“How good are we talking?” I ask, picking up a wing and turning it over in my fingers. It’s crispy, golden, with char marks on either side. “Based on aesthetics alone, I’m giving them a ten out of ten.”
He smirks. “You’ll see.”
He watches me eat. Which would normally freak me the fuck out—especially when it’s something messy like wings—but with Soren it feels different.
It’s like he’s curious about me, but there’s not an ounce ofjudgment to it. It’s like everything about me fascinates him somehow, and he just files it all away. For what reason, I don’t know—but maybe that doesn’t matter.
“Okay, you’re right,” I say, a mouth full of food. “These are fucking good.”
He laughs as if delighted by my atrocious table manners.
He reaches over and pushes hair from my face.
When he leans in to kiss me—my mouth still warm with spice and salt—I don’t stop him.
I don’t even hesitate.
His hand is already on my thigh when he does it, like it belongs, his fingers settling into the patterns of skin between the lace and denim.
The contact isn’t new, but the way it feels right now is.
It sends a sharp pulse low between my legs—my body reacting before I can filter it.
Want.
Something a little more dangerous underneath it.
His fixation with me is intense, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m excited to see what happens next.
He’s making me feel like I could do anything—no matter how unfiltered—and he’d only like me more.
CHAPTER 18
IVY
Suddenly self-conscious, I push away.
“I need to use the restroom,” I say, standing up. I straighten my clothes, pressing down my tank top, making sure the waistband of my shorts is flat against my waist.
He glances at me. “Are you okay, Ivy?”
“Ye–I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I notice a couple of guys leering at me as I walk past. They smell like beer and bad decisions. One rakes his eyes over me from head to toe, and my entire body tightens.
“Hey sugar,” he says, his voice a little loose. “Come over here and talk to us. We have a question for you.”
I’m sure they’ve been here for a couple of hours at least, guzzling beer after beer, finding false confidence with every sip.
I ignore them and keep walking. It’s par for the course in an establishment like this.
Not that lecherous creeps don’t exist in sophisticated champagne bars—they just tend to be a little more discreet about it. Or prefer to whisk women away to private yachts ininternational waters and magical islands. Or have them sign NDAs and make big confidential settlements.
But I digress.
I push through the peeling saloon door leading to the unisex bathroom, and close myself in a stall.
There are noises outside, and I don’t think much of it until I flush the toilet and step out of the cubicle.