Page 2 of Vicious Betrayal

"He's like fifty," Bianca says. She wrinkles her nose a little.

"He's not fifty." But he is definitely a lot older than me. He lifts the glass again, and I focus on his hands. They're long-fingered, veined, and I wonder if they're scarred. He looks like trouble, like a man who gets shit done, probably with a heavy hand. A burst of heat ripples out through me, and I feel my teeth sink into my lip.

I'm not a virgin. I've had a handful of hookups in club bathrooms and dark corners, messy kisses and fingers and hands in places I know they shouldn't be, and twice I've snuck away from my security to go further with someone. Once, my first time, was in the back seat of a Maserati in the parking garage behind a downtown club, and the other was up against the wall behind a fancy bar, an empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot rolling against my shoe while he pounded into me. But those men were young, reckless as I am, and not that good at what they were trying to do to me, more focused on their pleasure than mine. I got off on it because of the danger and the thrill, not because of any skill on their part.

"He's maybe forty. And he's gorgeous." I run my tongue over the sting on my bottom lip where I chewed it, still halfheartedly moving to the music while I try to decide what I'm going to do.

"He's giving off serious don't-fuck-with-me energy," Priya says. She's not wrong. Even the men around him seem to give him space without quite realizing they're doing it. Two guys in expensive suits laugh loudly a few stools down, and he doesn't so much as glance at them, but there's something in the set of his shoulders that suggests he's aware of everything happening around him regardless.

"That's exactly the energy I'm here for," I say. Bianca laughs delightedly.

"You're not serious."

"Watch me."

I toss back the rest of my drink and hand the empty glass to Talia before she can talk me out of it. She looks like she wants to. Her eyes are wide, half amused and half concerned. It's the expression she gets whenever I'm about to do something she considers reckless, which happens often enough that she's developed several varieties of looks depending on the occasion.

"Oksana, he could be⁠—"

"Dangerous? Yes. Obviously." I smooth my hands down the front of my dress, adjusting where it's ridden up from dancing, and roll my shoulders back. "That's part of the fun, isn't it?" I lean in and kiss her cheek quickly, leaving a faint mark of lip gloss she'll probably complain about later. "I'll be fine. I always am."

I move through the crowd, my heart starting to beat faster. Women in places like this are often reduced to being prey, but right now I feel like the one stalking my target, zeroing in on this man with the full intent to find out whatever walls he has up and dismantle them until he's panting and desperate for me. My pulse throbs in my throat, the anticipation rising as I let a seductive smile curl the corner of my mouth. I'm almost there, and I wait for his eyes to turn toward me again. I want him to look at me, and I want to see what happens on his face when he does.

The alcohol has softened the edges of everything. I see men glancing at me as I pass, but I ignore all of them. I've decided who I want, and now it's just a matter of getting him. It's never hard, but I can't wait to find out what he's like when he is.

Up close, he's even more overwhelming than he was from across the room.

I see a scar through his eyebrow, and another lower on his cheek, a little deeper and more ragged, cutting into his jaw. His hands, I see, are scarred too, white marks crisscrossing his knuckles. I sidle up next to him, and he turns when I move into his periphery. He doesn't move quickly, but he's not a man you sneak up on, I can tell.

His gaze is impartial, as if he's just checking to see who's moved into his space, but I feel that look all over my body anyway. Every hair stands up, my skin tightening, my heart racing so hard I can feel it in my throat. He's gorgeous. Definitely pushing forty, if not there already, but fuck, he's hot. And older isn't bad. It means experienced. It means he'll probably do more than fumble halfheartedly to find my clit before he sinks into me and his own desire to come takes over.

His eyes are a deep green, with flecks of gold. My pulse stutters in my throat.

"Is this seat taken?" I ask, already sliding onto the stool before he can answer.

"It's not really mine to give." His voice is low and rough at the edges, with the faint trace of an Irish accent worn smooth by years in this city. He doesn't look at me when he says it. His attention has drifted toward the upper level and a man in a black T-shirt moving along the edge of the railing. I watch his jaw tighten fractionally before easing again when the man disappears around the corner.

"I'll take that as a no." I signal the bartender for another round, mostly to give my hands something to do. "I'm Oksana."

He doesn't offer his hand. He doesn't offer much of anything, actually, just a short nod. "Cormac."

"Cormac." I let it purr off my tongue, but he seems surprisingly unaffected. His eyes follow a waitress cutting through the crowd with a tray held high, then a bouncer near the far exit who lifts two fingers toward him in some small signal I don't understand. Cormac's chin dips barely in response, before his attention comes back to me like he's making himself do it.

"You're not much of a talker," I say, tilting my head and letting that smile curl my lips further. "Or is that just for pretty girls who sit down uninvited?"

"I'm working." He says it flatly, almost dismissively, but something in the way he says it makes the back of my neck prickle with interest instead of discouragement.

"Working." I raise my eyebrow. "At a nightclub?"

"Something like that." His eyes flick toward the entrance again, toward the line of people still filtering in past the velvet rope. I notice again how he seems to have positioned himself so that he sees as much of the space around us as possible.

"You don't seem like the type who works in a club." I lean in slightly, testing the space between us. "No offense." He's not the slick type who does marketing or runs the back office or manages the staff, and he's not quite thick enough to be a bouncer. He's muscled, that's for sure, but he's not a bodybuilder. He's built more like a fighter.

"None taken." Cormac pauses, and then says, almost as an afterthought, "You should get back to your friends."

The way he says it isn't unkind or rude. It's oddly almost gentle, like he's giving me some friendly advice, but there's a hard edge to his words that tells me he's trying to hint that he's not interested. He's not playing hard to get or hoping I'll chase him harder. He genuinely wants me to walk away.

Which, infuriatingly, only makes me want to stay.