Page 4 of Saxon

I cackle. "You're nuts! I can't guarantee he'll be wearing a suit, but I'll see what I can dig up."

"Boston always comes through," she calls after me as I shove my feet into the matching three-inch emerald green satin heels and exit the room. "Believe in Boston! Boston loves you!"

I snag my purse on the way out, making sure I have my phone, wallet, and room key, and then head for the lobby.

I scan the lobby first: Old guy, old guy, old guy...fat guy, ugly guy, Russian mafioso in an ADIDAS tracksuit...douchebag with a popped collar, Pharma bro in a three-piece Brooks Brothers suit muttering into a bone conduction earpiece, and…Yates.

At the bar in his tux, sipping a Manhattan and hitting on the bartender.

Classy, Yates.

I roll my eyes and ignore him, heading out onto the street. "I can't believe I'm about to ask a random stranger to go to a wedding with me," I mutter to myself. "Bitch better love me somethin' hard."

I scan the street. I assess my options from the sidewalk in front of the hotel, dismissing the vast majority of the men who pass me by.

And then, I see him.

He's sauntering down the sidewalk toward me, wearing a tailored black suit with a white button down, no tie, three buttons undone to reveal a tan, muscled chest. His hair is coarse and blond, buzzed on the sides, short on top, and swept back and to one side. He has a thick keloid scar on his temple—it looks like it almost claimed his eye. It gives him a rough, almost sinister air.

He's the hottest fucking human being I've ever laid eyes on in my entire godforsaken life.

His jawline rivals the Cliffs of Dover for craggy, angular ruggedness. His eyes are Kelly green, scanning the sidewalk with hawklike intensity.

Those eyes land on me, stutter, pause, flick away, and return. Jump to my chest, lingering. An appreciative smirk colors his lips, and then his gaze continues his blatant perusal of my body.

My body responds—instantly and intensely. My nipples tighten, my skin constricts around my muscles and bones, my pussy goes hot and damp, dripping desire down the inside of my thigh.

Jesus. What is this? Men don't affect me like this, ever. Men don't affect me, period. They fall into two categories in my life: fuckable, or not fuckable. If you're fuckable, you get a one-time pass, and then you're gone. If you're not fuckable, either because you're married, ugly, or have some affliction, then you're of no use to me and may as well be a bug crawling across the floor.

This man falls into a heretofore unknown third category: What The Actual Unholy Fuck.

As in, what in the actual unholy fuck was God thinking when he created this specimen, and why did He have to inflict him upon me NOW?

The Perfect Male has stopped walking three feet away from me. He shoves his huge, hard, powerful-looking hands in his trouser pockets, rocks back on his heels, and shoots me a grin that I guarantee you has melted his body weight in panties off of unsuspecting women's derrières before he ravishes them with that wicked looking mouth.

He's a few inches over six feet tall and built like Adonis. You could land airplanes on the shelf of his broad, straight, massive shoulders. His arms strain the sleeves of his suit jacket. His neck features thick cords of muscle.

He's got heavy stubble on his jaw, not quite a beard, but more than just having not shaved in a few days.

He has dark circles under his eyes, and the streetwise trauma victim in me, the part of me that can read people like books, whispers that this man knows pain. He knows suffering. He's seen and done the worst this life can throw at him and he's still fucking here.

He's staring down at me like a death row inmate looking at his last steak dinner.

"Mornin', beautiful," he drawls. "Looking for something?"

I stare back up at him—he's perfect, in every way. And something inside me is screaming at me.

The content of the screaming is what's confusing.

Half of me is screaming DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! Not because I get a sense of threat from him, but because something in my soul knows he'll be dangerous to me.

Stay away. Do not engage. Run, Forrest, Run.

The other half of me wants to climb his body like a tree and ride his perfect, rugged, beautiful, lickable face until I've got beard-burn on my thighs.

The latter is the reason for the former. Because, I fear, once I start riding, I can already tell I won't want to stop. Which just doesn't work for me.

He snaps his fingers in front of my face, yanking me from my staring reverie. "Hey. You with me down there, gorgeous?"