“Take more,” I say.

Her eyebrows lift, but she complies. Or she complies with what she thinks I want.

No, sweetheart. I’m just practicing what I’m going to say when I’m fucking your gorgeous face. She’s too innocent to understand just yet, but she will.

My dick jumps again, and I know if I don’t calm it down, I’ll be stammering one-syllable words due to lack of oxygen in my brain. I’ve never reacted this quickly and this strongly to a woman before. It’s gut-level and completely fucking primal, but I don’t question it. I embrace it.

My mind is flipping through all the lines I can use to get her out of this bar and back to my penthouse for a long night of no-holds-barred, wake-the-neighbors fucking, when she beats me to it.

“Are you married? Other than to me on a purely fake basis?” she asks, a small smile curving her fuckable lips.

I don’t have an explanation for playing the jealous-husband card except that she brought out my most basic possessive instincts. If they were any stronger, I would have been thrown out of the bar for pissing a circle around her to mark my territory, and challenging any man who thought he had big enough balls to take her from me.

That was a completely new and novel feeling. Normally my brain comprehends in this fashion: Hot. Want to fuck.

It’s as simple as that. And nothing further.

Men are not complicated creatures, ladies. You’re hot? Chances are, the guys you know want to fuck you. It’s called human nature.

But it wasn’t so simple with this fringed-cowboy-boot-wearing oddity. She’s been a tantalizing breath of fresh air sweeping by me, and the urge to stake my claim burst forth from the primordial part of my brain.

Her smile fades, and I pull myself back to the conversation I’m supposed to be having with her. I forgot her question already.

“Why the frown, sweetheart?”

She stiffens on her stool. “One, don’t call me sweetheart. And two, if you’re married, you can take your fancy-whiskey-sippin’ ass to another table.”

I smirk. So that was the question. “Not married. Why, you looking for a husband?”

Her button nose wrinkles in distaste. “No. Absolutely not.”

I lift one eyebrow. The women I know would consider that a proposal—even though it wasn’t. And they would jump on it.

“You have a problem with the whole institution, or just with respect to yourself specifically?”

She takes another drink, a big one this time. She finishes draining her glass and sets it on the bar. Those brown eyes cut to mine.

“I didn’t come here to talk about marriage. I came here to find a hot guy who looked like he could handle himself, and see where the night takes us.” She lifts her glass again as if she needs another sip to fortify her next words, but it’s already empty. She sets it on the table, and with a rush, says, “You think you might be that guy?”

I have the distinct impression that without the whiskey, she would never have been forward enough to speak those words. But this works perfectly with my plan. She’s given me the opening I need, and I’m not the kind of man to screw up a perfect opportunity.

I lift my glass to my lips and swallow the contents before I slide it back onto the Rose Club cocktail napkin on the bar. I never break eye contact through the whole series of motions.

“Where are you from?” I don’t usually ask questions, but with her, I want to know everything.

“Does it really matter?” she asks, and I can’t tell if she’s playing coy or if that’s her natural state of being.

“I’m just wondering where they raise women who say exactly what a man wants to hear when he’s sitting next to a beautiful woman in a bar.”

Her cheeks color with a pink blush, and I suspect it’s not the whiskey. Her innocence rolls off her in waves. I want to see how far I can make that blush spread. I want to see the outline of my handprint on her ass in that same color.

I stand and hold out a hand. Her gaze drops to it, and she hesitates before laying her hand in mine.

Good girl.

I close my fingers around hers as she slides off the stool. Even with the heels of the boots, the top of her head barely clears my chin.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“My place.”

Her eyes widen. “I . . . I have a room. Here. I mean, if you want. Or, or—” She stammers over the words, and I know I need to put her at ease before she bolts.

I lift a hand to her chin and stroke her cheek with my thumb, tracing the sexy-as-hell flush. “Yes. I absolutely want.”

She swallows and nods.

She’s mine.

I don’t want to release her, but I do. After pulling the money clip from the inside front pocket of my suit jacket, I peel off a few hundreds. I can’t tip less than that bastard, or I’ll be a total schmuck. I push them under the edge of my empty glass and pause, pull out another few bills, and motion for the bartender.

“Yes, sir?”

“We’ll take a new bottle of Bushmills.” I glance down at the woman I’m going to spend the rest of the night on top of, behind, inside, and beneath.

The bartender moves quickly, and within a few moments I have my fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle and one hand pressed to the small of her back.

I lean down so my lips are only a fraction of an inch away from her ear. “Lead the way, sweetheart.”

I’m cool. I’ve got this.

I can make it look like I know what the hell I’m doing.

One-night stand? No problem.

Sexy billionaire in a three-piece suit that’s definitely worth more than my car? No big deal.

This is my pep talk as I walk in the direction of the elevator, the heat of his hand burning through my thin top like a brand.

I still can’t believe the words that came out of my mouth. My gran would be rolling in her grave if she knew I picked up a man in a bar. Another wave of grief batters me, and I stumble.

He slows his stride and steadies me. “Second thoughts?”

His question isn’t mocking; it’s sincere. And in that moment, I have some sixth sense that says he’s the right man to make me forget all the things that have been plaguing me.

I meet his eyes. “No. No second thoughts.”

“Good.”

The single word sends shivers of excitement flickering through me. This man calls to me on a very basic level. It makes no sense. I mean, since when did suit-wearing billionaires turn me on? Usually, outside of the odd drunk fan, it’s the dorky guys who hit on me, and there are no sparks.