Page 52 of Dirty Husband
"Are you sure you aren't in love with her?" Ian shakes his headridiculous. "If you aren't, you wouldn't mind if I—"
"Fuck off."
He chucklesyou're too easyand holds up his drink to toast.
"Isn't it bad luck?" I hold up my glass of sparkling mineral water. Other people opt for more interesting beverages, sparkling apple cider or iced tea or the appropriately named mocktails, since they're mocking anyone drinking one, but why bother? The only thing in the same league as alcohol is coffee.
"Only if it's plain water." He taps his glass against mine. His bourbon, neat, shakes. He typically prefers gin and tonic, but this place doesn't have the right tonic water. And, of course, there's the matter of testing me by consuming my drink.
My eyes go to Jasmine as she walks into the room.
Everyone's eyes go to her. She steals all the attention.
Fuck, that dress.
Right now I don't give a fuck about Ian's drink. About any drink. About anything except spreading her open and making her come.
He takes a long sip. "You really don't deserve her."
For the first time in forever, I'm barely interested in the alcohol three feet away.
I'm not thinking about the taste of bourbon on my lips.
The taste of her cunt is so much more appealing.
I always want her. And, according to my therapist (another requirement of an agreement with a family member, though this time I can thank my brother), I did a bang-up job replacing alcohol with sex. Only no matter how deep my craving for control, it never replaced my desire for a drink.
It's always there, in the back of my mind.
Only right now, it isn't.
Right now, there's only one thing in my mind.
Jasmine.
She stops at the host stand. Points to our table.
From across the room, her eyes meet mine. She holds up her bag—a tiny black thing with a silver clasp—then she holds it against her chest, daring my eyes to follow her movement.
They don't need the help. That thing is cut almost all the way to her belly-button. Soft silk skims her slim body. Shows off inches of tan skin.
She turns, points out something to the host. God knows what it is. God knows what my fucking name is.
The dress is backless. It swoops low, to the very top of her perky ass, then drapes over her long legs.
My gaze stays fixed on her as the host leads her to our table. Fuck, the way the fabric falls over her thigh as she walks. That slit is high. High enough I could make her come right here, under the table.
I should push her to the edge and leave her wanting. I should punish her for daring me. I should hate that she's daring me.
But I don't. I love it. That's the Jasmine I know. The girl who disarms people with a smile so they barely notice her fierce, defiant nature.
She plays nice on the surface, but underneath—
She's playing dirty with me. Which means I can play dirty with her.
Blood races south. I swallow another sip of sparkling water. I'll have her later. This is practically an admission of intent.
She wants to play this game. She wants to dare me the way I've dared her.
