Page 23 of Addicted To His Favorite
Sebastian didn’t look up, eyes fixed on the documents. “I am not.”
Adam exhaled sharply, flicking his gaze toward the stack of files. “Hurry up with those. Then let’s hit Luxe for drinks.”
Sebastian set his pen down, finally looking up. A faint, almost smug curve touched his lips, pride tightening his jaw. “I won’t be going to a bar tonight. I have to see my girlfriend.”
Adam stopped dead, the casual sway of his stance vanishing. One brow arched slowly as he blinked at Sebastian, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
“You’re dating? Seriously?” He crossed his arms, giving him a long, assessing look, as if trying to decide whether this was a confession or the setup to some elaborate joke.
Before Sebastian could reply, his phone buzzed sharply. The screen flashed Leon’s name.
He picked up, and Leon’s voice came through, urgent and tight. “Mr. Graves, I just saw Mrs. Graves at a bar… surrounded by some very handsome men. They were all stripping off their shirts in front of her.”
Sebastian went still, the phone pressed hard against his ear. His jaw tightened, a slow, dangerous heat flooding his gaze.
“Where?” he asked in a deadly quiet voice.
“At Luxe, near Jacob Hills Road.”
Without another word, he ended the call. He slid the phone into his pocket, his mouth flattening into a cold, displeased line.
He turned sharply to Adam. “What did you just ask me?”
Adam, unfazed, leaned back with a lazy shrug, lips quirking. “Who’s your girlfriend?”
But Sebastian didn’t answer. He was already pushing back his chair, the scrape against the polished floor echoing. His long strides carried him to the door, the tension in his shoulders tight.
“You wanted to go to Luxe, right?” His voice was flat, almost a growl, as his hand gripped the door handle. “Let’s go.”
***
At Luxe, the air was thick with bass-heavy music, the low lighting casting warm shadows across the crowded lounge.
Emily sat at the center of a half-moon couch, surrounded by some of the most handsome men in Manhattan. Jeremy lounged on the opposite couch, one ankle resting lazily over his knee, swirling his whiskey glass with a smirk.
“One for you, Miss Crawford,” one of the men said in a smooth, honeyed tone. He held out a crystal cocktail glass with both hands, his gaze sliding over her in slow appraisal, seduction glittering in his dark eyes.
Emily accepted the drink with a polite smile—but before the rim could even touch her lips, another man stepped in, his arm brushing hers as he plucked the glass from her hand with practiced ease.
“You shouldn’t drink so much on your own, Miss Crawford. You will get tired,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. Holding the glass just inches from her mouth, he tilted it toward her. “Let me help you.”
Having no other choice, Emily parted her lips, taking a measured sip as his fingers lingered on the glass, the gesture feeling far more intimate than it should.
A third man saw the opening and shifted forward, crouching slightly so they were eye level. His hand reached toward her foot, fingers brushing the strap of her delicate heels. “Miss Crawford,” he asked with a coaxing smile, “Would you like a foot massage?”
The unexpected touch jolted her. Emily’s back straightened, and she quickly pulled her foot away, the faintest shiver of tension flickering across her face. She set the cocktail down on the low glass table in front of her with a small clink.
“No, thank you. I don’t need that,” Emily said hurriedly, a flicker of panic tightening her voice as all the attention overwhelmed her. Her fingers clutched the edge of the couch, knuckles whitening.
The third man made an exaggerated face of disappointment, lips twisting like she’d just taken over his farm and renamed it after herself.
But the second man, unfazed and shameless, brought the cocktail back to her lips, coaxing her into taking long, slow sips. Within seconds, her focus shifted away from the third man.
She took a few long sips, then glanced up at the man who had leapt down from the barstool and rushed to her side earlier to join them.
“You look awfully young,” she said casually, narrowing her eyes. “How old are you?”
He smiled sheepishly. “Twenty-two.”
