Page 4 of Salvatore

Arrogant assholes with dark features are like catnip sent straight from Satan.

And yet here I am, unable to quit engaging. “Out of curiosity, if seduction was the aim, what would be your pick-up line?”

He leans closer, the heat of his lips casting warmth over the shell of my ear. “I don’t pick up, sweetheart. I pin down.”

Holy goddamn shit.

I swallow over the ache consuming my throat. Who the hell is this guy?

No.Scratch that.

I don’t want to know.

It’s. Girls’. Night. Pull your dick-hungry head out of the gutter, Ivy.

The cocky dreamboat steps around me to the bar, giving me his back.

I succumb a little and shift my gaze, admiring the sharp fade of his dark hair around the sides, the lengths on top longer, tousled, with a slight wave.

What would it feel like to run my fingers through that inky darkness? To drag my nails over his scalp?

Ivy Rosa Diaz. Focus.

“Your drinks, ma’am.” The bartender places three Bay Breeze tumblers on the polished wood counter beside the mountain of temptation.

I keep my calm, my cool, and glide forward, placing my clutch under my elbow before grabbing the glasses in a two-palmed grip.

“Do you need a hand?” Mr. Pin-down asks.

“No.” I refrain from glancing at him. “Thanks.”

If he’s not my type it will ruin the X-rated fantasy that’s about to warm my lonely nights. And if he’s everything my imagination has ever dreamed of—ruggedly handsome, strong jawline, sinful lips, with dark, devilish eyes—I’m far better not testing the limits of my restraint.

“Have a great night.” I walk away, head high, shoulders straight… libido crushed and whimpering.

Catcalls from faceless men follow me as I leave the sanctuary of the VIP area.

“Nice dress.”

“What’s your name?”

“Do you work at Subway?”

I pause at that last one, interested to hear where the unusual pick-up line will lead. The guy stands on the edge of the dance floor in cargo shorts and a white T-shirt withGood Vibes Onlyprinted on the front. I’m pretty sure the quote is a sarcastic gesture because the sterile look in his eyes is another reason why women would choose the bear in the woods.

“Because you just gave me a footlong,” he yells over the music, his smirk unapologetic.

I cringe and walk past him. “I suggest learning how to talk to a lady if you ever want to sleep with one.”

“The last thing anyone would call you is a lady,” he snaps. “From what I’m told you’re the Baltimore bike.”

Shock renders me immobile. My body responds as if I’m under attack, but instead of fight or flight my options are rage or retribution.

I turn to the asshole, my smile more venom than vibrant. “And I bet it stings that even the town bike won’t lay a finger on you.”

2

IVY

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