but before we’d kissed.

“What else do you want to know?” His question isn’t angered, or a taunt. He’s offering genuine transparency and I’m no longer sure I want it.

“Do you like her?”

His mouth kicks up as he takes another sip. “Did it look like I like her?”

“It looked like she liked you up until the second before her hand slapped across your face.”

He shrugs. “She wanted to finish what we started. I didn’t.”

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