The Skull King (Skull 1)

She held my gaze without the slightest hint of being flustered. She sat with her back perfectly straight and stirred her glass as she looked at me, just as confident as I was. She didn’t fill the silence with unnecessary conversation.

I spoke first. “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing in a place like this? Dressed like that?”

“Dressed like what, exactly?” She held her drink as her gaze became subtly threatening, like she wouldn’t refrain from punching me in the balls if I said something she didn’t like.

“Like you’re trying to torture every man who looks at you—including me.”

“I’ve always been a bit of a sadist.” She drank from her glass until it was empty, then finished off the last olive.

What I wouldn’t give to be that olive.

“I’m meeting someone.” She motioned for the bartender to make her another drink.

“Your husband?”

“No.” The corner of her mouth rose in a smile as if the suggestion were ridiculous.

“A lover?”

“No.”

“Me?” I asked, hoping the suggestion was right.

“You wish,” she said with a chuckle.

“You were the one eye-fucking me. And let me say, I’ve been eye-fucked a lot in my life—but never that intensely.”

When the bartender handed her the fresh drink, she took a quick sip then turned back to me. “Well, you’re pretty eye-fuckable.” She set her glass down and looked at me again, not the least bit ashamed at what she’d said.

I’d been with a lot of women. Talked with a lot of women. But I’d never had a more interesting conversation. “How about just fuckable?” I lived a few blocks from here. We could walk to my place, get sweaty in my sheets, and then she could go back to her wealthy husband.

She rested her fingers on the stem of the glass, her nails painted black like the color of her dress. Everything about her was sexy, from the warm color of her skin to the shape of her fingernails. “As you noticed, I’m married.”

“But not happily married.”

“What makes you say that?”

I looked her over, seeing the dullness in her eyes. A woman like that wouldn’t be out alone if she had someone decent waiting for her. Maybe she married the guy for money. Maybe she was only a trophy wife to him. Maybe it was all just bullshit. “Everything.”

She turned her gaze back to her drink and stirred it again. “No, I’m not happily married.”

“Then come home with me.” I didn’t even ask for her name, but I didn’t see the point. One night of passion with a stranger didn’t require a name. We could get lost in each other and not think about the following morning. She could forget about her worthless husband, and I could forget about all the bullshit going on in my life.

“It’s tempting, but I can’t.” She stopped stirring her drink then turned back to me, showing the same level of confidence as before. There was a hint of sadness in her eyes, like it pained her to turn down the offer. “You’re too beautiful to die.”

“And who would kill me?”

“My husband.”

It didn’t matter who her husband was. I wasn’t the least bit scared of some asshole with a thick wallet. I was the most notorious criminal in this city. He’d be so terrified that he would watch me fuck his wife. “I’ll take my chances.”

“My husband is a very powerful man.”

“As am I.” I scooted to the edge of the stool so I could get closer to her, so my knee touched hers. My right hand moved to her thigh, my fingertips slightly underneath the hem of her dress on her thigh. Her skin was so smooth, so soft. My hand ached to inch farther, to approach the apex of her thighs and channel my fingers into her wet cunt. I would get her nice and ready before I could sink deep inside her with ease.

She didn’t push my fingers away. In fact, she took a deep breath like my touch brought her to life. It invigorated her, sent warmth to her cold extremities. Her husband probably couldn’t elicit this same response from her even if he tried. He was probably some authoritative asshole who bought her things instead of giving her love.

“It’s a shame.” My fingers squeezed her thigh gently. “A gorgeous woman like you should be thoroughly satisfied every night before going to bed—and not by her own hand. Let me be of service to you.”

She grabbed my wrist but didn’t push me away immediately. Instead, she squeezed me, felt the cords of my wrists and forearms before she gently pushed my hand off her leg.

“Leave him.”

“Not an option.”

“Why?” He wouldn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do about it.

“We don’t have a traditional marriage… I’ll just leave it at that.” She took a long sip like she was purposely trying to drink in an effort to dissociate herself from reality. “You should go. He’ll be here any minute, and I’ll have a difficult time explaining why your hand is on my thigh.”