Page 22 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)

FINN

I shouldn’t be doing this.

Drinking with her. Letting her bait me. Humoring her fire.

But here I am.

Because she challenged me. I didn’t think she’d bite, to be honest. She seems to flip between emotions rather quickly. That has always intrigued me about her. I keep my emotions locked up tight. But she doesn’t.

But I never fucking walk away from a challenge. Especially not when it comes from her mouth.

We push through the crowded hallway, back into the main bar. Music is thumping. People are laughing, drinking—celebrating my win. Not that I give a shit.

The only thing I’m focused on is the way her ass moves in that dress and how close I came to bending her over a shelving unit ten minutes ago.

She slides into a booth, and I hesitate, ripping off my bow tie before it strangles me. Fuck it. What harm can a few drinks really do?

So, I join her.

“Two tequilas,” I tell the server before she even opens her mouth.

“And just keep them coming.”

“Bossy,” she mutters, stretching out her legs under the table, letting one of them brush against mine.

Not an accident.

Not from her.

“You’d hate me if I wasn’t.”

“I already hate you,” she says sweetly, flashing me a smile that could cut glass.

“And yet, here you are.”

The drinks arrive. She downs hers without hesitation.

I follow.

Round one.

Her lips press together, brows pinching for a second before she breathes out and flashes me that smug look again.

“Please don’t tell me that was your idea of a challenge.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Love, that was foreplay.”

Her pupils flare. Just for a second.

But I clock it. And I will be noting that down. Because this is a side I haven’t unleashed from her before.

Round two.

The burn hits harder this time. She blinks fast, steadying her breath, but I can see it—her tolerance isn’t low, but it’s not mine. I’ve trained for pain with poison. She’s running on spite and champagne.

That can only get her so far.

“How many rounds till you fold?” I ask, waving down the server again.

“I don’t fold. Every damn day of my life is a battle.”

There’s a hint of sadness in her voice. A real side of her.

“And yet, I’m the one with the trophy,” I say, low.

She smiles, but there’s something beneath it. Something jagged.

“You dedicated that trophy to me. Which tells me it meant more than you’d like to admit.”

She’s sharper than people give her credit for. Too sharp. She’s fuckin’ dangerous.

Round three.

We drink. No words this time.

She exhales, slower now. The kick is catching up to her.

“Feeling it yet?” I ask.

She rolls her neck like she’s about to swing at me. “I could do this all night.”

“Is that an offer?”

“Only if you’re ready to lose.”

Her leg presses fully against mine now. The heat is setting something off inside of me I’ve never felt before.

I should pull away.

Instead, I press back. Everything between us is a play of power. Even down to a touch.

The tequila’s rising in my blood. But that’s not what’s making me reckless. It’s her. Her laugh. Her mouth. The fire in her eyes every time she talks back.

She looks around, then leans in.

“I’m serious. If I win, I want that plaque. On my office door. In gold letters.”

“And if I win?” I ask, voice dropping.

Her breath catches.

Then she recovers.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Bad idea, sweetheart.

“I want a page from your journal,” I say quietly. “The one I know you keep. You’re too tightly wound not to have one.”

She blinks. Hard. Like I hit a nerve. I knew she’d have one.

“No one reads my journal.”

“Then don’t lose.”

She drinks.

Round four.

I can see the buzz crawling under her skin now. Her lips are redder. Her cheeks flushed. She’s blinking slower, trying to focus.

But she won’t back down.

Neither will I.

She knocks back round five and sways just slightly, hands gripping the edge of the booth. I reach out instinctively, fingers brushing her wrist.

She yanks away like my touch burned her.

“You don’t get to touch me, remember,” she says. But her voice cracks slightly.

“Then stop looking at me like you want me to.”

Our silence is charged.

A beat passes between us, and she lets out a laugh that throws me off guard.

“God, I hate you.”

I grin.

“No, you don’t.”

She opens her mouth, probably to argue, but the server returns with round six and cuts her off.

I raise the shot in salute.

“Ready to fall, Dr. Miller?”

She lifts hers. “You first, Dr. Quinn.”

I think she might be right.

We drink.

This one makes her wince. Just slightly, but I notice. I always do.

She pushes her curls back from her face. Straightens her spine.

But I’ve already won.

She won’t admit it.

But I can feel it.

Not the tequila.

Her.

I could taste her victory and her downfall in the same breath.

And I’m starving for both.

“Shall we go somewhere, maybe where our colleagues aren’t?” she asks, her eyes roaming the busy room.

“Yeah. Sure. I know some good places my friend owns. Can get us in anywhere.”

She rolls her eyes, and I tap my rings against the table.

She really needs to stop doing that to me, because the more I drink, the more likely I am to jump across the table and grab her throat.

And then who fucking knows what will happen between us.

A bloodbath or an incredible hate fuck.

Or something worse.

“Of course you can. Friends in all the right places,” she winks.

She thinks her words hurt me.

They never could.

Because I’ve felt pain most couldn’t bear, let alone live with.