His possession

Chapter Two

I could feel my friends staring at me, but I was at a loss. “I . . . I got nothing.” Was he a brawler or a rich playboy or both? I was also sensing top notes of European—along with strong undertones of dangerous!

He was like a history book written in a script I’d never seen. Fascinating.

Jess pinched my side, drawing my attention to her smug grin. “You can close your mouth now, hooker.” In a patronizing tone, she said, “Welcome to my world—where first meetings are always in slo-mo and the song ‘At Last’ repeats on a loop.”

No, no, her world was angsty and overwrought. So why had my gaze darted back to the man?

“That’s one hot piece of tackle—in a cage-fighter/GQ model mash-up kind of way.” Jess wasn’t going to let this go. “Probably gets more ass than a toilet seat. But he got you to look twice, which makes him a rare and wondrous creature, this bar’s very own unicorn. Requires closer investigation, don’t you think?”

I could question him, type him, then discard all thoughts of him. I was just tipsy enough to consider it. “I should go up and introduce myself?”

She nodded. “Unless you’re a t**t. Now, go forth with confidence, for you look cute-iful tonight.”

Jess’s style was SEXY GLAM! Mine? See-me-love-me, motherfleckers. Yet tonight, I was wearing a hip-hugging suede skirt and a slinky red top—one of Jess’s fashion-forward, low-cut numbers. For once, my bra wasn’t a minimizer.

This outfit had come about because the clothes I’d normally wear—jeans and a turtleneck—were all in an overflowing laundry hamper. I’d worn the black knee-high boots Jess had bought me, to show appreciation in front of her.

I rose, smoothed my wavy hair over my shoulder, then tugged down my skirt, prompting Jess to give me a loud slap on the ass for encouragement. As I passed their table, Ill-Equipped and Habitual Drunk raised their glasses to me, which didn’t hurt my confidence.

Once I was halfway over to Badass, his eyes locked on me. His gaze grew heated, and immediately the area felt smaller, warmer. I squelched the urge to fan myself. For the first time in my life, I was a little . . . giddy.

When I sidled up to him at the bar, he turned fully to me. Up close, he was even more intimidating, even more attractive. Taller than I’d thought.

His spellbinding eyes were the color of amber, irises ringed with black.

As I noted additional details—scarred knuckles, tattoos on his fingers under those rings, chiseled jawline clean-shaven—I perceived the heat coming off his big body. Then I got my first mind-numbing hit of his scent. Crisp, masculine, intoxicating,Blindsiding.

Speak, Nat. I had to look up to face him. “Uh, hi, I’m Natalie.” I offered him my hand to shake. He didn’t take it. Okay . . . I swallowed. “Can I buy you a drink?” Was that a vodka rocks he’d ordered? He didn’t look like a 7&7 type of guy.

He canted his head, studying my face—the same way I studied men’s expressions. Still he said nothing. Maybe he didn’t speak the language. UNL had a lot of overseas students. “Drink?” I pointed to his untouched glass and mimed a shot. His expression gave away so little, it was like I was talking to a wall.

As my cheeks flushed, I muttered, “Sooo, this went well. Good talk, buddy.” With a mortified smile, I turned around—

A callused palm closed around my elbow, his rings cool compared to his skin. The contact was so electric, I shivered.

“Wait,” he said. Had there been a subtle v sound to that w?

My heart leapt—maybe he was . . . Russian. I turned around, a genuine smile on my face now. “Are you from Russia?” I added, “Zdrav-stvooi-tee.” Hello.

He still cupped my elbow. How could his hand be so hot? I stifled imaginings of him cupping other parts of me, those hands spreading heat in their wake. . . .

“You speak my language, then?”

Bingo, a Russian! “A bit,” I said with delight. I could grill him about the country, learning more about my birthplace! “I took a class or two.” Or five. My master’s had required fluency in a second language, and I’d chosen Russian.

He swept his glance around, his stance alert, as if someone might throw a punch at any second. Then he met my gaze once more. “Of all the men in this bar, you choose me to approach?” His English was very good, though heavily accented. “Are you looking for trouble?”

With a confidence I didn’t feel, I teasingly said, “Maybe I am.” I sounded breathy—I still hadn’t caught my breath since he’d first touched me. “Have I found it?”

He glanced down, seeming surprised that he was still holding my arm. He abruptly released me, growing angrier by the second. “No, little girl. You have not.” With a disgusted look, he turned away and stalked out.

I stared at the door, battling my bewilderment. What just happened? I’d seen interest in his gaze, hadn’t I?

Yet then he’d acted like a vampire who’d discovered I was a f*****g sunbeam.