Page 6 of Redemption

I let my mask slip a bit further, and my smile sharpens. I keep her pinned in my steady, unwavering stare, and her lips part slightly on a panting intake of breath.

She drops her gaze and drains the last inch of her drink, as though she needs the cool liquid to soothe her flushed skin.

“What brought you to Charleston?” she counters instead of immediately agreeing to be my tour guide.

I smother a small frown at her renewed resistance. The chemistry we share is undeniable, electric. But perhaps it’s potent enough to make her uncomfortable. I must be right about her: she’s a good girl.

I recall the way she stiffened when the creep invaded her personal space. Maybe she doesn’t often flirt with men.

“I came here for work,” I say simply.

I don’t care to talk about my job; it doesn’t define me. I’ll never understand the American fixation on career as a defining characteristic. It’s just a way to make money and afford the lifestyle I desire.

Before she can press for more information, I flag down the bartender and order her another cosmopolitan.

“I can get it,” she says quickly, reaching into her purse.

I pay with my black card before she can fully pull out a wad of one-dollar bills.

Interesting. She’s scraping money together to pay for her drinks, but she doesn’t want me to take care of her.

Out of pride?

I shake off my curiosity. Her reasons don’t matter; she won’t pay for another drink tonight. She will have to accept that.

Women usually love being taken care of. This isn’t the first time I’ve engaged in this little game where a woman reaches for her purse. But it is the first time that I truly believe she’s uncomfortable with me paying. It’s confounding, especially considering her meager funds.

I have plenty of money, and I want to spend it on her.

“I’ve got it.” I deepen my tone again, brooking no resistance as I press the cocktail glass into her hand.

Her slender fingers close around it without further protest.

Definitely submissive.

She takes another long draw of her sweet drink, a sign of nervousness that I savor even as I worry that she might be drinking too fast. With her slender frame, I’d be surprised if she can handle much alcohol.

“You should check out Folly Beach sometime,” she says, making more small talk to soothe her nerves. She’s painstakingly polite, and she seems almost conditioned to continue the conversation.

Definitely a good Carolina girl.

I’ll enjoy corrupting her later.

But for now, she won’t drink more. I have no interest in taking a drunk woman home with me.

I want her fully aware of every moment we share, every drop of pleasure I wring from her delicate body.

“I’d love to go to the beach with you sometime,” I say, maintaining my assertion that she’ll show me around the area.

It’s strange that I’m setting a date with a woman I barely know. Usually, a night or two is enough to sate my physical needs.

But I definitely wouldn’t mind spending more time in Abigail’s company. She’s a puzzle I haven’t quite figured out, and I won’t let her go until I solve it.

I reach out and pluck the half-empty cocktail glass from her hand before setting it on the bar alongside my whiskey.

“Dance with me.” It’s a command, and she doesn’t pull away when I take her dainty hand in mine.

“But we haven’t finished our drinks,” she protests, even as she allows me to lead her away from the bar.

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