Page 6 of Maneater
When I have a new glass, I turn back to my bar mate. “What do you do for fun?”
“What?” he asks, clearly thrown by the question.
“Fun. Personal enjoyment? Things that make you happy? Hobbies?”
His brow furrows in clear confusion, and it’s almost cute.
“Why are you asking?” I let out a loud laugh that I know draws attention to me, but the only attention I’m interested in right now is his. It’s so heated and exact, so targeted, I feel like the only woman in the room.
“God, have you ever just made small talk with a woman before?”
He hesitates before a lazy, hot grin slides along his face, and I feel it in my belly.
“I don’t typically need small talk.”
I force myself to talk instead of melting under the mere presence of this man. He surely doesn’t need the ego boost.
“Because you’re so boring, you need to rely on only your looks to get women, got it.” I nod, taking him in exaggeratedly. “That tracks.” We stare at each other, waiting to see who will break first. I win this battle when he lets out a sigh before answering my question, finally.
“I don’t have hobbies. I work.” I give him a raised eyebrow, not buying it, but he shrugs. “You were right: I work in high-end corporate. I enjoy my job, so I do it a lot. Climbing the ladder doesn’t leave a lot of free time for other things.”
“What a way to live,” I scoff, and he shrugs. “Okay, if you weren’t working, what would you be doing?” I say, sitting back and taking a small sip of the bubbly, crisp champagne.
“Not flirting with men in order to get a free drink, that’s for sure.”
“You know, the whole grumpy asshole thing is kind of hot, but I bet you’d get laid more if you dropped it.” It’s a bit of a lie because, unfortunately for me, assholes have always been my type.
And worst of all, I think Rowan could also be my type. Because, fuck, just look at how his arms look in that button-down. The fabric is literally straining. I have to actively fight against the urge to fan myself. Add in the fact that his bared forearms are thick with veins and sinew and muscle that make my mouth water, along with the edges of a tattoo I desperately, in my tipsy state, want to see in its totality, and I’m lost to common sense.
With my words, his gaze goes molten.
He drops the indifference that I now realize was an act and turns his body to me fully, taking me in over the rim of his whiskey glass. His eyes roam my face, pausing at my lips, then move down, burning over the cleavage I have on display, then the curves of the skin-tight olive-green knee-length dress I’m wearing. When his eyes shift back to mine, his tongue peeks out, wiping possibly non-existent droplets of liquor from them, and I think I almost come right then and there.
“A real man doesn’t need to play some dashing gentleman to get laid.”
“What does he need then?”
He smiles. It’s devilish and shoots lust through me. It’s probably a mix of adrenaline from a completed assignment earlier, drinks on a nearly empty stomach, and banter with this man who drives me mad that is creating an undeniable cocktail of desire to shift through me, but for once, I don’t care. For once, the tight rein I normally hold on my restraint and common sense is loosening.
“Skill,” he states simply.
“I’m assuming you think you have the skill?” I ask with a laugh that’s breathier than I intend.
“Oh, I definitely have the skill.”
It’s an arrogant remark, the kind I should hate. It’s the kind of remark men who rarely have the skill to back up that kind of promise love to say, but for some insane reason, I believe him.
And for some reason, some psychotic reason I can’t quite fathom, I smile. “I’ve found that actions speak louder than words,” I say. It sounds huskier even to my own ears, and for once, it wasn’t intentional, not part of some intricate scheme to win someone over, to convince them to tell me what I want to hear.
This is so far out of character for me. Usually, I’m all talk, no action. All flirting with no payoff. God, I can’t remember the last time I went on a real date that wasn’t set up for work, much less the last time I kissed a man.
But right now, I want this man to prove to me he has the skill.
His gaze burns on me for a long moment before finally breaking, reaching for his phone. He taps on it a few times, then waits until it dings once before tapping the screen and sliding it into the pocket of his pants. That’s when he stands up, pushing his chair in. His chintips toward Carrie. “Mind watching my seat for me? I gotta go into Dante’s office for a bit.”
“Not at all,” she says with a smile. Disappointment fills me, since by the time he gets back, I know I’ll have made the big girl decision of heading out and going home because tomorrow will be a busy day.
“It was nice to—” I start, but then his hand is on my wrist, thick, long fingers wrapping around it. I gasp as he tugs, pulling me up and out of my chair. His breath coasts along my lips as I stand, our bodies mere inches apart from one another before he speaks.
