Page 66 of Smut Lovers

Chapter One

I t takes skill to sit cross-legged on the dilapidated barstools of this seedy tavern, even in my lady’s maid’s day dress.

I’m grateful for the expertise. It means if I need to make a quick escape from this man, my feet won’t be caught up on the footrest my heel’s hooked onto.

“Have you posed for the artists in residence at the university?” the gangly sailor asks. “You’re pretty enough for art.”

As if that would ever happen. If my mother saw me in this outfit, in this place, she’d probably suffocate from the gasp. Granted, queens don’t often frequent the ale halls of the Trader’s District.

I anxiously smooth my skirt. At least I can cover my nervous twitching by adjusting my position. I don’t know this man, and not everyone accepts rejection with grace.

“You probably say that to every girl you meet,” I reply to the man seated beside me, against my will, at the ancient, pitted bar. He’s been pestering me with questions for the last ten minutes and has yet to take my polite hints to leave me in peace.

The old barkeep eyes us from the other side of the room. Wary eyes skim over the pair of us at his bar, but I shake my head ever so slightly to tell him I’m fine.

I can handle one boring man.

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t interfere.

He knocks a knuckle against the oak ale barrels to check how full they are, but it’s an excuse so he can be out from behind the bar if there’s trouble. His gaze sweeps the interior for anyone who seems ready to brawl.

I’ve watched the large man break up more than enough fights in my last several months venturing out here. It’s why I always return. He has a strict policy on those who cause trouble.

Including those bothering the women.

That he’s out on the floor for pretense tells me he expects trouble, and I’d rather not be the cause of it this time.

“I’m serious,” the sailor insists. “You’ve a figure made for sculpting.”

The man’s not bad to look at, but there’s something a little too smooth about him. Too charming for his presentation. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I’ve no intention of giving him the chance to see my posed body. There are entirely too many of his like at court.

I’m here for a brief roll in the sheets. The whole point is to let loose and relax, and I can’t do that if I don’t trust the man I’ve invited upstairs.

“I doubt the university would be interested in me,” I reply and turn my shoulder as yet another hint I’ve no interest in speaking to him further.

Frigid wind sweeps under the hem of my skirt when someone comes in the door, but it’s still warmer than the space between my legs for this insufferable man.

. . . this insufferable man who grips my knee and uses it to pivot my body toward him. I rock precariously on the stool when he does it.

“Come now. Don’t hide that lovely face from me.”

A pair of wide palms slap onto the edge of the bar to each of my sides. Thick, muscular arms cage me in, and also block out the sailor.

“You’re lost, little fawn,” the big man growls in my ear, and instantly goosebumps tighten my skin. He’s bulky, hulking over me and trapping me in.

I turn my head and glance up at my savior looming only inches away. Salt and leather fill my nose as I take in his wild hair, broad frame, and raffish, wry expression.

I should be afraid, and I am, but it’s tempered with a heat that has my heart racing.

This man is the very opposite of the wiry idiot I’ve been subjected to thus far. There’s something about the newcomer’s demeanor that makes him seem both barbaric and yet perfectly in control.

A restrained ferocity prompting an intoxicating mix of fear and eagerness that lights a fire in my belly and makes my heart race.

Merely sitting here, trapped by his arms and presence yet not touched at all, makes me rub my thighs together in anticipation. He notices my response and a satisfied rumble rolls from his chest.

“Perhaps I’m looking to be eaten by a hungry bear,” I murmur. The words pop out of my mouth without thinking, but at least he’s the only one who hears.

My tongue rarely runs away with me like this. As the oldest sister of five, and a princess at that, I’ve had to studiously train my responses against provoking someone’s ire.

We lock gazes, and it’s like he physically refuses to let me glance away. Umber eyes as deep as his baritone invite me to drown in his waiting embrace.

“ Ahem ,” the sailor says.

“Remove your hand from my little fawn’s knee and move along,” the big man says with the same ease as he would a drink order.

“We were in the middle of a conversation,” the sailor snips.

Bear lifts his hand from the bar, plants his palm in the middle of the sailor’s chest, and shoves him backward off the stool. The man crashes to the floor, spluttering and cursing, but the big bear of a man looming over me doesn’t even bother to glance his way.

Instead, his hand returns to its place barricading me in at the bar.

The sailor recovers, spitting and shrieking, but the bartender drops his own hand on the nape of the sailor’s neck. He wrenches the man to his feet, forces him along in three long strides, and tosses him out the door.

The new breeze blowing in flutters my skirt and accelerates the nervous energy already bouncing around in my system.

I peer up at the man towering over me. He still hasn’t looked away but he does nod, and in the corner of my eye the barkeep returns to his barrels.

The domineering gaze is a challenge all its own.

Fire burns in my gut at his forwardness. Who does he think he is?

Granted, he doesn’t know who I am.

The barkeep doesn’t seem concerned, though, which is a mark in the big man’s favor.

He’s quite handsome, in an adventurous sort of way.

A sharp jaw hides behind the unshaven appearance.

Thick hair is braided on each side in crisscrossing patterns that keep it out of his face.

He’s at least a few years older than me, although that might be because of the scar bisecting one cheek.

The rest of him appears nonchalant, but his heavy focus weighs down my shoulders with observant, deep brown eyes.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a pirate, but surely the barkeep wouldn’t approve if that was the case? Some sailors simply like to look rough, and on him it’s divine.

The risk of retribution seems low enough, here in the crowded tavern with the barkeep focused on everyone but especially us.

So I swing my crossed legs around to face this brute of a man and rest my elbows on the bar between his hands.

“You have my attention, big bear. What do you want?”

“Your lips locked tight around my cock would do.”

When my breath catches, he shifts on his feet like he might dive at me any moment.

“You think you’ve earned that by saving me from one dull conversation?”

“And a disease or two. Greer isn’t discerning with his conquests nor does he tend to inform them of his risky behavior.”

Trust your instincts, for they are often correct.

“That assumes I’d have let him touch me.”

Bear growls menacingly and it makes me squirm in my seat.

“The bastard was already touching you.”

“I had it under control.”

“Did you now?” He smirks at me, as if I’ve made a joke but nothing I’ve said is funny.

The big man invades my space more, and my eyes go wide. I don’t typically let men touch me in public let alone kiss me. His fingers brush against my arms resting, now stiffly, on the bar.

A shiver races along my skin. He watches my reaction, but doesn’t waver in the least. His focus is so tightly controlled that it’s borderline unsettling. He’s waiting, oh so patiently, and observing my every movement in our flirtatious dance.

I’m not used to men this gorgeous being so close and watching so carefully. I’m usually overlooked for one of my sisters. The Gem of Sykis , I am not. I’m not un attractive, but between the constant tutoring, event planning, and diplomatic negotiations, things like vanity fall by the wayside.

“Do you like to be in control?” he asks.

My face heats and I swallow down the stress to find my voice. “It depends.”

Those tempting lips spread into a wolfish grin behind his five o’clock shadow. The intensity in his expression ratches up at my response, and I feel every bit the prey to this predator.

“That’s a no then.”

“No, it depends,” I reply as I pick at the stitching on the sides of my borrowed dress.

“You either do or you don’t, little fawn. If you did, when you do, you’d know it and say so much clearer than that. I’m guessing you only do it when you know you’ll be unsatisfied otherwise.”

My jaw drops open in shocked offense, and he studies the open “O” lasciviously.

“Yes, just like that,” he murmurs. “Come upstairs and try that again on your knees, and I’ll show you precisely how satisfying it is to cede control.”

I slam my mouth shut, and it takes a moment for my brain to clear before I can respond. “What if I prefer the sailor?”

“You don’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

Bear considers me, his rough gaze meandering down my form until my muscles ache from holding still to avoid tipping my hand.

“No, I’m certain I do,” he replies. “I’ll bet you’re soaked under those skirts. Have you come today, or did you withhold to increase the odds some idiot could succeed tonight? You prefer me because you know, without the slightest doubt, that I’ll leave you satisfied.”

“Your ego has certainly followed you here.”

I say the words and immediately regret them. It was harsh and I brace for a poor reaction.

He doesn’t seem upset by it, though.

No, instead, he tilts his head while his eyes shine with interest.

“I know my abilities, and I’m watching your responses. You’re just as eager as I am to go up to our room and find out how much you like control.”

“We don’t have a room.”

He straightens, steps back, and presents his hand to me.

“Oh, but we do. It’s quiet and clean, and we won’t be leaving it until we’re clear on whether you like control or not.”

A million scenarios slip through my mind, logic attempting to assess the risk of each, but one overwhelming factor skewing my good judgment.

I want him.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. I don’t know him at all and can’t assure my own safety. He doesn’t know I’m a princess of Sykis. He could have no remorse about hurting me or worse. Feeling regret if he’s thrown in the dungeons doesn’t help me if I’m dead.

But there’s something about how he watches me.

I’ve seen men who want to victimize the women they meet. In the past few months, I’ve become very good at distinguishing those who want fun from those who want my fear. At first I was afraid to go up the stairs with anyone at all.

Bear doesn’t seem to me like the type who wants my pain. He’s overbearing, to be sure, but there’s a relaxed surety in his offered hand.

It’s a spark of intense devotion, like he’s desperate to peel away my thoughts and desires.

Bear looks at me like someone to covet and not consume.

Doubt creeps in that this is almost certainly more than I’ve bargained for. Most of the men I take upstairs don’t bother with small talk at all.

Not this man, though. No, I’m a challenge to him, not to overcome but to master.

I did come here looking for a bit of fun. A new experience would salvage the night.

Our eyes meet again, and somehow he reads my answer without my having to say it.

Bear smirks, snatches my hand, then yanks me off the barstool and catches me in his arms in one smooth move. He lifts me easily and tosses me over his shoulder.

“I can walk!” I shriek at him.

He smacks my ass hard enough the sting lingers, even with the dress providing a buffer.

“Your first lesson, little fawn. If you want to be eaten, you’ll let your bear control the terms.”