Page 4 of Dark Wolf Soul
I stare at her. “Seriously?”
That’s my rent money.What the fuck.
She studies me with a softening expression. “Look, I know you said you didn’t want to dance, but… a thousand bucks buys a lot of burritos.”
“Burritos aren’t what I need,” I mumble.
She softens. “I know.”
Ugh.
“Look, just take him the drink, and see for yourself,” she says gently. “If you don’t like the vibe, walk away. It’s your decision.”
She’s gone before I can think of a reason to argue with that logic.
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. Fuck it. It’s just an Old-Fashioned.
I turn and walk into the fourth and last VIP section.
The last sofa is empty.
I frown, unsure what to do, but then a looming shadow emerges from the darkened corner. Broad shoulders give way to the rest of him as he steps into the red-lit spotlight overhead. He’s tall and well-dressed in a button-down shirt and suit slacks perfectly tailored to his form. I don’t know a ton about fabric quality, but something tells me he doesn’t shop at a box department store. The shirt sleeves have been rolled up to the elbow, revealing ink I can’t quite make out in the dim lighting.
One thing Icansee is that he’s handsome as hell in a rugged, dangerous sort of way. The suit should have made him respectable-looking, but it only sends the message that this man has deep enough pockets to command whatever respect he doesn’t earn.
His piercing blue eyes scan my body from head to toe in a lazy yet invasive inspection. Suddenly, the short dress I’m wearing doesn’t seem like nearly enough to hide my vulnerable parts.
By the time his eyes reach mine again, I can’t help but feel stripped bare already.
“You must be Lexi.”
His deep voice scrapes along my skin, and I shudder at the intimate way he’s touched me without lifting a finger.
What the hell, Lex? Get your shit together.
“You must be the Old-Fashioned.” I hold the drink out, not bothering to step closer as I offer it.
He reaches over to take the drink from my hand. As he does, his fingers brush mine, and like some kind of traitor to the cause, my body literally tingles from our shared touch.
This is ridiculous.
Turning on my heel, I start to leave.
“You’re not staying for the dance?”
I turn back, unable to stop the glare I give him. “I’m not a dancer.”
“Well, I was thinking I’d be the judge of that.”
His words are teasing, but his expression is more of a dare.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
I hesitate, eyeing the money and wondering if a roof over my head is worth it.
“How do you know my name?”
He takes a step forward. “The bartender mentioned it earlier.”
