“The lady is just fine. Persistent, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes, it pays to be,” he says, and finally his country twang and the aw-shucks-good-old-boy-vibe makes me look up. He’s tall and broad, with brown, sandy hair shaved close, a five o’clock shadow—which is so dark I’d say it’s closer to six—brown eyes, and a face that looks like an sculptor chiseled it from stone. A god, maybe. He’s that pretty. Though he fires everything feminine up inside of me, his good looks is a turn-off. I’ve dated a perfect guy before. The only thing perfect was the reflection in the mirror. I don’t need to go back down that road again—ever.
“I was just getting ready to leave,” I tell him, and that’s not completely a lie.
“Don’t leave yet. You’re the first thing I’ve seen that gives me a reason for being in this town. What’s your name?”
“Well, it’s definitely not ‘sweet lips’,” I tell him, picking up the new drink the man of my dreams bartender—though gay and taken—puts down. The guy smiles at my comment and sits down beside me, then leans into me like we’re long lost lovers. I try to ignore the way he smells, but find it’s a little impossible. He wears a cologne that I’ve never smelled before. It must feed every pheromone I’ve got, because combined with his rugged male scent, it’s making a woman like me drunk… and horny. Dangerous. He’s definitely dangerous. I may want a good time, but this guy screams “player”—rich player. The bartender is much more my speed. It’s not that I’m a snob. Just the opposite, really. I find that rich people are obnoxious as hell.
“I bet your lips are sweet though, darlin’.”
Obnoxious—even if guys like him are cute when they’re trying to get laid. I lean into him with a smile. I run my tongue over my lip, just for good measure.
“That’s something you’ll never find out,” I whisper and take another drink.
He stops for a minute, like my reply shocked him, and then he gives me a deep grin that even makes his brown eyes twinkle. Damn.
“I always did like a challenge,” he says, and I can feel excitement thrum through my system. I hear the alarm and danger bells going off… I just don’t seem able to stop staring into his eyes.
Did I mention: damn??
She doesn’t know who I am.
It’s a strange feeling—although not at all unpleasant. Let’s face it: I realize golf isn’t the most exciting sport, and the major draw here in the state of Kentucky is horseracing or college basketball, so odds were in favor of me not being recognized, but it surprises me just the same. Still. It’s almost tourney time and golf has been monopolizing the news. It’s not that I’m bragging or anything, but fuck, I’ve seen my face so often on the sports shows, I just assumed everyone else has. There can be no mistaking it though that this woman clearly doesn’t know who I am. I haven’t had a woman want me just for me and not my name or my bank account. There’s just one problem: sweet lips here doesn’t seem to want me. Challenge placed and accepted. I won’t give up until I have her under me screaming my name.
“I always did like a challenge,” I tell her with a practiced grin. It’s not really bragging when I admit that this grin has literally gotten me into the pants of thousands of women, and some were even prettier than the beauty staring at me now.
She’s a banging little redhead with green eyes who has legs that go for miles, curves that should be illegal, and tits and an ass that I’m sure make men beg. Hell, I want to beg now. That aside, there’s something about this particular woman that appeals to me in ways no other woman has for far too long. I could say it has to do with the fact that she doesn’t know who I am. Perhaps it is, and the novelty will wear off—after I fuck her brains out.
“It wasn’t a challenge,” she says, taking a sip of her drink.
“It wasn’t a yes,” I tell her.
“Odd, I wasn’t aware that was a yes or no question.”
“Everything boils down to yes or no. ‘I bet your lips are sweet’ definitely means I intend to find out. You letting me boils down to yes or no.”
“So my answer here would be… no?” The way she tilts her head to the side and pulls her eyebrow up as if daring me sends a fire through my system. Is it really because her reaction is such a change from the way women usually throw themselves at me?
“I’d prefer if your answer was to bring your mouth to mine and let me taste your lips,” I tell her, lowering my voice and angling my head so only she can hear me.
I watch her closely. I think I can see a slight shudder move through her. She’s not completely unaffected by me. Is it a game for her? Playing hard to get to try and keep my interest? That’s not out of the realm of possibility, though if true, it would disappoint me. Not that I truly give a damn. The endgame is just like it always is: I’m getting between her legs.
“You should at least get an A for effort.”