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“I can’t believe you watchSurvivor,”she snorts after I admit I’m a fan.
“What’s wrong with it? It’s amazing. And also hilarious.” I’m somewhat miffed she rates my TV viewing habits so low. “The idiots on that show are so useless it’s entertaining.”
“And I bet you’d win it, right?”
“How rude! Damn right, I would. I have skills. Lots of useful skills.” Mostly they involve computers and killing people, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“OK, I’ll take your word for it,” she laughs. “It’s not as good asThe Kardashians, though.” How she says that with a straight face, I have no idea.
“That shit really will fry your brain,” I tell her with a smirk.
She giggles some more, and I end up laughing with her. I think this may be the first time a woman has induced any kind of genuine laughter from me in years. I’m usually too busy playing the seduction game to be interested in what they say.
“I bet you like Kim, though. Or are you a Khloe fan?” She grins at me while sipping her drink. The way her green eyes sparkle is enchanting. She’s gorgeous. Truly stunning. But not in a fake way like most women I meet. Her beauty is completely natural.
I slide closer across the seat and look into her eyes. Her pupils blow wide and the sexual tension ratchets up a few degrees. Now she’s three drinks in, her walls have crumbled and she’s more open to whatever this is brewing between us.
“Neither,” I say in a low voice. Then I reach out and tuck a few loose strands of her back behind her ear. “I prefer redheads.”
“We redheads are fiery and tempestuous. I’m not sure you can handle us.” She flutters her lashes and I smile.
“Oh, trust me, Roxy. I can handle you. And you’ll love every minute of it.”
“Promises, promises,” she whispers before licking her lips.
Game on, sweetheart.
Chapter 5
Rory
The club fades away. All I can hear is the pounding of my heart and the thrum of feverish blood pumping through my veins like a torrent of magma. I was wrong about Romano. He’s not safe at all. He’s the kind of man where the danger lies just below the surface, carefully masked by a veneer of charm and respectfulness. He walked past all my defenses, and I let him in without any of the usual checks and balances.
I’m so fucked.
The rational, sensible side of me is screaming bloody murder right now. She’s clamoring in my ear, shouting at me to leave immediately before I make a decision I’ll regret. The devil on my shoulder, though, is singing a different song. He says I need to get laid, and this is the man to blow my mind.
I have a feeling he’s right. Romano isn’t anything like the guys I met at college. He’s confident and sexy, and I can tell he knows fifty ways to make a woman scream his name with pleasure. Frankly, I’m intimidated. My experience is sorely lacking and the last time I had sex was just over four years ago. Not that I can remember much about the experience. Thank God.
The way Romano is looking at me makes me feel desirable and petrified all at the same time.
“I like redheads,” he says in a low, husky voice. I swallow hard, unable to look away. This is the point where I should make my apologies and run for the hills, but I’m glued to the leather seat. The only part of me that’s still functioning normally is my smart mouth.
“We redheads are fiery and tempestuous. I’m not sure you can handle us.” The minute the words leave my lips, I know I’ve just waved a red flag at a very sexy bull. His eyes darken, warm irises obliterated by fathomless pupils. I can smell the enticing cologne he wears and feel the heat of his hard body radiating outward. It’s obvious he sees my bold statement as a challenge.
Maybe it is.
Maybe it’s time I moved on from what happened four years ago.
Maybe Romano is the man I need to help me finally expunge the memories of that night.
Or maybe I just need to get fucking laid.
“Oh, trust me, Roxy,” he purrs. “I can handle you. And you’ll love every minute of it.”
I have a feeling he’s right. I’m halfway there already. My panties are soaked and my nipples are hard and aching. My skin feels clammy and feverish like I just stepped into a sauna.
“Promises, promises,” I whisper because, yes, I just can’t help myself. I could blame the third tequila. Or my complete lack of self-preservation instincts. But really, it’s the fact I’m weak and he’s just so tempting.
