if I'm not allowed to touch her.
I suppose it's an exercise in discipline. A skill I need to hone. There's a reason I'm no longer in the military. But right now—
"Can I get you something?" A loud voice cuts through the house music. I've never heard it before, but it's familiar all the same.
That's her.
Eve's berry lips part as she repeats her question. "A drink? You can take it to the stage. Or stay." She motions to an empty spot on the bar.
There. On her forearm. Nolite Te Bastards Carborundorum.
Don't let the bastards grind you down. The quote from The Handmaid's Tale. Her favorite book.
My eyes stay on her tattoo. Crisp black letters on a ribbon. Surrounded by lush petals.
Beautiful.
Exactly what I expect of her.
"Sir? Something to drink?" Her voice stays soft.
"You have Fever Tree?" My eyes stay on her forearm.
It's bizarre. I've imagined this moment a million times.
Usually, it involves me ripping off her clothes and pinning her to the wall.
Never me standing slack-jawed, unable to take my eyes off her tattoo.
But, fuck, it's beautiful. Her. Another way she reveals herself to me.
I need that. All of it.
Her laugh fills the air. Draws my eyes to her lips. Shoulders. Tits.
My balls tighten. I force my gaze to her face, but that does nothing to help matters.
Deep teal hair that falls just past her chin. Dark makeup lining her grey-green eyes. Purple-red lipstick.
She's beautiful. And young. And she screams stay away, arsehole. Even in the sheer black frock.
"Fever Tree?" Her eyes find mine. Her dark lips curl into a smile that lights up her entire face. "The tonic water?"
"Is there another Fever Tree?"
Her laugh grows deeper. Fuller. "The premium tonic water? Here? Do we really look like that kind of place?"
"A man can dream."
Her eyes flare with something. An appreciation. "I'm afraid your dreams are staying that. We have—I'm not even sure. But it doesn't come in a glass bottle." She grabs a plastic cup. Fills it with a splash of something clear and sparkling. "I doubt it's up to your standards."
My fingers brush hers as I take the glass. It's electric. A pull I can't deny.
I've been with a lot of women since I moved to New York. But I haven't felt this.
My entire body buzzes.
My images of her snap into focus.
Her blue-green hair falling over her eyes. Her dark lips parting with a groan. Her soft body tangled in white sheets.
Her lips parting with a cry equal parts agony and ecstasy. That cry that means I need you in a way I've never needed anyone.
"Is it that bad?" She motions to the glass. "You can tell from there?"
I take a sip. It's shit. All sugar. No quinine. A waste of good gin. "You're right."
"I'll have to ask the boss if he'll stock Fever Tree. Something tells me—"
"He'll see the light? Realize he could attract every British businessman in the States?"
She laughs. "There's a girl who does an Austin Powers inspired routine. Wears a bikini with the British flag—"
"The Union Jack?"
"Yeah. I'm sure it's very offensive. Tossing aside your flag. Talking about shagging everyone. The groovy music is fun, but all night, guys ask do I make you randy, baby in that Austin Powers voice."
"You've seen Austin Powers?"
"I hadn't. Until that."
"How did you like it?"
"Funny. But I think I missed the point. I've never seen a Bond movie."
"Never?"
She shakes her head never. "Is that as offensive as Emma wearing the Union Jack?" She gives me a quick once-over. Sizing me up. Asking if I'm a good tipper. If she should waste her time talking to me. Or if I'll leave a quid and complain the dancers aren't attractive enough.
The women on stage are beautiful, yes. But they don't appeal.
Not with Eve right here.
Fuck, she's prettier than I imagined. Not because her face is perfectly symmetrical. Or because she's the picture of conventional beauty.
It's something about her. That tender heart wrapped in a fuck off package.
"Am I the expert on all things British?" I ask.
Her dark lips curl into a smile. "Tonic water. The flag. Bond… it's a trend." She motions to the glass. "Vodka or gin?"
I raise a brow really.
"The well is New Amsterdam. I'm guessing you prefer—"
"The Hendricks Reserve." It's the best bottle here.
She nods of course. Steps back to grab a bottle off the top shelf.
Fuck, she has dramatic hips. And that frock barely covers her arse. Her long legs are on display.
And those heeled combat boots—
I need her in those. And nothing else.
No, I need to