Page 18 of Wicked Attraction

Her words came out breathy and more than a little husky. Yeah, she was turned the fuck on.

“I do, but I bet if I touched your pussy right now, if I slid my hand down your pants, I’d find your lips swollen and slick, and then I’d know.”

She blinked. “Know what?”

“That it was because of me. That your pussy aches because of me.”

Addison gasped and licked her lips, leaning in closer and closer until her lips damn near touched mine. She froze, realizing a moment too late who she was and who I was before she sat back and finished her beer.

“Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Ashby.” She slid off the stool and pulled a few bills from her pocket.

I stood, towering over her with a smile and a shrug.

“Suit yourself, but Agent Beck?”

“What is it?”

“Challenge accepted.”

She let out a low growl and stomped off, and I laughed. She was a spitfire. I’d give her that much.

It was too bad I might have to kill her.

CHAPTEREIGHT

Mo

The Saturday night crowd at Midnight Mass was loud and rowdy, and it was all because of football, college football to be exact.

Football lovers of every stripe showed up, from bookies to degenerate gamblers, casual gamblers, college kids hailing from the hometown of one of the teams, girls who loved football fans, college football players, and even wannabe college football players.

They’d all lined up to grace a booth or a table or a stool to set eyes on their favorite teams as they kicked ass, took names, and left no prisoners on the field.

The beer flowed like wine at a Greek orgy. We’d already been through sixteen bottles of Velvet Fire, and game day wasn’t even halfway over. After spending last night flinging drinks at Lucky Lopez, my feet hurt, my head ached, and I wasn’t in the mood to be a smiling, welcoming waitress today.

But, as the strippers at Lucky Lopez told me last night, the show must go the fuck on. Those girls shook their asses, clamped their thighs, and made that pole their bitch whether they were sick, injured, or heartbroken.

It was about the almighty dollar, and I summoned all the energy I could muster and channeled my inner stripper to make it through my shift.

Thankfully, the football t-shirt I’d altered by cutting it up and tying it at the waist went a long way to making me feel better. Okay, it was the tips the shirt earned me that made me feel better, but that was basically the same thing since the results were the same.

Better service meant better tips, which made it the perfect endless loop of rewards for all involved. Too bad not even money could stop the yawns that nearly split my face open.

Coffee. I needed coffee, and I needed it now.

Right. Fucking. Now.

I stopped in the kitchen to drop another order and grab a quick cup of black coffee. It wasn’t typically my jam, I preferred my coffee sweet and creamy, but I was desperate and short on time.

“What the fuck?” I took a sip from the ceramic mug and felt my stomach lurch. Hard. Weird. I drank coffee at least twice a day and never had a bad reaction.First time for everything, I guess.

I drank as much of the black stuff as I could without puking and rinsed my mouth out with cold water. Nobody wanted coffee breath blowing in their face while they were thousands of dollars down on the game.

“Order up, Mo!” The chef, Sean, glared at me and then barked for good measure. “Goddammit, Mo. I said order up.”

Sean was a temperamental asshole, but he made upscale pub food better than anyone else in town. His food helped my tips, which was the only reason I hadn’t poisoned the flask he kept in the pocket of his white jacket.

“Yeah, I heard you. I’m coming. Don’t want to serve greasy bar food when it’s lukewarm.”

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