Page 17 of Restless Hawke
I nudge his chest. “This is my stop.”
He glances over his shoulder to see the floor, then turns back to me and shakes his head. “No, it isn’t.”
Fuck.
Heat pools in my core, my belly fluttering at this man’s intensity and confidence.
All those triggers I always say I won’t let affect me. All those traits I search for so I canavoidthe men who hold them. Yet, here I am, practically drooling for him and letting him pin me against an elevator wall.
What the hell am I doing?
That brilliant-blue gaze searches mine as the doors close us in once again and we move upward. “Come have a drink with me.”
I raise a brow. “A drink?”
He nods, brushing his lips across my cheek, using one hand to cage me in but leaving the other at his side—almost as if he’s afraid that if he did place it against the wall and fully confine me, I might fight him.
Which I probably would.
Nobody cages me in, certainly not Coen Hawke.
I beat him at that table—even if I didn’t win the final hand—and I’ll beat him at whatever game he’s playing now. “One drink. That’s it.”
Another opportunity to get a leg up on my opponent.
Though, maybe that’s a poor choice of words because even thinking them is enough to make my pussy throb and visions ofallthe ways my legs could bend around this man flash through my head.
He pulls back and grins, nodding slowly, his eyes drifting from mine down to my lips, my neck, my cleavage, and the shoes again, like he, too, is imagining the ways my legs and these stilettoes could wrap around him.
We move up a few more floors, neither of us willing to move or speak.
The ding seems to break whatever trance we’re in, and he pushes away from me and snags my hand with his. Rough calluses rub against my palm, the contrast sending little goosebumps rising all over my skin.
A poker player with the hands of someone who does manual labor…
It struck me the first time we met, when he first touched me, and after playing against him today, I’m even more intrigued by the contradiction that is Coen Hawke.
His voice, low and controlled, laced with his confidence and strength, has taunted me the way his grin has since we met at the bar a week ago. It’s the reason I shouldn’t be allowing this, but I can’t seem to muster up an objection to him pulling me out of the elevator and into his suite that takes up the entire top floor of the hotel.
Massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the water and reflect the Monaco city lights.
Bright.
Glittering.
Luminous.
Stunning.
I’ve seen this view from other buildings, other vantage points over the years, from various homes and hotels in this tiny country, but this is almost as breathtaking as the man whose hand is currently wrapped around my own.
He stalks straight to the bar near the windows and releases my hand to grab a bottle of scotch and quickly pour two fingers. “Are you a scotch drinker?”
I drag my gaze away from the windows long enough to raise a brow at him. “Not really. I prefer bourbon.”
A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “You like the sweetness.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I love the spice and the burn.”
