Page 4 of Chains of Recompense
He’s still young enough to be a bit on the lean side of muscular, however—and he’s dangerously handsome.
His dark eyes act like mirrors in the club’s dim light, somehow fathomless, and yet, at the same time, they reflect the world back at me like the surface of a still lake.
His lips curve, tilting into a charming, lopsided grin that devastates me.
He looks perfectly at ease, even smug, like he can read my lie before it’s left my lips.
“Here to experience your first time?” he teases, his eyes dancing as he takes me in, inch by seductive inch.
Do I have a sign plastered to my forehead saying, “I’m a virgin”? And even if I did, who is this guy to assume something so personal about me? What kind of question is that, anyway?
Righteous indignation rises inside me as my face bursts into flames. “Excuse me?” I demand, my chin tilting up as my spine stiffens. “That isnoneof your business—even if you are buying me a drink,” I snap. “But if you must know—you presumptuous ass—it’s definitely not my first time. I’ve hadloadsof sex.”
I’m about to lay into him about how a modicum of manners might increase his very low chances of finding a woman willing to sleep with him when his low chuckle brings me up short.
Does he think he’s funny?
Is he toying with me, laughing at me for getting offended by his crude, offensive question?
I mean, yes, we’re in a sex club—about which I know next to nothing—but still, I would have thought a little bit of polite conversation wouldn’t be too much to expect.
If this is what Kelly and Hannah considergodlike, maybe I don’t need to see what it’s about, after all.
I start to slide off my seat when he speaks.
“While that’s good to know,” Tall, Dark, and Arrogant says, his wolfish smile deepening until a wicked dimple appears at the peak of his crooked smile, “I meant, is this your first time at Portentia’s?”
“Oh.” I suddenly wish I had the ability to turn invisible—or at least could crawl under a table and die. “Right. Um, yes. First time.”
Thankfully, Dom returns at that moment, setting a generous shot of whiskey in front of me and a second one in front of my rescuer-slash-the-man-I-just-called-a-presumptuous-ass-for-apparently-no-reason.
Snatching up the lowball glass, I take a massive gulp—and fight the urge to cough and spew the liquor as it burns down my throat like liquid fire.
Eyes watering as I cringe, I cover my mouth to keep the whiskey down.
Then I realize the tall, dark stranger is holding up his own glass as if to toast me.
That one eyebrow climbs higher up his forehead, disappearing beneath his perfectly styled black locks.
And that lopsided grin straightens into a brilliant, white-toothed smile.
Forcing the liquid down my throat, I clink my near-empty glass against his. “Cheers,” I say, avoiding my family’s usual toast ofsláintein a weak attempt to hide my Irish roots.
“Saluti,” the stranger agrees, the Italian silky smooth as it slides from his tongue.
As I polish off my whiskey, he sips his, watching me with open interest.
I’m about two seconds from bailing, turning tail and sprinting from the club before I make an even bigger fool of myself than I already have.
That would probably be the smartest thing I’ve done all night.
Clearly, I’m out of my depths here, and the longer I stay, the more likely I am to put my foot in my mouth again—or worse, draw enough attention that someone recognizes who I am.
But when the handsome stranger beside me sets down his glass, his head cocking as he studies me curiously, I have this inexplicable urge to stay, to hear the question lingering in his eyes.
“Tell me, what brings you here tonight…?”
His question lingers, waiting for me to fill in the blank as he silently asks for my name, and my heart stutters.
