Chapter 3 03

I took a deep breath, feeling my heart thud against the wall of my chest. Immense amounts of blood were rushing into my ears, whooshing around. Mixing with my wild heart palpation, I thought I'd go deaf before I said a word to him. Or die. I'd die of an anxiety attack. Or embarrassment. I had never said more than a handful of words to the man.

Like: "Here's your coffee, Mr. Cole! Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Cole!" And now what? Take my panties off, Mr. Cole? Ugh. I wish.

I leaned against the sticky bar, standing over C.J.'s slumped-over body, his chest rising and falling with each slow breath. My eyes scanned the thick white scars lining the base of his neck, hidden underneath layers of brightly colored tattoos. I'd never noticed them before. The reds, purples, and yellows ascended toward his ears, their patterns intricate, almost delicate. They spread across the sides of his neck in lush floral designs, winding around his skin like vines. Words wrapped around his flesh, covering every inch of his peach-colored skin that I could see.

My mind wandered to dangerous places. The images I couldn't seem to stop forming. I imagined running my fingers across his skin, tracing the outlines of his tattoos. I could almost feel the texture of the ink beneath my fingertips, a sensation so vivid it made my stomach flutter. I imagined him, his tongue in sinful, erotic places, like the characters in the books I read late at night when the world was asleep.

I wondered where else the tattoos might lead on his chiseled body, how far they would go. Possibly spiraling down, down to the forbidden place between his legs. The thought sent a rush of heat through my veins. Colors decorating his abdomen, spiraling and intertwining in designs I could only dream of, making my mouth salivate at the mere image of him naked on top of me. Showing me his ink. Showing me him, every inch of him.

Fucking hell, Mercy, reign your wet pussy in. I grumbled to myself, fighting the drunken thoughts that swirled in my brain. My alcohol consumption had been the perfect excuse for my severely sex-deprived mind to start concocting vivid images of him. Six months without a proper release could do things to a girl. Make her think wild thoughts. Thoughts she'd never say aloud.

I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat. My gaze fixed on the thick white scars near the base of his skull. They protruded through the colorful tattoos, as if the tattoos were a band-aid, trying to conceal what lay beneath. What had happened to him? What could have caused such widespread damage to his flesh?

I wanted to ask. Hell, I almost wanted to reach out and touch it, trace the scars with my fingertips. But the thought of touching him, of being that close to him, made my breath catch in my throat. I didn't even know why I was so mesmerized by it. It wasn't like me. But there was something about him-something about the roughness that came with those scars, the mystery they held, that called to me in ways I couldn't explain.

His finger twitched on the half-full glass in front of him. The subtle movement sent a shiny ring clicking against it. Condensation scattered like droplets of rain over his fingertips, causing me to swallow hard. My stupid, alcohol-soaked brain wished it was my own juices against his skin.

Fuck.

Printed across his knuckles were small words, though I couldn't bring myself to lean in too far to see what they said. I didn't want to seem too desperate for his attention. Plus-I'd find out eventually, wouldn't I? If he ever decided to take me up on my unspoken invitation, deep inside me, for fuck's sake.

I gritted my teeth. Damn it, Mercy. You're better than this. You've got to reign it in.

Just say hello. How hard could that be?

But I was frozen. My body might as well have been carved out of stone. My brain screamed at me to just walk over, just speak. But my feet felt like lead, and my chest was so tight it felt like the air had been sucked from the room. I wasn't prepared for this. Not for him.

The bartender, his feet clattering against the sticky floor as he made his way toward me, slowly, cautiously, like I was a live wire he wasn't sure he wanted to touch. His presence was a balm to my frazzled nerves, and for a moment, I thought about just talking to him instead of looking like an idiot, standing there drooling over C.J. like a horny teenager.

"Another one?" the bartender asked, his voice rough and casual, but there was something in his eyes that seemed to understand the internal battle I was fighting. He didn't wait for my response and started to pour, his eyes flicking to me every now and then.

I nodded absently, still too distracted by the man in front of me to think clearly. My hands curled around the edge of the bar, knuckles white from the grip I had on the surface. The bartenders had always been friendly enough, but they weren't the reason I came here. They weren't the reason I stayed after my shifts, sipping my drink, losing myself in the noise and chaos of the bar. I was here because of him.

I had to focus. I had to stay calm.

I glanced at him again. C.J.

He was sitting there, his posture relaxed but tense at the same time. Like he was comfortable, but his muscles were coiled tight, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. That's what I couldn't figure out about him. His quiet confidence seemed to exude from every pore, but there was something behind his eyes that didn't quite match up with the image. It was like he was constantly measuring the room, constantly reading the people around him, waiting for something.

What the hell was he waiting for?

His eyes flicked over to me then, and for a split second, our gazes locked. A jolt of electricity shot through me, raw and potent. I blinked, as if breaking the spell, and quickly turned my gaze away. My face heated, and I cursed the damn alcohol for making me feel like this.

I forced my breath to steady. This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't what I was here for. I wasn't some random girl who could just fall apart at the sight of a guy with a killer body and tattoos.

But damn it, everything about him was intoxicating. His tattoos. His scars. The air of danger that surrounded him like an invisible cloud. I wanted to know what made him tick. I wanted to peel back every layer and see the man beneath.

But I couldn't. Not yet. Not when I was this out of control.

I took a long drink from my glass, the burn of alcohol doing little to cool the fire in my stomach. My fingers trembled slightly, and I silently cursed myself for being this way, for letting the thoughts get to me. I needed to stay composed. To pretend like I wasn't affected by him, that I didn't want him. But I couldn't. I just couldn't.

The bartender slid the new drink in front of me. I reached for it without looking at him, my focus entirely on the man sitting across the room.

Just... keep it together, Mercy.

But my brain wouldn't listen. And neither would my heart.