Page 4 of Coldhearted King

I can almost sense the outrage pouring from her. “Excuse me?” she says. “I don’t know you and you don’t know me, so I’m pretty sure you don’t have a say in what I order or how much of it I drink.”

I finally tip my head in her direction to fully take her in, and fuck, she’s gorgeous. A tight black dress encompasses a petite but perfectly curved body. Hair almost as dark as my own tumbles around her shoulders in loose waves. But it’s her face I can’t tear my attention away from. The striking green of her eyes, and the way they tilt up at the corners, gives them an almost feline appearance. Her nose is small and straight, and her mouth makes me think of only one thing: how those lush, pink lips would look wrapped around my dick.

Normally, if a woman looking like her sat down next to me, I’d know immediately how the night would end, but there’s a glassiness to her gaze that doesn’t come solely from the whiskey she’s downed.

She blinks those cat-like eyes at me and turns away, looking down at her drink. I almost laugh as she visibly steels herself, picks it up, and throws it back. She reacts the same way she did the first time, with a gasp and a shudder. It sends a hot surge of lust through me when I imagine her making that same sound as I bury myself inside her.

She looks up at the apparently entranced bartender. “One more, please.”

His eyes dart toward me, but before I can shake my head at him, she raps her knuckles on the bar to get his attention. “Hey!” she says. “He’s not ordering. I am.”

“Another one of those is going to hit you like a Mac truck,” I say, and I still don’t know why I’m engaging in this. Far be it from me to dissuade anyone from drowning their sorrows. But there’s something about her that seems to trigger a protective instinct in me I didn’t know I had. Which is ridiculous. She looks young, but she’s an adult and can do whatever the hell she likes.

And yet, I keep going. “I’m going to guess the reason for your sudden need for hard alcohol is a man. Probably a man who’s recently broken your heart. And if I can tell that, so can every other man in here. Which means one more whiskey and every asshole that’s watching you right now will try to pick you up—particularly looking like that.” I let my eyes drift over her dress and back up again. I know what the other men in here are thinking, because I’m thinking exactly the same thing. Luckily for her, taking advantage of young, drunk, heartbroken women isn’t my thing, so I let her hear the amusement in my voice, just to make my point. “But hey, if you’re looking for a quick, dirty revenge fuck, drink away.”

She stares at me, pouty lips parted in shock, and I almost feel bad.

Almost.

“Wow,” she says, and those pretty eyes narrow. “First of all, I thought I was in a bad mood before, but you’re just the icing on the cake. And second, it doesn’t matter how much I drink or how many guys try to pick me up, I’m not really thequick, dirty revenge fuckkind of girl.”

She probably isn’t, but it would do her more good than getting wasted on whiskey. “Maybe you should be,” I say before I can stop myself. And do I really want to, anyway? This conversation is a distraction, and after the last week, I could use a distraction. Especially one as appealing as her.

She turns to face me. “Why? Do you think that will make me feel better tomorrow when I’m doing the walk of shame?”

“Why would there be any shame in it? Sex is about feeling good in the moment. Getting out of your own head by getting absorbed in someone else’s body for a few hours. It doesn’t need to be some deep, meaningful connection. You feel bad, sex feels good. Why not do it?”

Her eyes slide away from me, but they wander back a few seconds later. Her teeth press into her lower lip, and I can almost see her brain working overtime.

I smirk. “You’re considering it, aren’t you?”

Even in the bar’s dim light, the pink of her cheeks is visible. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

She turns away, and I laugh quietly to myself. I should go home. I’ve got an early-morning video conference with the heads of our European offices. Instead, I gesture to the bartender for another whiskey. When it arrives, I take a sip, then turn to face her. “So what did he do?”

She cocks her head and frowns. “Who?”

Yeah, she’s definitely had too much whiskey if she’s already forgotten whoever screwed her over tonight.

“Your boyfriend,” I clarify.

She looks down at her empty glass. “Ex.”

“Well, that seems obvious, but I didn’t want to assume.”

She gestures a little too broadly with one hand. “Assume away.”

“You still haven’t told me what he did.” I signal to the bartender again, and he knows what I’m asking for. He pours some water from a pitcher, throws in a slice of lime, and places it in front of her. She doesn’t protest this time, just picks it up and takes a sip.

She steals a glance at me from the corner of her eye. “Don’t tell me you’re really interested in my sob story.”

“Normally I wouldn’t be. But I need a distraction right now. And you’re it.”

She turns to face me fully, those expressive eyes filling with what looks like sympathy. “I’m sorry. We’ve been talking about me. Is everything okay with you?”

Surprise flashes through me. When was the last time someone asked me if I was okay? I ignore her question, though. There’s no way I’m telling a random woman about the shit hitting the King Group thanks to my dear old Dad. “Tell me what this asshole did to make you contemplate having quick, dirty revenge sex with someone tonight.”

“I didn’t say I was.”

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