Page 4 of The Owner's Temptation

Holyfuck.

"See?" Harper is still talking, completely unaware that my soul just left my body. "That guy right there?That’sthe kind of jaw I’m talking about. Just the right amount of stubble to grind against—probablyphenomenalat eating pussy."

I whip my head toward her, panic crashing into me like a freight train.

Because she’spointing.

At him.

Her eyes trail over him approvingly, dragging down the length of his broad frame, taking in the way his crisp navy button-down stretches across thick, powerful shoulders.

Andhe’s watching.

His gaze locks onto mine—sharp, assessing,dangerous.

A flicker of amusement dances across his face as he takes slow, measured steps toward the bar.

Harper leans in, whispering conspiratorially, "We should ask him toprove it."

I swear to God, I’m going todie.

I shoot her a look of pure betrayal, but she only grins as the mystery man passes us, completely unbothered by our existence.

Instead, he stops at the far end of the bar, shrugging off his suit jacket in one smooth motion.

Andoh my God.

Underneath, the black fabric of his button-down clings to the kind of body that shouldn’t be legal. He’s tall—easily over six feet—lean butbuilt, the movement of corded muscle evident even beneath the expensive fabric.

Then, as if he knowsexactlywhat he’s doing, he rolls up the sleeves, revealingtattooed forearms.

I don’t even know what the tattoosare—all I know is that my brain has officially short-circuited and I want to run my tongue up those tattoos.

Harper, of course, notices.

"Jesus, Sienna, you’redrooling," she mutters under her breath, shoving her fresh cocktail into my hands. "Guard this. I have to pee, and when I get back…" She starts backing toward the bathrooms, pointing at me. "You’re talking to him."

I will die first.

She disappears into the crowd before I can protest, leaving me standing there, gripping her drink like a lifeline.

It’s not that I don’t like sex. I do.

I love sex. At least, I like the idea of sex.

My partner was a piece of shit. Selfish in the way he never tried to make me orgasm.

Degrading in the way he made me feel down on myself for wanting more–otherthings.

Once, I wanted to blow him in a dark movie theatre. There was hardly anyone there and certainly no one around us.

You would have thought I asked him to let me castrate him, grill his dick on a bar-be-que and serve it to our fellow movie-watchers.

I exhale sharply, shaking off the weird flutter in my chest, and turn toward the bar—only to feel the moodinstantlysour.

BecausefuckingSteve, mydickheadof a manager, in all his corporate mediocrity, waltzes into the VIP lounge with a damnBud Lightin his hand.

All this top-shelf liquor, and he goes with a basic-ass beer. Figures.

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