Page 1 of Mischievous Lies

CHAPTER 1

Ivy

“Ireckon they’re a handful,” the guy across from me says as he stares down at my tits. Raising a brow at him, I wonder if I should lean across the table and punch him. Because, let’s be honest, his face might look better after a reconfiguration. Or maybe I should let it go. “You have curves—beautiful ones—and I reckon they’re a handful,” he reiterates as if my delayed response has something to do with a lack of understanding. I try not to laugh as I tuck a piece of my short blonde hair behind my ear.

This is what happens when you decide to go on a spontaneous date with someone off a fucking dating app.

You end up with dickheads.

Some have been enough to entertain me and a few to take the edge off in the bedroom, but none of them are mind-blowing. I like sex. No, Ilovesex. But finding someone who can keep up with my appetite for it–with my demands and not be emasculated by them? Well, that’s difficult to find here in Manhattan.

Maybe I need to take another trip to Europe.I ponder the thought as he keeps talking about God knows what.

This guy seems the type to have a pole up his ass and a tiny dick. The moment I let him down, he’ll probably call me a slut or a whore because his little man ego can’t handle rejection. But in truth, he’s fucking punching anyway. Meaning I refuse to lower my standards for any man, and I understand my sex drive is frowned upon comparatively to that of men, but I don’t even know why they have such a high level of need when they’re predominantly shit at the act. It just always feels like it’s missing something.

Despite that, I like to fuck and be fucked.

So fuck them all and society’s opinions about a woman getting her fix.

“My place or yours?” he asks, and that brings me back into the conversation. Wow. He really likes the sound of his own voice. Usually, when it gets to this part of the night, I go back to theirs, praying I might at least learn a new trick. I don’t need flowery shit. I just need hard fucking.

Except tonight.

It’s not happening tonight. No, this one is giving me the ick. No matter how horny I might be right now, I’d much rather use my magical little toy that I know is going to be far more effective. It’s not worth letting this guy put his hands on my body, and that speaks volumes as to how much I can’t stand him since we’ve only been sitting here for thirty minutes in a less-than-cute bar, whose drinks are limited to any spirit mixed with soda.

I want to scream. If the date’s shit, at least give me a cute cocktail.

“Aww, look, she’s on a date,” someone interrupts over my shoulder. I recognize the voice, not even tempted to face him.

Sometimes, Manhattan really is too small. My date, who had no issues telling me how amazing he would be in bed or how much of a handful my tits are, goes quiet. And I know why.

I can feel his six-foot-two, built-like-a-truck, lethal presence looming behind me.

Hawke Ivanov.

“Hi,” my date, whose name I can’t seem to remember, says, licking his lips. His gaze slides from Hawke to me only for a second, as if the moment he breaks eye contact, Hawke might pummel his ass. Which, to be fair, might be accurate, depending on his mood. “Do you know him?”

“No, ignore him,” I say, bringing the drink to my lips because handling Hawke can, at times, be far more troublesome than this shit date.

Why is he even here? Trust this asshole to appear out of nowhere. Shouldn’t he be focusing on his own conquests?

“Come on now, lover, you ignoring me?” I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping my eyes glued to my date. And that’s when I feel Hawke getting closer, his breath tickling my ear as he leans down and says, “You look real good tonight. Good enough to eat. But I don’t know if your date has the appetite for a woman like you.”

This cocky, insufferable asshole.

Turning to face him is a mistake because he didn’t pull away. Instead, I find his lips hovering against mine. His dark, almost-black eyes take me in. His black hair is messy, and tattoos peek out from the casual shirt he’s paired with well-worn jeans.

“You smell even better,” he adds, and I open my mouth to unleash hell when his lips suddenly land on mine. His tongue twines with mine, provoking my most primal needs, and it’s an immediate dance as he devours me like we’re lovers who haven’t seen one another for several days. Tingles rush over my skin, and the moment my body wants to pull him in closer is when my senses snap back to reality, and I jerk away.

Hawke smirks. And that deadly and arrogant but utterly gorgeous smile makes me want to kiss him again as much asI want to punch him in the face. And this fucker is definitely someone who deserves it. In fact, I think if it were part of foreplay, I believe he’d get off on it. This guy gives no shits in the world as to who he pisses off. It’s part of his charm and also why no one takes him seriously. Until, of course, it’s too late. The fucker is a second to the Italian mafia boss, Eli Monti, after all.

Averting my gaze, I see his twin brother, Ford, waiting for him with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, shaking his head.

I wipe my lips and turn back to my date. Not that this date was going well, but Hawke’s nothing but a shit-stirrer, and I adamantly refuse to let him think he’s won right now.

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse him.” I lean across the table, giving my date a cleavage shot, purposely playing into Hawke’s games. “Don’t worry about him. He prefers penis over vagina, if you know what I mean.” I wink at him.

“Oh, he’s gay,” my date says with a smile, and I can’t help but roll my eyes because this guy isn’t any fun. He witnessed the way Hawke kissed me, and yet he still believes the jerk is anything but a womanizer. This guy has screws loose, and I can’t even pretend to be interested in him anymore. I grab my handbag and stand, but Hawke is blocking my path with that cocky smile.

---