Chapter 3

3.

How soon was "soon"?

How exactly was he planning to brew this so-called "perfect drink"?

Explicit, filthy scenarios played on repeat in my head, leaving me restless and craving his touch.

I tossed and turned in bed all night, obsessing over his muscular arms and that dangerous, knowing smirk.

The next afternoon, I showed up at the lounge two hours before my shift.

"Declan, about that secret drink you mentioned yesterday," I asked casually. "What makes it so special?"

Declan looked up from polishing a rocks glass, his eyes flashing with amusement.

"Why? Are you that eager, Callie?"

"Maybe a little," I replied softly, lowering my gaze with feigned modesty. "I'm just curious."

"Curiosity is a dangerous thing," he said, stepping out from behind the counter.

He reached out and tipped my chin up, forcing me to meet his piercing gaze.

"If you really want to learn the secret, come to my apartment after we close tonight."

The moment our shift ended, I followed him straight to his downtown loft.

To prepare for our private lesson, I wore an impossibly short A-line leather skirt and stilettos.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I walked behind him.

Yet the second we stepped through his front door, Declan grabbed my wrist and shoved me backward.

Before I could even gasp, he forced me down onto a bizarre, heavy-framed wooden chair.

"Declan, what are you doing?"

Without answering, he clamped leather restraints over my wrists, securing them tightly to the armrests.

Then he lifted my legs, locking my ankles onto elevated stirrups that left me completely exposed and spread-eagled.

Panic flashed through my mind, mingled with a bizarre surge of arousal.

Was he into hardcore bondage?

Explicit scenes flashed through my mind like a movie, making my skin flush hot and damp.

"What... what are you doing to me?" I stammered, my voice trembling between fear and excitement.

He leaned over me, a wicked glint in his dark eyes.

"Scared already?"

"I'm not scared!" I snapped defensively, though my voice came out as a weak whimper.

"Keep still," he commanded, pulling a black silk scarf from his pocket and tying it securely over my eyes.

The sudden pitch-black darkness amplified every sound in the room.

"If you want to master the perfect drink, step one is learning to feel with your senses."

His deep voice drifted closer, full of dark, hypnotic authority.

"Now, let's place the spirit inside its fermentation chamber."

A sudden draft of cold air brushed against my exposed thighs as he adjusted the chair, tilting my hips further upward.

Shame and heat flooded my face.

Did he mean... was the fermentation chamber down *there*?

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