I wheel around to find myself staring at the “lady in red.” She raises her eyebrows, glancing quickly at me, and then back at the kitchen staff.

“Il veut aussi savoir si vous avez une liqueur claire.” Her French is impeccable, mellifluous.

The staffers exclaim simultaneously, throwing their hands into the air with mirthful enthusiasm. “Ahh, liquer clair!”

They talk excitedly. “Au début, nous ne savions pas ce qu'il voulait,” one of the chefs cries out.

“À un certain moment , nous avons pensé que peut-être même qu'il demandait des faveurs sexuelles.” He finishes the sentence with the same drinking motion that I used earlier.

Elena bursts out into laughter, prompting my eyes to dart between her and the staffer. She catches my narrowed eye.

“Something funny?” I ask.

She giggles, covering her mouth with a small hand. I realize that I’m the butt of some French-fried joke.

My anger is taking turns with desire, and the two jockey for position on the tip of my tongue. I don’t know whether to kiss Elena or curse her.

“They’re saying you confused them—that at one point, they thought you might be, uh… asking for sexual favors.” She makes that same “bottoms up” gesture.

Watching Elena do it, I realize how close the motion is to the act of sucking…

I bristle, getting ready to wipe the smirk off of the chefs’ grinning faces. They may not understand English… but they do understand the sudden anger that is radiating from my direction.

Their smiles drop.

The last chef to speak shakes his head at Elena, speaking even lower. “Aucune liqueur blanche.”

She nods ruefully in response. “Merci beaucoup, Messieurs. A bientot.”

She tugs insistently on my sleeve, pulling me gently into the next room. It’s quiet in this smaller space—with just me, Elena, and some extra chairs. In one of the chairs sits a swirly beige cupcake.

I turn to Elena. “That’s the second time you’ve rescued me tonight. Didn’t know you were as tired of the brown liquor as I was.”

She grins. “Who said anything about liquor? I was there for the extra cake.” She motions towards the small sweet that’s in the seat.

“And as the bride’s sister,” she continues, “I get first dibs.”

Her smile is genuine this time—real. It’s the first time she’s shown teeth since I’ve met her—teeth that weren’t involved in any snarling or growling at me.

Her eyes sparkle with uninhibited humor and when they do, my previous anger melts like butter. I am no longer pissed off; I am turned on.

It’s like all the boiling blood that ran heatedly through my veins because of her has conveniently made its way to my cock, and in its absence, all I am left with is want.

Her eyes are strikingly blue, and the gentle curve of them makes me think of guilelessness, of innocence.

But there is nothing guileless or innocent about the filthy words we used just days ago, and the dichotomy of her sweet and sultry face mixed with the naughtiness beneath is more than I can bear.

I have to have this girl.

The words are out before I can think.

“I’ve got something better than that cupcake. Have a drink with me.”

Elena giggles. “We’ve got drinks here.”

“Not what I’ve got. It’s white liquor… and it’s good. Have a drink with me.”

“But the party…”

“Will be fine without us for half an hour… Have a drink with me.”

She huffs. “You sound like a broken record.”

“And I will continue to do so… until you…”

“Have a drink with me,” we say in unison.

She shakes her head slightly, staring down at the floor for a few seconds. Whatever excuse she comes up with, I am more than prepared to spoil.

I wait…

Suddenly, she raises her head. “One drink… and this place better be damn close.”

Poker Face

 

“When you defend, try not to worry or become upset. Keep your cool and trust your position - it's all you've got.”  -  Pal Benko

ELENA

The place to which Lukas brings me for a drink is close. Damn close—just like I asked.

In fact… it’s in the same hotel… exactly one floor below… in his hotel room.

Lukas leads me down the elevator, guiding me through a short walk down the hallway of the Hyatt’s thirteenth floor.

Lucky number thirteen. Or unlucky…

That remains to be seen.

I stand by, nervous and giddy, as Lukas removes a dark key card from his pants pocket and inserts it into the hotel door’s slit.

The door lock blinks from red to green, and we enter the room with a simple flick of a handle, the clicks of my heels marking the passage of each agonizingly slow second.

Each second, every single millisecond, alone with Lukas is an individual test of my will, and I have to fight the urge not to press my nose into his now-unbuttoned collar.

It’s the drinks… my hormones… his aura. They’re all combining into this heady mix—this elixir of naked lust and sudden wanting.

He drips sex with every footfall, leaving a trail of wantonness in his wake.

It’s impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t know it, but I am lapping up every single drip, licking and swallowing to my heart’s delight right up until the very last drop.

I follow him like a lost puppy, past his gigantic King bed, past a ginormous flat-screen TV. His room is long and large and lined with soft beige furniture.

Looking at him now, I know that I was a fool to ever come here, to accompany him to his hotel room, knowing that the temptation was so great.

I never claimed to be a fan of Lukas Griffin. In fact, I’m not sure that I even like him.

But I do know this…

I don’t just want to fuck him. I need to fuck him.

I need him to pound out all of the latent frustration that’s been building since I got off of the flight from that God-forsaken city—to stroke away all of the sudden sorrow that I feel at losing the life in Tampa that I never had.

I need to lay all of my lust on the table tonight… and forget him by morning.

But can I do that? Can I be that woman? The type of woman to lay her inhibitions on the line? To bed a man that she damn near despises?

What’s that even called? A Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Asshole?

The abrupt stop in his trek jerks me back to reality.

He stops by the fridge, opening the door and reaching inside to remove a singular bottle of vodka, the bottle frosted over with a chill that makes the iciness look like smoke.

He sits two glasses out, pouring a shot’s worth of vodka into both before adding individual cranberries from a nearby bowl.

He swallows one, offering me a taste of one from his fingers. I’m tempted, but decline.

We drink the vodka in silence, and I prepare to grimace at the inevitable burn that will hit the back of my throat. But there is none.

The vodka is smooth, so smooth in fact that it’s almost like tasting water—a sort of cranberry-flavored seltzer spritz.

I swallow the shot with one gulp.

Lukas reaches over, extracting the glass from my hands. There’s an inexplicable scowl on his face.

“That’s not how you’re supposed to taste that.”

I scoff. “Well, excuse me. I thought we were taking a shot.”

He looks down at my glass. “Not of this. This deserves to be savored, sampled. Not rushed.”

He puts my glass down, raising his own. He brings it to his lips.

“With this, you’re supposed to relish the liquor-induced tingle on your lips, let it slide down your tongue.

“You extract each flavor, each silky smooth nuance. You’re not even supposed to realize that you’ve swallowed until you feel the small fire that starts to burn in your belly.”