Page 85 of Guarded King

Thanking her, he holds the glass out to me. Our fingers brush as I take it from him, the contact eliciting another shiver. Ignoring the sensation, I lift the glass to my nose and sniff, my eyes stinging a little at the potent scent of alcohol.

Unsure, I glance up at him.

The devilish glint in his eyes is a challenge. So though I’ll probably regret it, I take a sip.

As I swallow, I swear my throat closes up. I wince, my eyes watering as I cough and laugh at the same time. I quickly pass the glass back to him. Instead of taking his own sip, he places the drink on the bar, cups my face with both hands, and uses his thumbs to gently stroke the tears from my cheeks.

My laughter dies at the heat of his touch and once more, our gazes clash. His gray eyes stare into mine, then drift to my mouth.

My pulse beats out of rhythm and an instinct I can’t fight has me wetting my lips under the intensity of his regard.

As a muscle leaps in his cheek, he drops his hands, and with a clearing of his throat, he turns and throws back his whiskey.

Even as my heart thumps in my ears, I swallow and try to break the sudden tension. “You make that look so easy.”

He huffs a laugh, and the thick air around us dissipates a little. “Years of practice.”

“So tell me. Do you actually like that stuff, or do you just drink it to be manly?”

He faces me again, resting his elbow on the bar. “Do you think I need a prop to be manly?”

Doing my best to hide my smile, I shake my head. He knows he doesn’t.

“Why don’t you have a brandy instead?” he says. “I think you’ll like it more.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

He signals to the bartender again and when she comes over, he orders another whiskey for himself, and a brandy for me.

When the first taste of the smooth, warm liquid hits, I let out a little sigh of relief.

“Better?” he asks.

Relaxing, I smile up at him. “Better.”

I’m jostled from behind, the move forcing me closer to Roman. As my thigh brushes his, I’m enveloped in the delicious scent of his cologne.

Casually, he lays his arm on the bar behind me, skimming his thumb along the back of my arm. The move is almost protective, enticing me to lean into it. To lean intohim. To feel more of his body against mine.

Or over it.

Maybe this brandy wasn’t a good idea. It’s putting all kinds of dangerous thoughts into my head. Thoughts about throwing caution to the wind and touching him, sliding my hands over his chest, pressing my lips to his and finally finding out what it would be like to kiss him.

Every time he looks at me with those wolf-gray eyes of his, I feel breathless. When he touches me, my heart skips a beat. Yes, he’s my boss, but nothing about our interactions tonight has felt like those between a boss and his employee. How could they? Walking around the Louvre, eating dinner in that cozy little bistro, standing here with him now. None of it was required of either of us.

Here, away from New York, away from the King Group, he’s different. Less guarded, more… real. God, what I wouldn’t give to experience the real Roman for just one night. To witness him lose control.

To have the entirety of his intensity focused on me.

“Tell me what you meant when you said life happened.” His low voice breaks into my thoughts.

I blink, my mind struggling to find its way back to reality. When I realize he’s talking about why I don’t paint anymore, I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”

He says nothing, but he doesn’t look away either, as if he’s determined to find out.

Steeling myself, I take another sip of my drink. “Mom walked out on us when I was fourteen. Found some guy who promised to give her a more exciting life than the one she’d been living as the mother of a teenager and the wife of an artist. Dad wasn’t in a great place after she left. He’d never been particularly organized, always too busy getting lost in his painting. Then he became a single parent overnight, and he was in shock—we both were. He did his best, but…” I shrug, “He struggled to manage it all.”

“So you took over?” He frowns.

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