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To buy time and compose myself, I move away from him, dancing around their table to the elegant beta lounging in the chair next to Sawyer.
Roman.
His dark eyes widen when I make my way to him, as if he never counted on being next. Thing is, I have a weakness for beta and omega males. Don’t get me wrong, I love alphas, the growly, hulking beefcakes of the world, but betas and omegas look more… normal, somehow. Less over the top.
Though this beta sure is over the top handsome. Uh-oh. I’m in trouble again, escaping from the blond alpha god only to be ensnared by the dark gaze of this graceful Fae prince—and yeah, I may have read one Fae romance book too many lately. He sure looks like one, all elegant lines, broad cheekbones and finely muscled arms, an artist’s fingers and a dreamer’s mouth.
Does that make sense? No? It doesn’t matter. It makes sense to me, and as I dance, doing a little sexy shimmy with my hips, lifting my arms over my head, throwing my head back and grinning like a lunatic, I wonder if I can get away with calling him Cardan, after my favorite literary Fae prince.
Inside my head, of course. Not out loud. Nope.
Though Cardan was a bit of a douche. I bet Roman isn’t like that. But what do I know? I strut around his chair, placing one hand on his shoulder—ooh, nice muscle padding there—and I’m gratified to have him twist his head around like an owl to watch me.
God, he smells amazing, too, and ignoring it isn’t going to work. I bet by now my panties are drenched, but I keep dancing.
Next up is my little ‘sex-routine.’ I nudge his legs apart and put my hands on his chest, then I roll my hips as if riding him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, swallowing hard, the slight Adam’s apple in his throat moving. He lifts his hands, then clenches them into fists as if just remembering he isn’t allowed to touch.
And I want him to touch me.
Bad idea…
So I quickly pull away, straightening and trying to get my bearings. Sawyer is gazing at me, but I can’t bear to look into his eyes, can’t bear this at all, so I turn to my last refuge:
The dark-haired alpha who called me to their table.
Archer.
I think I see a flash of hurt going over Sawyer’s face, but I can’t deal with it right now. I’m hanging on to my sanity by a thread as it is.
To reach Archer, I have to go back around the table, walking past Kyrian whose hands are now clenched in his lap, his gaze like knives on me. He’s like a wild, untamed animal, beautiful and savage. My heart is in my throat and my panties definitely soaked as my leg brushes against his.
He murmurs a curse.
At my approach, Archer doesn’t move, his gaze watching, measuring, analyzing my every move. If Kyrian is a wild animal, Archer is an apex predator, danger lurking in his blue eyes.
The dollars flutter, loosely held in one hand.
Is it a play, a game, or is he serious? He wants to be a customer? Is that what he thought would be best to do, after I sent them away? Is he the sort of man to feel his macho pride hurt and seek to hurt me in other ways? Embarrass me? Demean me?
It hadn’t crossed my mind until now, and cold sweat pours down my back.
He waits, not moving a muscle, for me to take another step.
I take it, gritting my teeth. There’s no backing down now. I bet my boss is watching me, ready to cut my pay if I create any trouble with the customers, and I need that money. God, how I need it. The lure of the dollars in Archer’s hand is in fact enough to get me moving again.
That cash is why I’m here in the first place. They are the intruders, not me. I’m just doing my job to pay the bills. So I take another step, and another, until I’m standing in front of him.
The low table with their untouched drinks is at my back, Archer before me. I find myself caught between a rock and a hard place.
The lines of his face are harsh and yet harmonious. A classic alpha. The sharp square of his jaw fits perfectly with his lean cheeks and strong chin, the fine lips and the Roman nose, the high forehead and the short dark hair. A classic statue of a man, an ode to masculinity, and yet that predatory light still shining in his gaze turns him from a man into a tiger ready to pounce.
I’m frozen, a deer caught in the headlights, and he’s still sprawled there, one hand—the one holding the cash—carelessly resting on a muscular thigh, the other arm draped over the back of his padded chair.
He nods at me. “Dance,” he says. I have to read his lips, the music is too loud, filling my ears. “Dance for me, Baby Doll.”
Breathing is hard. His scent is powerful, as powerful as his body. He’s shed his jacket, his light blue shirt stretching enticingly over his shoulders and biceps, over his broad, muscular chest. It matches his eyes, it matches the morning sky, a contrast to his dark scent.
