Page 2 of Seduction in Spades

“Shoot. I’m sorry.” The woman places her hand over mine that’s wrapped around her biceps.

Holy fuck.Green eyes, wide with shock, stare at me. Lashes that are thick, long, and black, and I’m pretty sure natural—thank God—even though I don’t know why I’m thanking God, blink at me. I don’t know this woman, nor have I ever cared about a woman’s makeup. However, I’ve never understood why some go out of their way to add tarantula legs to their lids. They’re freaking eyelashes. Guys don’t care how thick and full they are.

But this woman. Shit. Her eyes are a gift from God. Or a curse to make men fall to their knees and give up their souls like the sirens attempted to lure Odysseus.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks, her soft, warm fingers still resting on my hand.

I realize I’m gripping her harder than I should and release her arm. She lowers it to her side and instead of rubbing her biceps where I probably hurt her, she rubs mine.

“Those real?” She nods to my arms.

Yeah. I lift. I’m strong. I’m fit. It was a requirement for twelve years of my life. I learned to love exercise and lifting, but I’ve kept up my regime more for my mental health than my physical.

“I was about to ask you the same,” I respond too quickly before thinking about my words.

A shapely eyebrow lifts high, and I then notice her blonde hair. I’m no expert, but I’d say most of it is natural too. Maybe some of those highlights my sister likes to get, but she doesn’t look like one of those fake blondes out of a bottle.

The corner of her mouth quirks, and she lifts her arm and flexes. I wish she wasn’t wearing a long-sleeve shirt so I could feel her skin. “Totally.”

We’re standing too close on the crowded dance floor, so I can’t see her midriff as she lifts her arms, but I appreciate the cropped top, and my imagination continues to play with my mind.

And my cock.

“Want to dance?”

“Not particularly.”

“Too bad.” She keeps her hand wrapped around my biceps and tugs me into the throng of dancers.

The beat is loud and vibrates through my shoes. My dark denim jeans get tighter as my body temperature and my dick rise.

We don’t break eye contact, and I watch as the gorgeous blonde with mesmerizing green eyes stares at me as she moves to the song. I’m no Casanova, but I used to put on a show on the dance floor when I was younger. And drunker. I don’t even have a buzz going from my one beer, but the woman is intoxicating, and I can’t help but move my hips in sync with hers.

We don’t talk, not that we could hear each other over the loud music, and study each other as we dance through a few more songs. I love the wicked grin she gives me before she turns her back to me and gyrates her hips against my front, barely making contact. It’s enough for her to feel how hard I am, but not obscenely sexual.

I’ve maintained the self-control twelve years as a SEAL taught me and keep my hands to myself. I’m not into public displays of affection and not into an audience when I’m with a woman. Not that we’re there. Yet.

Shit. I don’t even know her name. I can’t do all the things my body wants to do to hers without knowing what name to call out as I—

“I’m parched. Let’s grab a drink.”

Before I can respond, she grabs my hand in hers and tugs me to the bar. It’s three people deep—mostly women swooning over Brick the Babe Bartender, as the ladies call him.

“How about we go somewhere else for drinks?” I half holler in her ear over the thumping of another Eminem track.

“I love this song.” She sways her hips, her ass rubbing against my front, and I force myself to think about latitude and longitude locations, the velocity of a bullet from an aK47, so I don’t embarrass myself by busting through the zipper of my jeans.

I’ve let green eyes call the shots for the past twenty minutes. If she wants anything to happen between us, we’ll need to go somewhere quiet first and have something of a conversation.

I have no problems with a one-night stand if I like the woman. While the one rubbing herself against my dick is stunning, I’m not that shallow. She could have been rubbing herself against a handful of other guys before she saw me. Before I take a woman to bed, I like to make some sort of connection other than my dick against her body parts.

My gut instinct is pretty on point. A drink and a conversation will let me know if she is someone I want to spend the night with.

“Come on.” I rest my hand on her lower back and guide her through the crowd and out of The Club.

My ears are still ringing, so I don’t engage in conversation until we’re closer to the slot room. Not wanting to mix business with pleasure, I lead her out of the casino. The last thing I need is the men and women on my payroll gossiping about my date.

Not that this is a date.

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