Lush (The King Cousins Book 1) (The King Brothers 4) Page 2

  So the very last thing I want is to be attracted to someone who’s even tangentially related to the man I’ve come here to scope out, or even worse, to act on that attraction. At best, this guy’s an employee. At worst—I’m not even going to think it.

  Taking another last scan of the place—packed on a Tuesday, good sign—I head over to the bar and claim a stool near the end. My original intention had been to conduct my recon unobtrusively, but that opportunity has clearly already passed. I don’t think a single person missed my entrance. The downside of rolling into a small town, I guess. Maybe if I’m quiet enough, they’ll forget my existence.

  Not likely. I’ve barely taken a seat when the looks start coming my way. Great. I pull my phone out of my purse and pretend to act super interested in whatever’s on the screen. But soon I don’t even have to pretend; I’ve got a bunch of missed messages from Northwood. Lovely. He must have texted on the long drive from Savannah.

  My boss, the founder and CEO of one of the largest beverage distributors in the US, hounds me for details on the bar while I sneak another look at the cute bartender.

  He’s saying something to a group on the other end of the bar, who roar with laughter. The guy cracks a grin and shakes his head slightly like he’s amused even himself.

  Oh no. He might also be funny. Not good. Funny men get me into trouble. I can’t resist them. Humor is such an incredibly subjective thing. Trying to catalog every sense of humor would be like trying to identify each flavor in the world—impossible. Like music, what makes us laugh is entirely unique to the individual, and also like music, what makes us laugh also reveals who we really are in the truest sense.

  Still, some part of me hopes that his sense of humor echoes mine.

  There’s nothing more tempting to me than a guy who doesn’t take himself too seriously. I had plenty of that in childhood. I don’t need more. And while regrettably, I tend to come across as pretty cold myself, there’s nothing I love more than to laugh. It’s increasingly hard for me to do so these days, unfortunately, but all the more important because of it.

  My phone is loaded with humor podcasts, my Netflix account has restreamed every stand-up special, and I’ve read every memoir written by a comedian in the last decade. But despite all of that—or maybe because of it—I find myself yearning to hear what this stranger just said.

  Was it a joke? A funny observation? Good old-fashioned ribbing? This town is small enough that everyone must know everyone. I bet secrets don’t last long in Ovid, Georgia. Whenever someone goofs up, the rest of the town never lets him live it down. That kind of community is frankly unimaginable to someone like me, having barely survived the well-off neighborhoods outside of Portland.

  A pang of sadness consumes me, but I resolutely shove it down. Now’s not the time.

  I sneak another glance and watch as an older woman comes up to the bar. My brows knit in surprise; this bar is honestly a little divey, not exactly the kind of spot where you’d find grandma. She goes up on her toes, so wobbly I worry she might topple over, then reaches out and pats the guy’s cheek.

  Seriously. She pats his cheek. And the guy actually blushes a bit, like a little boy who’s just been scolded. But then, also like a little boy, he says something that must be naughty, because the woman frowns and that same hand that just patted his cheek now shakes a finger right under his nose.

  But I don’t miss the indulgent twinkle in her eyes.

  Who is this guy? Over the general din, I haven’t been able to catch his name. I could probably ask the person seated on the stool next to me, but I almost don’t want to know. If I did know his name, he’d either be off-limits or waaaay off-limits, depending on his relationship to the bar’s owner. Perhaps it’s better not to know and just resign myself to fantasizing about what could have been, if I weren’t more than a mere stranger in a bar.

  You are here to work. Get it together, I remind myself firmly. So what if he’s super cute? So what if I haven’t gotten laid in what feels like a lifetime? Who cares if I could sleep with the guy and conveniently never see him again?

  But then I glance up, and our eyes collide. Hoooo boy. There is zero doubt about what he’s thinking. My insides squirm with a desire that’s doomed to remain unfulfilled. This sucks. Figures the first guy who’s turned my head in forever would somehow be related to Old Abe’s, the first truly incredible bourbon I’ve tasted in years. Where’s the justice in this world?

  Sighing with frustration, I return my gaze to my phone. In the three nanoseconds since I’ve left him unanswered, Northwood has sent five messages grilling me for details.

  Northwood:

  8:57pm So you’re there now?

  8:58pm What’s the place like? Does it seem profitable?

  9:00pm Is anyone drinking Old Abe’s? Any signage?

  9:03pm Have you met King yet?

  9:11pm Answer me.

  God, what a nightmare. I’ve barely been here for five minutes, and he already wants to know every last detail. I hate spying for him. It feels dirty.

  A presence pauses next to me. I don’t have to look. The magnetism has moved closer, grown a thousand times stronger. I can actually feel my body leaning toward him, the traitor. Sending steel into my spine, I jerk straighter and desperately try to ignore him because I just know those eyes are going to be a real doozy in close proximity. Hurriedly I type out a response to Northwood, hoping my reply is remotely cogent. If I can just—

  “You’ve been here for a couple minutes now and still haven’t gotten a drink. That’s okay. I know with so many incredible choices, it can be hard to pick. So I’ll just do it for you. Pick me.”

  Cute. Not terribly original, and a little cocky, although male cockiness is another one of my weaknesses, but not a bad opening gambit.

  His scent wafts toward me. It’s surprisingly sweet. Vanilla, sugar, and peach, with a hint of some spice. Pepper? No, not quite. Lemon pepper. Interesting. Not a very male scent. But it works on him. Of course it does. My fingers itch to pull that gorgeous hair until I bring his mouth to mine.

  With reluctance and also foolish anticipation, I slowly raise my eyes to his, knowing it’s going to take everything in me to resist them.

  Yep, beyond mesmerizing. What even is that color? Hazel? Green? It’s almost like they’re greenish-yellow. No, gold. The dude’s got like golden eyes. What the hell, why? God gave this guy a hideously unfair advantage—well, a bunch of advantages, apparently—over women and I have to say I’m a little irritated about it. What poor woman could possibly resist that?

  This one, I shout at myself, This one if she has a lick of sense and any desire whatsoever to finally get what she’s been working toward for years, that’s who.

  I need to rally. Like, immediately. Giving him my best I-am-not-impressed face, I run my gaze down his body—somehow even more attractive up close, damn him.

  “Try harder,” I say, putting as much force behind the words as I can muster.

  And it’s true. If he’s actually going to succeed in convincing me to jeopardize this deal and sleep with him, then he’ll need to try about a zillion times harder. Give me something to work with, buddy.

  He grins, delighted. Looks like Bartender Boy has decided to rise to the challenge. I’m simultaneously disappointed and excited. If he’d wilted under my thrown gauntlet, then the decision would have been out of my hands.

  Something tells me I’ve only further encouraged him.

  But before he can reply, his gaze flicks toward something over my shoulder. Exasperation flashes across his face and now he’s moving back down the bar.

  Unable to resist, I follow his gaze. A couple is sitting at a booth across the bar and—wait, what? My eyes fly back to the bartender. One. And at the table …

  Good Christ, there’s two of them? God help me. I actually glance around, looking for the television crew. This has got to be a hidden camera sort of situation. These two have to be doing their best Mission: Impossible impression and are we
aring those super-creepy, indistinguishable-from-the-real-person masks. Any second now they’re going to rip them off and be normal dudes, with normal levels of attractiveness. That’s got to be it. I knew he couldn’t be real. This is some model’s face or something that they’ve copied from the internet and are selling to the masses. Right?

  Wrong. So very wrong.

  Bartender Boy starts talking to the large guy he’d been talking to when I came in. And I don’t know how I know it, but I’d swear he’s teasing him about something. The mountain of a man must know the couple because he keeps sending glances over his shoulder at them, getting visibly tenser with every passing second.

  Suddenly, he shoves away and heads over to the couple. Even I, having just arrived, can tell this is going to go badly. Fingers are pointed, words are spoken—not that I can hear any of them—and other people start watching, their gazes lit with excitement like this is prime-time entertainment.

  Large dude starts leading—more like dragging—the woman toward the back. Isn’t anyone going to stop them? What, are they going to hook up in the bathroom, or something? Ew, do they have any idea how gross bar bathrooms are? Nasty. I can barely stand to use them myself.

  But Bartender Boy’s doppelgänger smirks and heads over to the bar, where he gets a fist bump. Did they plan that? Why? The last thing I’d want to do is piss off that tall, angry guy.

  They start up their own conversation, and I am ridiculously irritated that I can’t hear what they’re saying. I’ve been in this town for less than an hour, and already I’m way too interested in the town drama.

  The bartender leans down and pulls a bottle up from below.

  Oh my God, that’s Old Abe’s. My mouth straight-up starts watering, but I force my eyes away. No way can I show any interest in that bottle, even if my taste buds are demanding I leap across the counter and snatch it out of the Adonis’s hands right this second. Instinct is telling me that no one knows about Old Abe’s yet. If I show any interest in it, he’s going to be suspicious.

  And Northwood was very clear that I should draw no attention before Monday. I’ve already lost that battle, but I don’t need to further compound the problem.

  But it answers my question. Only one person would pull that particular bottle out of the bar. Only one person would know of its existence.

  And that one person is a man I can’t touch. Not tonight. Not even after the deal closes.

  Not ever.

  Chapter Three

  Nathan

  After I down my second shot, Noah tosses his empty glass on the bar and nods toward my office. “Any longer and it’s going to get gross.”

  “Too true, bro.”

  We head over to the office, banging on the door and making much ado about the gross injustice of the situation. The door is jerked open a moment later by a furious Axel, blocking Andrea from view.

  Oh, yeah. They’ve definitely been playing tonsil hockey. Andrea’s red lipstick is smeared all over Axel’s face, who’s too far gone to even realize it’s there. I won’t lie, the scene is pretty hot. My mind snaps to the woman at the bar. I am so going to muss her all up, too.

  Noah makes much hullabaloo about Andrea’s well-being and escorts her out of the bar. She’s so stunned she just follows him out.

  I grab a muttering Axel and then get someone to take him home. I would do it myself, but I just had two shots. I have to be responsible, you know.

  Besides, I’ve got a woman to seduce.

  Maybe it’s the shots, maybe it’s the scene I almost walked in on, maybe it’s just my general naughty self, but I decide it’s high time to do something real dumb.

  Feeling wild and reckless, I stalk down the bar. She’s given up all pretext of ignoring me. Her eyes grow wider as I come closer. A flush steals across her cheeks, and her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip. I want to slide my tongue against hers until she melts into me. And then I want to taste the rest of her.

  I get right in her face and say, “Here’s the deal. If you stay, I’m going to fuck you right here against this bar the instant everyone leaves. It will be good. You’re going to scream long and hard while I pound inside you. If you’re not interested, then get the hell out. You’re wasting a seat for a paying customer.”

  And that really should be sufficient to get her to scram. I’ve laid my cards on the table. I couldn’t possibly be clearer. Any woman with sense will get up and leave. But this one just gives me an absolutely filthy look. A full-body shiver rolls through her. Those incredible blue eyes of hers never leave mine.

  Oh, fuck. She liked it. The pupils are dilated, and the pupils never lie, my friends. My dick hardens painfully. I grab the bar, my nails practically leaving gouges in the wood in my effort not to touch her. This woman is trouble with a capital T, and I am all aboard the Trouble Train.

  “Who died and made you king?” she says softly. Her voice has gone all hoarse and needy. A voice like that belongs in bed, whispering in a man’s ear as he comes inside her.

  I smirk at her, deciding it would be best not to tell her my last name literally is King. “No one.”

  “So just to be clear, you have no authority to tell me to leave.”

  “I can do whatever the hell I want, sweetheart. And what I want to do is either you or some other woman this evening. You decide.”

  Her eyes narrow. I swear there’s suspicion in them, but I’m a stupid man and don’t stop to wonder whether this might be cause to listen to that nagging voice in my head urging caution.

  “So you just work here, then. You don’t own this bar?”

  And I don’t know why I do it. Maybe for once I’d like to stay anonymous, to not be another one of those unruly King brothers, tearing up Ovid and getting into all kinds of trouble. Maybe I’d just like to seduce a beautiful stranger and let us get on with our lives. Maybe I’d like to avoid all my responsibilities for once. Just for a little while.

  Whatever the reason, instead of telling her what I should, which is that I do indeed own this bar and am not, in fact, some lowly bartender, I simply shrug and say, “Nope. Not all of us can be world conquerors.”

  She straightens. Confusion steals into her expression. She cocks her head, studying me. I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something, here. But do I stop to wonder why I think that? Hellll no. I’m not going to give her a single reason to turn me down. Damn the consequences.

  She suddenly smiles and drags her gaze down my body before leaning over the bar and pointing to the row of bottles behind me. “Perfect. Now, why don’t you pass me a little of that Glenfiddich and let us get on with our evening?”

  Fuck. Me. Whiskey women are particularly dangerous. They know what they want and take no prisoners, just like the fiery liquid they love. What a lovely contrast to her icy demeanor. Perhaps there’s more to this woman than meets the eye.

  I pass her a glass on the smaller side of a standard pour because I don’t want her to get wasted and make bad decisions. Then I’d have to be a gentleman and not sleep with her, and that would fucking blow. She takes a sip, her eyes never leaving mine. She moans, a small, barely-detectible sound I nevertheless know is meant for me. It shoots straight to my cock.

  “Careful,” I whisper in warning, raking my gaze down her.

  “Right back at you.”

  I need to get away from this woman. Right now. A few more seconds, and the bar is going to get a show.

  Thank fuck it’s Tuesday, so the bar closes early. I want to throw everyone the hell out right this minute. But that wouldn’t be fair to my customers and also make me look desperate, which I so definitely am not.

  Instead, I dutifully sling drinks for the rest of the evening and send absolutely filthy looks her way whenever I get the chance. She has one more glass of the good stuff and then deliberately turns it upside down, staring at me as she does it. I grin and wink at her, sending another dirty promise her way whenever I walk past her while delivering someone their drink.

  Eventually,
the last patron leaves and we’re left blessedly alone. I swing the window sign to closed and turn to face her. She’s pivoted on her bar stool, leaning back against the bar as she eyes me like I’m the most delicious treat she’s seen all day. I’m more than okay with that. This woman can lick me up whenever she wants.

  I stalk toward her, taking my sweet time. “Last chance to leave before I take you.”

  She smirks. “Maybe I’ll take you.”

  “Yeah, no. I’ll be doing the taking, and you’ll sit there and enjoy it.”

  She grabs my belt and jerks me to her. An instant later, her hands unsnap the buttons of my jeans, freeing me from my denim restraint. She strokes firmly, running her thumb over my tip with every hard stroke.

  “Holy shit,” I groan, hands gripping the edge of the bar as my suddenly unsteady hips thrust into her hand. A bead of moisture forms at my tip, embarrassingly too soon, I’m ashamed to admit.

  “I like your cock,” she growls, stroking me faster.

  Fucking hell. Women can’t say such things. Not if they don’t want their men to collapse of an aneurysm, anyway. Although this particular adventure might be worth the hospital bill …

  She strokes me again, a soft moan escaping her as she spreads the bead of moisture around my head.

  Yep, definitely worth the hospital bill.

  “Stop. You’re going to come on my cock. I want you squeezing me,” I growl, jerking her legs apart so I can nestle myself between them. She continues stroking me as I shove the skirt of her dress up past her hips to reveal a pair of lacy panties. “Pretty. But they would be prettier on the floor.”

  “Then maybe you should do something about that.”

  I rip the underwear away, pitching it on the floor with a satisfying toss. An instant later I thrust two fingers inside of her, my thumb rubbing lazy circles around her clit. She moans, her hands flying to my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin through the fabric of my shirt.