Page 4 of Thorns of Desire

“Beautifulandsmart,” I remarked. “A deadly combination.”

She threw her head back and laughed.

“I guess you’ll find out.” She stood there, staring up at me, cheeks flushed. “One drink,” she breathed.

I nodded. “Just one.”

Famous last words.

TWO

ATHENA

Trying not to overthink it, I let him lead me back into the dim nightclub, the distinct aroma of beer and whiskey all around us. Once my vision adjusted, we made a beeline toward the corner of a long wooden bar rather than the dance floor.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked as he helped me onto a vacant high-backed stool and took the one nearest to me as he flagged the bartender.

“Freak shot,” I answered confidently. I’d need all the courage I could get.

His brows twitched upward, but he didn’t question it. “You heard the lady. And whiskey on the rocks for me.”

It took no time for our drinks to appear, and like a gentleman, he placed it in front of me.

“Shall we toast to something?”

I smiled. “To filthy sex?”

He bit back a grin and raised his glass before clinking mine. “Sex is only dirty if it’s done right.Salute.”

And we downed our drinks.

I had found the definition of tall, dark, and handsome in the form of an Italian daddy.

A single look from him stole the breath from my lungs. The smattering of silver at his temples gave me a rough idea of his age, which I only found more appealing. He had a strong, masculine jaw peppered with stubble, olive skin, and dark eyes lined with the thickest black lashes I’d ever seen. I would enjoy running my fingers through his dark brown hair while he handled me with those expert hands. He stood next to me at well over six feet tall, his white dress shirt rolled up, exposing tanned forearms.

And his voice. It was the kind of grumbly, accented voice that would melt the panties off a virgin saint. Fortunately, I sure as hell wasn’t one. My panties would be coming off in a more enjoyable way if I had my way.

I’d never seen a more beautiful specimen, and if he played his cards right, he’d have a front-and-center feature in my next book. Hell, I could take him on as my muse for the indefinite future.

The commotion in the nightclub was ongoing. The aroma of whiskey, bourbon, and leather with a hint of wood polish surrounded us as we watched each other under the low lights.

I’d lost my friends and my hair was sticking to the back of my neck with how humid it was in the club, but the only thing I could focus on was learning more about this hot Italian. His hand was wrapped around my waist, sheltering the tipsy crowds from bumping into me, and something about it cocooned me into our own world as if I were alone with this man.

When my eyes finally met his, he arched a brow, his lip twitching. “See something you like?”

I chuckled and arched a brow, but something about his brazen confidence struck me as refreshing. “Anyone with two functioning eyeballs would,” I murmured, sweeping my gazeover him appreciatively. “Although clothes can hide deficiencies, and that Brioni suit could make even Homer Simpson sexy.”

He chuckled as he reached for his tie, his fingers lingering on it. “I don’t know who Homer is, but I’d be more than happy to put that theory to the test.”

His movements were so smooth, so practiced—it went beyond our obvious age gap. No, this man wasexperienced. Irrational jealousy shot through me at the thought of another woman seeing what was underneath those clothes. I immediately squashed it. Jealousy was my mother’s style, not mine.

“Homer is…” I shook my head. Did they even playThe Simpsonsin Italy? “Never mind. And no need to take off your clothes,” I stated breezily. There was no mistaking his hotness, but I wasn’t about to come right out and say it. “However, first things first, let’s get some basics.” His eyebrows shot up. “Married?”

“No.”

My eyes instinctively fell to his hand, pleased to find it ringless and also devoid of any suspicious tan lines or indentations. “Girlfriend?”

“No.”