Page 1 of Lorcan's Obsession

1

SURFING HER TURF

Iwas born with looks that could melt the panties off a nun.

Not like one of those fat babies with squishy cheeks that make everyone croon, "Aww, he's so cute." No. My mother said anytime she'd pick me up from the stroller, her friends would tell her straight-faced, "That's a lady killer right there, Rionà. Your son will make an utter mess of our daughters."

And I did. Standing at six foot four, with an athletic build and a pair of electric-silver eyes, the ladies were hopelessly drawn to me like toddlers to a wall socket.

But not her, the beauty at the Four Seasons Jumeirah, sitting with her back straight and legs crossed on the mauve barstool at the end of the bar. Her flawless body was carved for sin. Breath stealer. Every curve and dip of her luscious figure had beckoned me for the last three weeks, drawing my gaze like a needle to a magnet. Mine, and every other female-lusting man at Hendricks Bar tonight.

Up at the backlit onyx bar, her golden-brown skin sparkled in a way that begged for me to touch it. The woman was laughing and having a good time with a bartender, whose face, physique and swagger made him an Aubrey Graham doppelgänger. She languidly raised the champagne flute of bubbly rosé by its stem. I swallowed hard, enthralled by the way the glass brushed her plump lower lip, and how the alcohol caressed her soft, pink tongue.

I'd do anything to be that glass.

Three weeks of watching her from a distance had roused my curiosity to raging levels. I needed to get closer to this beauty before the seams at my groin tore apart. I recalled my observations of all the men who'd dared to approach her directly. Some men beckoned the barman with a two-finger salute and paid for her drinks, but any keen observer noted how her lip curled into a knowing smile every time the barman initiated a return to sender or poured the drink into the sink.

The braver ones, who didn’t rely on their wallets to start the conversation with her, walked up boldly with their charm on full display. And like clockwork, they'd leave with hunched shoulders and drawn lips in less than twenty seconds. She was glorious in her dismissal of men, flawless in execution, shooing them away like bothersome flies.

I befittingly gave her a nickname: Glorious Thing, and I wasn’t going to end up like any of those idiots swirling around her.

Drink in hand, I took purposeful steps to the bar counter and placed my whiskey on the HB monogrammed coaster. While I pulled out a stool two seats away from her, I craned my neck and quickly checked out her ass. It was worship-worthy—a summoner responsible for the neck aches of many men and women who twisted their necks for a glimpse whenever she entered or left the room.

Playing my part as a disinterested bar regular was imperative, and I tore my eyes away from Glorious Thing back to my drink. I swirled the amber liquid inside my glass and took a sip, savoring the smooth burn down my throat and the smokey finish on my tongue.

The bartender greeted me with a polite and practiced smile. "Good evening, Mr. Greene."

I gave a clipped nod while unlocking my custom-made Vertu phone with the thumbprint sensor. For a few seconds, I pretended to look through my notifications before my eyes flickered back to Glorious Thing. She had endless twirls of shiny hair cascading gracefully over her exposed shoulders, splayed in a brown halo of hickory, walnut, and peanut. But nothing compared to her shield-lowering, honey-welcome-home smile. I didn't know her, but she had a hold on me. She made my cock twitch, pin a firm trajectory toward her direction, and scream Daddy, I want that one!

Quickly, I started scrolling through my socials while I considered my next step. Yes, she was insanely gorgeous, and yes, I was going to take her for a spin, but why hadn't she noticed me yet?

Here I was, two seats away from her, a stud in every manner of speaking. The ridged biceps, muscular arms with meandering veins, and washboard abs leading to the captivating Vee were all labors of six days a week at the gym. Pumping iron and running laps were my preferred ways of stress relief, second only to servicing the ever-demanding female population. So many women…so, so needy. I often joked with my trainer that I deserved a gold star for all the extra daily calories I burned from daily fucking.

And Glorious Thing would be the next woman on my sexercise routine, as soon as I figured out a way to make contact longer than twenty seconds.

I ran a frustrated hand through my inky hair, pushing back the locks sweeping over my brow. The clock was ticking, and I had nothing.

While aimlessly swiping up on my phone, a particularly creative nude caught my eye. My phone was flooded with unsolicited naked pics from former, current, and future fucks from Los Angeles. And although I wasn’t really interested in this floozie called Cherry, she had taken an aerial selfie with cut-out art from Forbes Magazine with my name and photo on the front page. My image—taken from “Thirty Under Thirty: Millionaires Edition”—was stuck between her silicone-enhanced breasts. A trail of single letters mapped a pathway to her ginger-dyed pussy hair.

"EAT ME HIA."

Never.

But I'd encourage her to learn some basic spelling and update her information; I was part of the Billionaires Club now. My brother Rian and I had just inherited our mother’s estate, and my father’s business’s net worth had already climbed past ten digits.

Despite the many thirsty messages I overlooked on the daily, my boredom wasn’t driven out of pickiness. I didn't have a type. Didn't want a type. I was a flavor-of-the-day kind of guy. The decision to bone was based on boob or butt size and often how easy or air-headed the girl was. Even the hotshots lined up. Pined for me. Begged me to give them the prized jewel between my legs until it became a boring chore.

That’s why I jumped at the opportunity to work in my father's second-largest division here in Dubai. I wanted a fresh start. But my fascination with Glorious Thing over the last three weeks had eroded my resolve to the hornball lifestyle. Now, sitting right there with her perfectly spankable ass, she lured my seven senses and threw the rest of my resolve out the fucking window.

As I was preparing my approach, a pot-bellied man wearing a yellow polo shirt slid onto the stool between Glorious Thing and me. I cursed under my breath. To be cut from her presence was like being sucked into an acrid vacuum. Unbearable. My plans for the evening had to start soon if Glorious Thing was to scream my name all night long.

Yellow polo guy’s shirt rode high enough to be a crop top when he reached for a cigar in his office bag. I turned away to avoid smelling the cheap smoke as he flicked his lighter. A barman leaned in and whispered something close to his ear, jutting his chin toward the outside balcony.

Go time.

I slammed my glass against the marble counter and the bartender’s gaze immediately fell on me.

“I’d like a better whiskey.” My request blanched the bartender’s bearded face.

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