Page 77 of Privileged (Adrenalin)

Worshipped almost.

Claimed.

I’ve been watched before. It comes with the territory when you live in a tourist town that attracts adventurous and often single visitors, and you’re a reasonably attractive single man. Most of the time I ignore it and go about my business, because I’m not a tourist attraction. I’m the owner of one of the most successful restaurants in the valley, and I didn’t get to this point by playing when I should’ve been working.

Very occasionally, when I feel like I’ve been too single for too long, I let a pretty face distract me. I let myself get pulled into conversation. And if the attraction is strong enough, I let that conversation turn into something more. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not above it either, when the need gets too great. Then I go back to work, because the restaurantbusiness is tough, and I can’t afford to take my focus off it if I want to keep the reputation I’ve earned.

So, yeah, being watched is nothing new. But being the sole object of someone’s focus, being claimed so definitively that Ifeelrather than see who’s doing the claiming… that’s new. And it’s so intense, so thrilling, I know even before I turn around that I’ll be helpless to stop what happens next.

The person who makes me feel this way wants to own me, and while I won’t give in without a fight, eventually I’ll let them have me. How could I not, when they have the power to make me tremble with their eyes alone.

My pride won’t let me make it easy though, so I suppress the urge to turn around, helping a waitress pile drinks on her serving tray. It’s a last-ditch effort to regain some sort of control over my body. But it’s futile. No matter how crazy this is, I can’t pretend I’m not dying to know who has the ability to affect me so completely. So, I face the entry, and the source of my erratic heartbeat.

There’s a group of bikers, motocross based on their jumpsuits, lingering by the hostess stand. They’re gesturing wildly with their hands, still under the influence of the adrenaline from their ride, their bodies practically vibrating beneath their protective gear. All but the tallest. He seems rooted in place, and despite the helmet covering his face I know he’s the one kissing my skin with his eyes.

I watch as he lifts the helmet off, ruffling his dirty blond hair so the damp strands curl around his face. His fair skin has a bronze tint from the sun, making the stubble on his face look almost golden. My eyes track his hand as he unzips the jumpsuit he’s wearing and slips out of the arms, so the top part of the suit hangs loosely on his waist, framing the damp t-shirt that clings to his leanly muscled chest.

A fresh wave of heat engulfs me, and I lift my eyes to his face in time to catch the coy grin lingering on his lips. He knows I’m ogling, which makes me briefly self-conscious, until I realize his eyes are tracking over me the same way mine just savored him. My breath catches in my chest, which is a problem, because I know his kind.

I’m no stranger to men like this. Men who live for the rush of endorphins that come from pushing themselves to the limit. Adventurous types like that are drawn to this town, which has some of the most extreme terrain you can find. For some of them they chase those endorphins on a snowboard, for others a kayak, for this guy it’s a dirt bike. Based on the camera case one of the guy’s sets on the table, he’s probably a pro rider on a break from the racing circuit, passing through with a film crew to capture his latest trick. Presumably, that makes him the kind of guy with scores of admirers, the kind of guy to jump into beds as often as he jumps over obstacles on the track.

Usually, those are female beds, so I’ve never had the pleasure. I can see the appeal though.

Athletes are lean and hard, with hips that swagger suggestively when they walk, and smiles that have a way of making you think you’re the only person they see. Physically…damn. Behaviorally… When you spend your life chasing the high you get from being the fastest or the best you start to believe you are. You start to expect that people will adore you, whether you deserve it or not. That attitude holds no allure for me, even if it comes in an attractive package.

Or rather, it didn’t, untilhewalked in.

The guys are seated in Claire’s section, and I watch protectively as the pretty brunette approaches to take their order. The men smile and laugh, she’s so darn cheery it’s impossible not to, and while they appear to flirt no one leers at her. No one admires her in a predatory way, least of all the tall man, who still looks like he wants to devour me. And eventhough I’m wary of his kind, I take some comfort in knowing that it’s not just any person who can capture his gaze, it’sme.

Deep inside, in the secret, private corners of my mind, I like how he looks at me. The need I see in his eyes. I should be offended by it—by being objectified—but I’m not. I don’t know what that says about me, but even as I hate myself for it, I can’t deny it’s true, or that I’m probably looking at him the same way.

Stalling as long as I can, I use time and distance to calm my racing heart and give me some semblance of control before I have to approach him. Them. But the patio is full, and the staff are scrambling, forcing me to run drinks and food and credit cards to keep things from getting backed up. I feel his eyes tracking me, watching, waiting for my tasks to bring me to him. And when their drinks are ready and Claire is nowhere in sight, I can’t stall any longer.

“Are we ordering food today?” I give each man a glass, filling them with the pitcher of beer they ordered.

The man to my left asks for a burger, and they go around the table calling out their ravenous orders until finally the only one left is the man I’m deliberately trying to avoid. The one whose eyes I feel roaming over me hungrily. With a deep, steadying breath I face him. “And for you?”

“What do you recommend?” His voice is deep, but softer than I expected. Soothing. It rolls over my bare arms with a heat that his playful grin suggests he can see on my face.

“That’s not fair to ask.” I breathe. “I don’t know you. I can’t possibly know what you might like.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll like anything you suggest.” The mischievous gleam in his eyes makes my stomach flutter even as it hardens my resolve.

“The steak salad then.” I make a note on my pad amid a chorus of laughter from the table. My admirer is undeterred.

“With a side of fries.” He hands me his menu, the satisfied smirk on his face declaring this round a tie.

I collect the rest of the menus and go to place their order, both relieved and disappointed that our brief exchange is over. I don’t have time to dwell on that though, because the restaurant is too busy, and soon my admirer is shoved aside as I dart between the kitchen and the bar, overseeing the hectic energy of the lunch rush.

It’s not until nearly an hour later that I come up for air and my curiosity gets the better of me. Chancing a look in my admirer’s direction, my stomach drops as I realize he’s not there. None of them are. They’re shuffling out the front as Claire clears their table. I exhale deeply, allowing myself a brief moment of regret for the loss of a man I shouldn’t even want, then make my way towards my office so I can pull up the report on the day’s sales. But my hand freezes halfway to the doorknob, the familiar tingle so overpowering I can’t complete the act of opening the door.

“You never came back to our table.” I feel rather than hear his words, even though he’s several feet away, standing at the end of the secluded hallway that leads to the bathrooms as well as my office.

I turn, putting my back to the door.

“How was your salad?” Those aren’t the words I want, but they’re the only ones that come out as he stalks toward me.

“I’m sure it was delicious.” He doesn’t miss a beat, “But I barely tasted it. I was too busy watching you. Why didn’t you come back?” He stops in front of me, effectively caging me between his body and the door.

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