Page 1 of Mr. Wicked

PROLOGUE

Grayson

Two months ago

She’s coming home with me tonight.

That was the only thought in my head as I caught eyes with the waitress, easily one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. Since I came in with my best friends a few minutes earlier, I’d been watching her bounce around the bar. She hadn’t come close enough to allow me to read her name tag, but whoever this woman was, she had the most incredible body.

Tight, petite, like a distance runner, not a sprinter. A set of tits that would fill my palms and an ass just thick enough to squeeze.

She had every physical trait that I looked for in a woman, that turned me on, even down to the dark hair—hers was black—and deep blue eyes that pierced mine from the other side of the room.

Goddamn it, she was gorgeous.

And her lips—fuck me—they were plump and pouty, glossy, dragging my attention right back to them every time my stare dived down her legs.

I wanted her.

I wanted to know how perfect that body looked under her tiny shorts and tank top. What color bra and panties she wore underneath. Was light pink her thing, a shade that matched her rosy skin, or was she more of a magenta type of woman? Black or even dark green?

I wanted to know how she would smell when I bent down to inhale her.

The scent of a woman was one of my favorite things about them.

Floral. Fruit. Maybe something extra sweet, like dessert.

I would soon find out.

And I was positive that in order to make that happen, I’d have to approach her. I certainly wouldn’t be lucky enough to be sitting in her section of tables. But after about ten minutes of waiting for a server, of watching this hottie prance around the bar, of trying to get my hard-on positioned just right in my pants, I saw her begin to head straight for us.

A smile tugged across her lips, like she knew I was visually fucking her, and it stayed there, frozen, as she stopped at the back of Holden’s and Easton’s chairs. “Welcome to Olives, gentlemen. What can I get you to drink?”

“I thought we were going to have to fend for ourselves,” I replied.

She laughed, despite my sarcastic reply.

A sound that was light, cheerful.

Enticing.

And before she said another word, she locked eyes with me. There was something behind her stare that I was eating up. Maybe it was the intensity. Maybe it was that her smile had reached as high as her gaze. Maybe it was her confidence, a trait I found so sexy in a woman.

But within that silence, a long, drawn-out look seemed to pulse between us, hanging in the air, thickening, until she finally said, “I got tied up with an eight-top.” She shifted her weight as if the moment had hit her just as hard. “Sorry it took me so long to come over.”

“I think you need to make it up to us.” I glanced at my best friends, knowing their order without even having to ask. “Vodka on the rocks for all of us—but why don’t you make them doubles. For the wait. And you can also bring me a Coke. Can or bottle—but I prefer a bottle if you have it.”

“You don’t want a glass with ice?” she questioned.

“I want to hear the fizz when I open it. None of that fountain shit that’s stale as hell. I like my soda sweet and bubbly.”

She turned her head. “What did you just say?”

I couldn’t tell if she really hadn’t heard me or if she was just surprised by my request. “A Coke. I’d like one. Can. Bottle. Whatever.”

“No, no. I mean the latter part.”

My brows furrowed. If she weren’t so cute and coming across so charming, I’d be annoyed. “I like my soda sweet and bubbly.”

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