One Dirty Night - Page 145

The man had to be descended from gods because no one, I meant no one, looked as impossibly perfect as he did.

Dark hair cropped close to his head. Lips a shade too red that only seemed to paint him with violence instead of seduction. Shadowed dark eyes and impeccably shaven jaw. Cheeks that were slightly hollow and a throat clenching with power. His lips thinned as he rolled them together, nodding at something his companion said. His nose flared slightly as if he felt the same snap of awareness I did but couldn’t understand why.

Slowly, his head tipped up.

His gaze scanned the pumping club, his entire body full of predatory calculation.

My tummy fluttered.

His tongue flicked out and ran over his bottom lip, searching.

Look over here.

I couldn’t catch a proper breath.

I wanted him to see me. Just like I saw him. I wanted to know if he felt the same unexplainable flash of incinerating heat. A heat I’d never felt before, even in the hottest moment of passion.

His shoulders tensed as he kept looking.

My heart skipped twenty beats as it tried to remember how to work. My knees gave up being bone and became melted butter instead.

“What can I get you?” A woman leaned over the sticky bar and yelled in my ear.

All the music slammed back.

All the chaos and smells and…ill-advised courage.

Tearing my gaze from the demigod as he returned to glowering at the man beside him, I locked eyes with the pretty bartender and yelled far too loudly, “I’m breaking up with my boyfriend and we need shots.”

Sam went rigid beside me.

The girl’s brown eyebrows shot to her pixie haircut.

And I swayed on the spot as the demigod suddenly looked past his companion and locked gazes with me.

Grey.

His eyes are dark grey.

And dear lord, he froze like I had.

Froze as if he smelled me from there and decided in a single moment that he very much wanted to eat me alive.

I didn’t know if I wanted to run away as fast as possible or offer myself up on a silver platter.

“What the fuck is going on, Ily?” Sam’s fingers dug into my upper arms, spinning me to face him. My nape prickled, hating having my back turned on the man who made my instincts sing with deep, dark warnings.

“You’re breaking up with me?” His face contorted into something scary instead of English charm. “What the fuck?”

The bartender placed a long wooden board next to us with six shots of some sort of amber liquor. I looked from Sam’s rage to the shot. I made the choice to bolster my courage with liquid strength.

Snatching two shots, I tossed them back, winced at the fire, gasped, choked, coughed, coughed some more, than sucked in a wheezy breath.

“I know it’s your birthday, Sam, but…I’ve given you a blowjob, so I think it’s only fair that you give me a divorce.”