Page 8 of White Pawn
She moves away, her steel blue eyes moving to my lips on a smirk. “I’m not fucking you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You’re right.” And then she turns around, swaying her body in rhythm to the music. She gathers her hair in her hands as she lifts her arms above her head, turning her head to the side as she lets her hair go. It cascades down her back like she’s filming a shampoo commercial. Her hips swish from side to side and I watch her ass, my dick swelling at the thought of what it would look like out of that tight little dress. The song ends and she walks back to the bar, taking a seat on the one empty stool. This girl is something else. I cross the dance floor, wedging myself between her and the little hipster fuck sitting on the stool next to her.
“So, what are you writing?” she asks. “Another book in thePerceptionseries?”
“Nah, something new.” I motion the bartender over and order two more drinks.
“You trying to get me drunk?” she asks.
“Not at all. Just trying to be a gentleman.”
She tosses her head back and laughs.
“What?”
“Look, I know guys like you.”
“I’m sorry…” The bartender hands me two whisky sours. I take both, handing one to her before I take a stout sip from my own.
“You know,” she shrugs, “assholes. Players.”
“Oh, that’s fucking low.”
“Is it?” she takes a slow sip and places the glass on the counter, trailing a single fingertip around the rim. “So, I’ve got you all wrong then, huh?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hmm.” She lifts the glass back to her mouth, smiling around the edge as she takes another drink. “You sure look the part. Pretty playboy face, tight shirts that show off your muscles and tats. And you have this swagger that I’ve only seen true players pull off.” She giggles. “And, I bet, if I wereactuallyinterested in you, you wouldn’t have paid half the attention to me in that coffee shop that you did.”
“Actually interested?” I scoff, and she lifts an eyebrow. “Okay, okay. Psychoanalyze me all you want, dear, but don’t get all butthurt when I do the same thing to you.”
Her eyes flare. “Oh, and what conclusion have you come to about me?”
I drag my eyes over her, attempting to come up with some good shit, I mean, hell I am a writer, but all I can think about is how badly I want to fuck her. How badly I want to have her begging me to be inside her. Sex is all that’s on my mind…
“Exactly,” she says. “I’m just an innocent woman.”
Taking a swift swig of whisky, I chuckle into the glass. “Innocent my ass. That resting bitch face you’ve got going is a tell-tell sign that you’re from some ritzy background. Fucking snob…” She glares at me. “You’re from money, aren’t you?”
“Congratulations. Was it the resting bitch face or the Lou Vuitton that tipped you off.”
“Both.”
And a smile cracks on her face. Marisa reaches over, grabbing my shirt and tugging me toward her. “So a player and a snob. Total mismatch.”
“Oh, please.”
She pushes to her feet, her fingertips trailing up my shirt, my neck. She grips my jaw in her hand as she inches toward my face, our eyes locked. “Something about you... ” she whispers. Her warm breath washes over my lips and I can almost taste her. Her fingernails rake over my forearm as she takes a step back, giving me a good once over. “Shame I don’t fuck around with players.” Then, she turns and walks off, her hips swaying with each heavy step.
I can’t help but laugh to myself as I watch her weave through the crowded bar toward the door. It’s been a while since I’ve had to chase a girl, and that one right there—Marisa Dawson—she’s definitely going to be a problem.
