Page 59 of Intense
We push through the crowded hallway, back into the main bar. Music is thumping. People are laughing, drinking—celebrating my win. Not that I give a shit.
The only thing I’m focused on is the way her ass moves in that dress and how close I came to bending her over a shelving unit ten minutes ago.
She slides into a booth, and I hesitate, ripping off my bow tie before it strangles me. Fuck it. What harm can a few drinks really do?
So, I join her.
“Two tequilas,” I tell the server before she even opens her mouth.
“And just keep them coming.”
“Bossy,” she mutters, stretching out her legs under the table, letting one of them brush against mine.
Not an accident.
Not from her.
“You’d hate me if I wasn’t.”
“I already hate you,” she says sweetly, flashing me a smile that could cut glass.
“And yet, here you are.”
The drinks arrive. She downs hers without hesitation.
I follow.
Round one.
Her lips press together, brows pinching for a second before she breathes out and flashes me that smug look again.
“Please don’t tell me that was your idea of a challenge.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Love, that was foreplay.”
Her pupils flare. Just for a second.
But I clock it. And I will be noting that down. Because this is a side I haven’t unleashed from her before.
Round two.
The burn hits harder this time. She blinks fast, steadying her breath, but I can see it—her tolerance isn’t low, but it’s not mine. I’ve trained for pain with poison. She’s running on spite and champagne.
That can only get her so far.
“How many rounds till you fold?” I ask, waving down the server again.
“I don’t fold. Every damn day of my life is a battle.”
There’s a hint of sadness in her voice. A real side of her.
“And yet, I’m the one with the trophy,” I say, low.
She smiles, but there’s something beneath it. Something jagged.
“You dedicated that trophy to me. Which tells me it meant more than you’d like to admit.”
She’s sharper than people give her credit for. Too sharp. She’s fuckin’ dangerous.
