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“Do you like that? Men ogling, plying you with drinks?”
I swallow. He’s twisting the meaning of the words into something dirty, and a low throb of want that connects to an innate need to suddenly please undulates through me. Because I want to say I’m not the kind of girl he implies that I am.
“I just meant I can drink if I want.” I glare, my words laced with annoyance.
The slightly sullen note hangs in the air, and the look on his face is stern, almost savage, like a predator who needs to eat.
I’m not sure I like him.
But he’s beyond hot.
“You don’t need a drink,” he says.
“Neither do you.”
That earns a very slight smile. “But, little girl, I’m of age.”
Because I’ve had a couple of drinks on an empty stomach, and the courage of booze races through my veins, heating them, I slide a hand up over his chest and oh my God, it is a wall of solid, ripped muscle. I edge closer and press against him.
“I’m not a little girl, I’m not sixteen. In fact…” I don’t have to like him to flirt or to give in to the need to touch that pulsates through me. Test the boundaries. After all, there’s no one here to judge. Except for him. “I’m old enough.”
“I see.” His eyes glitter and then he moves. Fast.
My drink is pulled from my hand and set down, and then I’m flush against him, sandwiched between him and the wall.
He leans in, his tongue tracing the skin of my throat, and then he lifts his head. I’m boneless, a vortex of need that sucks all attention right to the spot where his tongue grazed.
A throbbing sensation hums between my thighs.
And I can barely breathe.
“Be very careful who you say that to,” he says. “Because a lot of the people on this overgrown boat won’t fucking stop there.”
“And you?” I whisper. “Where will you stop?”
“Playing with fire will get you the fuck burned.” He slides a large roughened palm against my cheek.
The heat of his touch burns deliciously deep.
The man licks me again, stopping at my pulse point. He sucks, making a moan slip from my lips.
He narrows his eyes at me, his lips twisting.
“Go. Now. Before…” He releases me and steps back, fire raging in his heavy gaze. “Something happens.”
I suck in a breath, my shoulders trembling. Then I cross the room, twist the door handle, and run like hell just as he commanded me to.
THREE
orion
Madagascar vanilla. That’s what Dakota fucking Hunt tastes like. Not sweet like sugar, but complex and indulgent.
Okay, there might be a little sweetness there, too.
I know I shouldn’t have done that. Put my tongue against her creamy skin and licked, put my mouth over that throb of her jugular and sucked, but fuck. The girl’s parading around in less than a damn bikini and some kind of white thing with huge holes I can see straight through.
Fucking Smith. Who the hell knew he’d be a dark horse, one with a kid. A kid I’m betting he doesn’t see much, if at all. Shit, I don’t even know if she knows he’s her father. Not that I can judge, considering my own past, letting my family think I was dead—because of the job I took in Black Ops—but there are similarities.
