I leave Dan tied to the chair, drool seeping from around the gag while he slumps forward in unconsciousness. Every inch of me that was numb and emotionless the day before is thrumming with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader at a pep rally.

The buzz spurs me on as I slip through the bathroom window with a pack of my belongings strapped on my back, and strut my cheap fuck-me heels as far as they will take me.

My journey home lasts longer than my magical moments with Dan. I walk a lot of miles, catch two different cabs, and slink down numerous dark alleys to dispose of every item of my costume in a different location.

By the time I reach the bar across the street from my apartment, I’m dressed in my favorite pair of denim jeans, a tight, long-sleeve, plunging top, and my strappy stiletto heels.

The lack of warm clothing isn’t appropriate for the January chill, but that’s what adrenaline is for. Right? That, and the promise of a stiff drink once I get inside.

I open the door to Atomic Buzz—a drinking hole with nowhere near the edginess or allure of its name—and Brent, the owner, grins at me.

“You’re lucky, Steph. I was thinking about closing early.”

I glance around, my attention skating over the two elderly guys playing poker near the front window, then around the soulless room to the couple whispering sweet nothings at a table in the far corner.

“And ruin the atomic buzz you’ve got going?” I ruffle the long blonde strands of my hair, trying to work out the stiffness left from the nasty wig. “It looks like you’ve doubled your clientele since I was here last.”

“Almost.” He snickers. “What are you drinking tonight?”

I throw my pack to the floor and slide onto a swiveling seat, resting my hands on the sticky wood of the bar. “Whiskey, neat. Thanks.”

Brent raises his brows as he reaches for Johnny Walker, then slides me a filled glass.

Yeah, I know, it’s a sick-fuck move picking Dan Roberts’ drink of choice, but I’m in a sick-fuck kind of mood.

“I’m celebrating a job well done,” I clarify.

“What job was it this time?” He eyes me with interest, as if he’s actually invested in my life. Nobody else looks at me like that. No one has in years. I make sure of it.

“The professor had us researching the growing number of assault and rape cases tied to solicitation.”

I sometimes wish I could tell him the truth—that I don’t work as a research assistant for a college professor who specializes in violent crimes. Having one person in this world to confide in could be a game changer. But trust issues are one of my many colorful traits.

“Which means we’re on to a new project by the end of the week.” I raise my glass in a silent toast, then take a sip.

“Well, congratulations on having finished studying that fucked up shit.” He gives me a grim smile. “You know, my sugar daddy offer still stands whenever you want to quit that horrible job and let me take care of you.”

I laugh. “Brent, you’ve only mastered the daddy part. When you get the sugar, let me know.”

The door to the bar opens, and we glance to the guy making his way toward us. His face is turned as he scopes the room, but the black jeans and matching leather jacket tell me he’s got enough self-respect not to be seen in a place like this.

“Think he’s lost?” Brent asks.

“Without a doubt.” I return to my drink, cupping it in both hands. “I’ll bet you five bucks he asks for directions out of this hellhole.”

“You have such little faith in my fine establishment.”

I sip casually, enjoying my salute to Danny boy as the newcomer sits two chairs away, teasing my peripheral vision.

“What can I get you?”

“A Corona.” His voice is low and subtle, barely a whisper of response, yet masculine enough for me to appreciate.

“Comin’ right up.” Brent shoots me a look as he grabs a bottle from the fridge beneath the counter, his eyes wide in exaggerated surprise before he returns his focus to the new guy. “You a local?”

“No.”

“What brings you here?”

There’s a huff, a pause, then a muttered, “Life.”

Brent twists the cap on the bottle, hands it over, and returns to his leaning post against the back counter. “Steph, look at me.”

I frown, because I’m already looking at him.

“This guy is perfect for you. He’s quiet and unresponsive, just how you like ’em.”

I chuckle, roll my eyes, and raise my empty glass. “You need to spend less time focused on my sex life, and more on pouring drinks.”

I chance a glance at my anti-social neighbor and take in his profile. His lips are tight. His jaw, too. There’s a wealth of hostility vibrating from him. Even the dark stubble hugging his cheeks has a rough fuck-off vibe as wisps of hair shadow his eyes.

“Where you stayin’?” Brent asks, ignoring the tension.

“Do you always ask this many questions?” the guy drawls, the words smoothly gliding over his tongue to polish his annoyance.

“Yes,” I answer. “He does.”

Brent laughs. “This pretty little thing,” he jerks his head at me, “came in years ago with the same aversion to conversation. Took me eight months to get a name out of her.”

A name that isn’t even mine.

I ignore the guilt and swivel my chair to face Mr. Reluctant. “You’re better off spilling your guts. Just blurt it out. Divulge it all. It’ll save the monotony of repeating all those monosyllabic answers.”

He glances my way, dissolving my guilt with eyes so clear and hazel I’m caught off guard.

Whoa. Profile view was confronting. Front view? Equally so, with an added hint of panty-melting gorgeous.

Those lips are full and dark. His stare is fierce. The tense features make me want to lick his face, or slap it, just to see how he’d react.

“You know what?” Brent grasps the whiskey bottle and pours me another drink. “You two are perfect for each other. Silent, secretive, and socially awkward.”

I hold in a snort and incline my head. “He’s right. He just nailed my Tinder bio.” Not that I use Tinder—I can get my kicks on my own, thank you very much—but I know at the very least Brent will get a chuckle from my sass.

What I don’t expect is the slight tilt to the stranger’s lips. The tiniest lift revealing a dimple in his left cheek. It’s devious, devilish, and undeniably delicious on such a rough and intense face.

“He’s not going to give up, is he?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not if you plan on staying here.”

His focus doesn’t waver. “Then maybe you could lead the way to another bar that doesn’t pester clientele.”

I’m not usually caught off guard, but this man has claimed that response from me twice in less than a few minutes.

“Hey, now.” Brent raises his voice. “I’m just being welcom—”

“I’m fucking with you.” Hazel eyes hold mine as this stranger gifts me with the slightest hint of a grin.

I stare for longer than I should, trying to come to terms with all the conflicting aspects of the sight before me. There’s something different about him. Something intriguing. Then again, I’m still high on adrenaline, which makes all my responses unreliable.

“So…” Brent clears his throat, breaking my train of thought. “In answer to my question…”

The stranger reverts to his scowl, a blatant sign he’s annoyed at being dragged back into the game of Twenty Questions. “My sister got knocked up by a lowlife with a heavy hand. He ended up leaving her as soon as my nephew was born. To help her out, I quit my job, packed my things, and drove here.”

“That’s…” I want to say unbelievable, because it is. Men like him don’t exist. They aren’t real. Not in my world. “…admirable.”

He shrugs and palms his beer, taking a long pull. “She doesn’t know yet. I only got into town tonight.”

“Well, I hope you find the lowlife piece-of-shit and give him a dose of his own medicine.” I don’t realize what I’ve said until the words are out there, announcing my hunger for vengeance.

He narrows his gaze, looking at me with such intensity I feel his questions sink inside my chest to tinker with my pulse.

“I’m not the violent type,” he murmurs.

My heart flutters.

Clearly, I’m not used to men who don’t think with their fists. My world revolves around violence. My past, my present, and my future all mesh into nothing but bloodshed and suffering.

This man is a breath of fresh, crisp air against my tarnished lungs. If I had any hopes for my life, any maternal or romantic plans, I might have been tempted to sink my hook and reel him in.

Here fishy, fishy.

I grasp my whiskey and fight not to guzzle it down. “How old is your nephew?”

“Eight weeks.”

There’s no pause. Not even a slight frown as he recalls the timeline. This guy is fully invested in his family, and I’m a smidge jealous. I used to be surrounded by people like him. Good people. Loving people. But they never looked this severe or harsh. I can feel him scrutinizing me, studying me, just like I was doing with him.

“See what I’ve done here?” Brent interrupts. “My pestering has started a conversation. If it wasn’t for me, you two would be sitting in silence.”

“Silence is good.” The stranger swirls his beer with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Silence is comfortable.”

“Silence is honest,” I add, gaining another fierce stare.

He inclines his head.

Again, my gaze is glued to his. I can’t help it. There’s something about him that demands attention. Something dark, like I’m used to, and also something promising, which is entirely new to me. I suddenly feel like I want to climb his broad chest and ride his face for hours.

Not a good idea.

I turn back to the bar and ignore my nagging libido as the chatter continues without me. Brent returns to his questioning antics while the stranger resumes his monosyllabic answers.

Their conversation washes over me, sweeping away the brutal parts of the night to replace them with something basic and easy. Something suburban and casual. I concentrate, trying to learn more about him, but my adrenaline-filled brain is darting, looking for a hook to clasp onto.

Unfortunately, it snags onto my attraction. The sexiness.

My heart pounds harder with each muttered word. The minutes tick by with building lust. I glance to the large hands encasing his beer, the thick fingers, the tanned skin.

Hands are my downfall. My Achilles’ heel. I can picture his grip around my throat. Clasping my flesh. Burying deep. A shudder slips through me.

Damn it.

I’m due to get laid. That’s all. What is the cobweb tally at now? Two months? Three? And my last conquest ended up being more of an unwilling victim. He hadn’t realized I was leading him into a sexual research situation and did a runner when I donned my newly purchased dominatrix attire.

But a woman’s gotta try these things. I’m inquisitive by nature. Stepping outside the box is what I do. It’s how I learn, and grow…and realize my error of spending five hundred dollars on black leather items, including a high-neck bralette and matching web garter.

“How about you, Steph?”

“Hmm?” I blink up at Brent and take another sip of alcoholic goodness. “What did I miss?”

“Laboring work. Do you know of any construction sites in this area?”

Construction? Laboring? Of course this broad temptation has a body built for sin under his jacket.

“Sorry.” I shake my head and keep my gaze straight ahead. Sip, sip, sip. “Maybe a temp agency could help.”

Brent leans into my line of sight, his lips lifting in a knowing smile. “What’s wrong?”

I raise my glass. “I’m almost out of liquor.”

It’s no secret I like to get my sexy on, and my lovely bartender buddy probably thinks I’m too scared to get freaky with this Hulk-like Adonis.

That isn’t the case.

Tonight is for celebration, and I don’t feel like a sexual rejection to tarnish the memory. The insults from my last escapade are still raw.

That’s a whole lot of spandex, sugar.

It wasn’t spandex, asshole. It was expensive, supple matte black leather with gunmetal buckles.

Brent fakes a yawn as he refills my glass. “I think I might call last drinks.”

I glare, and his eyes beam back at me, taunting—matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match.

Does he think I’m too timid to sleep with this guy? Really? My sexual appetite is more likely to indicate I’ll swallow the sexy stranger whole.

“Yeah,” my drinking partner agrees. “I guess I better make a move.”

I glance at him, and he’s right there staring back at me, strumming my pussy with his caged emotions.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, passive as fuck.

The question not only surprises me, it lassos my womb and squeezes tight. I’m flustered, which is out of character, and I’m also aroused, which isn’t all that surprising.

“Yes.” I throw back the last of my drink and stand. “But I’m leaving on my own.”

Apparently, the mix of adrenaline and whiskey has made me reckless. I’m a panty slip away from taking this guy home. This devilishly sexy man with his shadowy intrigue and penetrating eyes. My heart palpitates. My sternum itches. I want to drag him to my apartment by his dick. I would strip him. Devour him.

Not tonight, Satan. Not tonight.

I need to focus. Regroup. I have a lead to chase tomorrow, and I don’t want anything else stealing my attention.

I pull my pack from the floor and scrounge for my purse, only to have the stranger shake his head.

“I’ve got it.” He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a money clip, and slides a stack of bills across the bar. “This should be enough for both of us.”

It is.

More than enough.

I don’t know how to respond. I’m uncomfortable with being indebted. I’m also charmed by his generosity. “Thank you.”

He grasps his drink, not paying me attention as he raises the bottle. “Don’t mention it.”

It isn’t a gentlemanly request. It’s a statement. A demand that I ignore his kindness. It’s entirely gruff and anti-social. It’s how I usually act—my MO outside of this bar and away from the one man I speak to. It’s so familiar I can’t help smiling.

This man is me.

“Well…” I beat my desire back with a studded bat. “It was nice meeting you.”

He scans me with a quick appreciative stare, from eyes to heels and back again. “I assure you, the pleasure was all mine.” There’s no inflection in his tone, no excitement, and definitely none of this pleasure he speaks of. But I believe him anyway.

I tingle in places that aren’t usually susceptible to flattery. I crave more of his scrutiny. I want all of his attention.

Shit.

I clear my throat to break the trance and sling my pack over one shoulder. “I’ll catch you later, Brent.”

I don’t glance in the bartender’s direction. I focus on the door, my head high, and eat up the space between me and necessary fresh air. I fight temptation like a pro, striding my seductive heels toward my escape, until I hear the squeak of a bar seat.

“I’m out of here, too.”

That voice slays me. The lethargy. The masculinity.

I pause and glance over my shoulder to see my fantasy approaching, the slightest tweak to his mouth a threat and a taunt, all in one. I should run. Fast. But all the cautionary thoughts are being smothered by the heavy weight of attraction.

There’s a hum.

A zing.

It slides down my spine, tightens my nipples, and contracts my pussy in the most delicious squeeze. I’m already convinced this guy could make me come like a runaway freight train, leaving me devastated and deliciously broken.

I want that pleasure. I want the pain, too.

He raises a cocky brow. “You waiting for me, princess?”

Princess? “Seems more like you’re following.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Is that a problem?”

There is much more to his question than the issue of him tailing me. It’s about vulnerability. Susceptibility. Deliciously dreamy carnality.

And yes, it’s a major problem. Huge. My normally infallible caution is wavering like a leaf in a hurricane. But I can’t voice a protest. The words aren’t there. Not the right ones. Only those that will be so very, very wrong. “I guess that depends on what you want to achieve.”

Thoughts dance behind those lazy eyes, and I want to know them all. I itch to hear his secrets. His darkest desires. I need to know his plans for me, and I want the explanation to come in erotic Technicolor.

“I want everything.” His voice is low—pure sex and seduction.

My pussy twists in knots. There’s no denying the inevitable. I’m going to succumb. This zing is too vibrant to ignore. I can already taste him on my tongue. The alcohol. The sweat.

I sigh, resigned to my fate. “Then, no, I guess it’s no problem at all.”