Page 39 of Manacled Hearts

I glance between her and the dance floor, debating it. I would normally say yes, but tonight I need at least one more drink in me.

“Later.”

“No problem, baby, we could just sit here and…” she trails off and so does her hand, sliding up my thigh as her eyes spell something even more suggestive.

Another shot appears in front of me, and I down it before she can say something else, then step off the bar stool, grabbing her hand. I guide her to the dance floor in the middle of this bar that’s both seedy and kind of nice at the same time and pull her to me once we’re in the middle of all the bodies swaying on a hip-hop song I don’t recognize.

Clara wraps her whole body around mine, clutching my nape and pressing her breasts against my chest, her hips against my own, rubbing against my cock. It responds to the friction, but in this hypnotic flickering low light, her face morphs into the one I’m fighting to fucking forget. The whole reason I’m drinking my weight in alcohol and rubbing against a woman I don’t actually want.

I flip Clara around, her back against my front, shutting down the image of the forbidden woman.

It works.

Gripping her hips as she rolls them against me, we sway to the rhythm of the music, and I fall deeper into the alcohol haze. Christ, I really overdid it. My feet move on their own accord, my body weightless, yet something is off. Closing my eyes, I tighten my grip like it could push Clara deeper into my mind, and I run through the filthy things I’ll do to her once we’re out of here. Only, I’m finding myself forcing my way through those thoughts, because somehow… not sure how… each and every one of them feels wrong.

This whole situation is—the body in my arms, the sensation against me—it’s all wrong. Even her scent.

Until it’s not…

Drawing in a deep, hypnotizing breath, spicy ginger sneaks through my senses. It’s on the verge of faint, catching my attention without overpowering. A moment later the sweet smell of rich brown sugar hits me with mind-bending force and my steps falter.

I’m at a precipice, but I can’t quite make the leap to rationalize, or accept its implication. It’s delicious, decadent, and disturbingly familiar.

My eyes pop open when I pinpoint the familiarity of the combination, and who it belongs to.

Goddamn it! She was finally out of my mind.

Okay, not completely out, but I was so fucking close.

Someone bumps into my back, probably another dancer.

“Sorry, man.” A deep voice follows, teetering on slurring. “How about I get you a drink, baby?” I know that’s not aimed at me.

I lazily turn my head—the man who spoke wasn’t the one who bumped into me, and her fucking scent wasn’t in my head. Our eyes meet, hers as glassy as mine probably are, and the shock at my sight quickly gets replaced by anger.

“A drink sounds great!” she raises her voice over the music and walks away, some random guy on her tail.

What the actual fuck just happened?

Evelyn-motherfucking-Shaw is in this bar right now.

With a random guy hitting on her.

Drunk.

Oh, hell no!

“Come on, baby, come back to me.” Clara’s voice is just another thing about her that’s wrong.

I turn my gaze from the spot where Evelyn stood, back to the dark-haired woman. Two options run in a loop through my dizzy head: put Clara in a taxi and send her away… or do that to Evelyn and go home with Clara.

Fuck!

“What is it, baby?” she asks.

Did I say that out loud?

She wraps her arms around my neck, running her fingers through my hair, and I have an urge to shove her as far away as possible. What is happening with me?

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