I know that no one has ever looked at me this way. I know that this connection is not just one-sided, that she feels it too. I know that I scare her and fascinate her as much as she scares and fascinates me. I know that sooner or later I will fuck her, that she will enjoy it. That I will enjoy it. And somehow, with certainty that exceeds every other fact that I’ve come to accept in this space of seconds, I know that my life will never be the same again.

Eventually, I remember I’m supposed to be placing my order. “Single-malt Scotch. Neat, please.”

She shakes her head as if snapping out of a haze. “I have a 12-year-old Macallan.”

“Fine.” A single word and I barely manage to rasp it out. She doesn’t look at me while she pours my drink and I already miss the warmth of her eyes. Then, as she hands me my glass, I purposefully let my fingers brush against hers. I had to. I needed to know how it felt to touch her.

I’m rewarded with far more than the softness of her skin and the zing of electricity that passes between us. I’m rewarded with her shiver. It’s visible. I do affect her. I’m more than pleased.

She’s wary of me though. She yanks her hand away and scurries to the other side of the bar.

I wonder at her thoughts as I sip from my glass. Because of her history, I might assume she reacts to many men the way she did to me. Yet, I’ve watched her all night and she’s seemed at ease with everyone except me. She is afraid of me, but I believe that fear has to do with herself. I’ve done nothing to frighten her, though I haven’t masked any of the lust she’s sparked inside me. Is that enough to throw her?

I’m seconds away from forming a theory. And then I force my thoughts in another direction. It is there that I finalize my intent with Alayna Withers. I will lead her through the stupid game of Celia’s. I will participate as I’ve agreed. Separately, I will seduce her, because after the brush of her hand, I can’t imagine not touching every inch of her with my fingers, my mouth, my tongue.

But Alayna will not be my subject. I will not experiment with her emotions. I will not let her break. If anything, this will be a study of myself. It will be an opportunity to see if anyone can break me.

As I solidify my plans, I nurse my drink and continue to watch her. Soon, she’s left to manage the bar herself. She cleans the counters with what seems to be nervous energy. Then she looks toward me. It’s a ray of sun escaping heavy cloud cover when her eyes find mine again.

She sweeps toward me and nods at my near empty glass. “Another?”

“No, I’m good.” I don’t need any more. I’m intoxicated by her presence. I reach in my breast pocket and pull a hundred from my billfold. I don’t intend to accept the change.

She rings up my order at the register and I realize our encounter is nearing an end. I feel compelled to talk to her, to soak up as much of her as I can in the last few moments of anonymity that I will share with her.

I debate for a moment an appropriate conversation starter that will neither give anything away about me nor appear creepy. I remember the toast that was shared among the staff and choose to remark on that. “Special occasion?”

Her brow creases. “Uh, yeah. My graduation. I walk tomorrow for my MBA.”

I already know this, but as I’m genuinely impressed by her, it’s not hard to display admiration. “Congratulations. Here’s to your every success.” I lift my glass to her and then shoot back the last of it.

“Thank you.” Her eyes are on my mouth and I can’t help myself—I lick my lips and delight as her pupils dilate in reaction.

She reaches out to give me my change.

I almost change my mind about accepting it. It would be another opportunity to touch her, and I burn for that. But I’m already stiff as it is. I don’t want to encourage my desire, not tonight. So I shake my head and say, “Keep it.”

“I can’t.”

“You can and you will.” It’s not the first time I’ve tipped so generously, but it’s the first time I’ve really cared that it be accepted. “Consider it a graduation gift.”

“Okay.” She concedes, but I sense that it’s difficult for her. “Thanks.”

Her surrender, simple as it is, arouses me further. She’s turned from me now, but I’m not ready to let her go. “Is this also a goodbye party?” She faces me again. “I don’t imagine you’ll be using your MBA to continue bartending.” God, those eyes. Those eyes find me, every time.

She hesitates. “Actually, I’d like to move up here. I love the nightclub scene.” She seems to prepare herself for my criticism.

Three weeks ago, I would have given it. Now, I say, “It makes you alive.”

“Exactly.” She breaks into a smile.

“It shows.” When I’d first learned she’d chosen to stay at The Sky Launch rather than use her degree in a more traditional way, I’d assumed that Alayna had an affinity with the club. Having witnessed her in this environment and comparing it to her presentation at Stern, I see it’s even more than that. This place is a life force for her. She’s struck me with her beauty both times I’ve seen her. Here, though, her beauty is transcendent.

“Laynie!” It’s the drunk kid down the bar. Alayna leaves me to attend to him. I eavesdrop, cringing as he gives her his number. I wonder how many times she gets hit on in an evening. It bothers me more than I want it to. Once more, I curse her outfit.

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem too interested in this guy. She throws his number away the minute he leaves, catching my eye as she does.

I could smile and nod and we wouldn’t have to discuss it. But I find myself wanting to know, so I ask, “Do you do that with every number you receive?”

Really, I just want her to talk to me some more. Yet another way to demand her attention.

She studies me. “Are you trying to figure out if I’d throw away your number?”

I can’t help myself—I laugh. “Maybe.”

She smiles, illuminating the space around her. It’s the kind of smile that some men would do anything to see as often as possible. I wonder what it would feel like to be that kind of man.

Then she leans on the counter toward me, and my gaze is pulled to the gorgeous curve of her tits. “I wouldn’t throw yours away. I wouldn’t take yours at all.”

I manage to lift my eyes to hers. “Not your type?”

“Not necessarily.”

I’m enjoying this conversation much more than I should. “Why then?”

“Because you’re looking for something temporary. Something fun to play with.” She leans closer and it takes all my strength not to look back down at her breasts, not to notice if her nipples are puckered against the thin fabric of her blouse, not to reach forward and brush them with my fingertips.

“And I get attached.” She straightens. “Now doesn’t that just scare you shitless?”

Scare me shitless? It turns me the fuck on. Everything she does and says is more fuel for a fire of desire that is slowly overtaking me. I’m beginning to think I’d do anything to be near her. Oh, that’s right—I’ve already done anything.

And she assumes she’s the dark one of the two of us. It’s amusing.

“You, Alayna Withers, do anything but scare me.” I stand and button my coat. I’m tempted to stay longer, but I’ve just dropped that I know her name. I shouldn’t be here when she realizes. “Congratulations again. Quite an accomplishment.”

Long after I’ve left, I feel her eyes on me. The warmth and life contained in her gaze clings to my body even after I’m home. Consumes me. I think about her while I’m in the shower as I stroke myself. I come fast and hard and still her presence cleaves to me like a second skin.

Needing to see her again soon, I decide to gift her a week at my spa in the mountains near Poughkeepsie. I’ll have it delivered anonymously and then I’ll join her there. I can meet her on equal ground. I can get to know her, spend time with her, seduce her. It would likely put Celia’s scheme in jeopardy which is just an added bonus.