6. Sofia

6

SOFIA

I clutch the bottle of Macallan 25 against my chest, weaving through the carnival crowd. The evening air crackles with excitement as families and couples stream toward the big top. I tell myself I’m just here to thank him properly for saving me, but my racing pulse suggests otherwise.

Finding a seat near the front, I settle in as the lights dim. The whiskey bottle’s weight in my lap reminds me of my flimsy excuse to see the ringmaster again.

The music swells, and there he is—Tyson commands the ring in a deep burgundy coat that highlights his broad shoulders. His voice booms across the tent, introducing acts with such natural charisma that I can’t take my eyes off him.

This isn’t the rough carnival worker I first dismissed. He moves with practiced grace, timing each announcement perfectly with the performers’ entrances. When he catches my eye, a knowing smile plays on his lips. Heat floods my cheeks, but I don’t look away .

The way he works the crowd shows intelligence behind that raw sexuality. His jokes land perfectly, making children giggle while sliding in subtle innuendos that have adults smirking. I find myself laughing along, drawn into his magnetic performance.

Between acts, he prowls the ring’s edge with lethal grace. Those muscled arms that held me during the attack now gesture dramatically, conducting the show like a master orchestrator. My breath catches when he does a backflip off the ring barrier, landing with catlike precision.

I squeeze my thighs together, remembering our heated exchange over text last night. The memory of the photos of his pierced cock makes my core clench. What started as a simple attraction has evolved into something more complex. This man is dangerous—not because he’s a carnival worker who runs drugs, but because he’s far more fascinating than I ever expected.

The final applause fades as families stream toward the exits. I stay glued to my seat, the bottle of whiskey warm from being clutched in my hands all evening. My heart pounds against my ribs as the crowd thins out.

Tyson stands in the center ring, that infuriating smirk playing across his lips as he watches me. Heat floods my cheeks at the intensity of his stare, but I refuse to look away first.

He knows what he’s doing to me. The memory of our heated text exchange burns through my mind, making my thighs press together of their own accord. Those photos… God, I shouldn’t be thinking about that here .

The last few stragglers file out, leaving us alone in the vast tent. The silence feels electric, charged with unspoken tension. Tyson’s smirk widens as he takes a deliberate step in my direction, like a predator who knows his prey can’t escape.

I grip the whiskey bottle tighter, reminding myself I came to thank him for saving my life. But how he’s looking at me now makes it clear we both know that’s not the only reason.

“That was quite a show,” I say.

He steps closer, his eyes flicking to the whiskey bottle in my hands. “Is that for me?”

“Yes. I wanted to thank you.” I lick my lips, my heart pounding as I stand, thrusting the bottle at him.

He closes the distance between us in two long strides, his tall frame hovering over me. My pulse quickens as he takes the bottle, his fingers brushing mine intentionally. “Getting me drunk isn’t necessary. I told you, we’re even.”

“But I wanted to.” I bite my lip, unsure how to say what’s on my mind. “You saved my life, and I...”

“You what?” He leans closer, his warm breath tickling my ear. “You wanted to thank me properly?”

My breath catches in my throat as his lips brush my earlobe. “You... you know what I mean,” I whisper.

“Do I?” His free hand slides onto my waist, pulling me closer, his lips still against my ear. “You want to get down on your knees and show your appreciation? Because I’m not gonna say no.”

The pulse between my thighs throbs at his suggestion. “I-I wasn’t... ”

He chuckles, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine. “Don’t play coy. I know what you want.” His fingers dip into the back pocket of my jeans, squeezing my ass. “You want to see my cock in person, don’t you?”

I gasp, my knees going weak. “I...”

“Yeah, you do.” His voice drops an octave. “Admit it. Admit you want my cock.”

His intoxicating scent fills my lungs, clouding my already muddled thoughts. I can’t think straight, but my body screams, ‘Yes.’ “I...”

“Say it. Tell me how much you want my cock.” His hand presses firmer against my lower back, urging me forward. “You like it when I talk dirty, don’t you?”

My chest rises and falls rapidly as his words wash over me. I should be appalled, but the truth is—I do want him. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone. And something about his crass manner stirs a fire in me that I can’t ignore.

“You want to know what I want?” I meet his gaze. “I want you to shut up and kiss me.”

His lips crash against mine, and my world explodes into sensation. The kiss is nothing like the tepid pecks I’ve shared with Paulie. Tyson’s mouth claims mine with a hunger that sets my blood on fire, his tongue sliding in and out in a dance that makes my toes curl.

My fingers tangle in his hair as he deepens the kiss, drawing a moan from deep in my throat. He tastes like danger and desire, and I want more. His strong hands grip my waist, and suddenly I’m airborne.

“Oh!” I gasp against his mouth as he lifts me. Heat floods my cheeks—I’m not some petite thing that men typically sweep off their feet. But Tyson doesn’t notice or care about my few extra pounds, holding me steady as if I weigh nothing.

I wrap my legs around his waist, lost in the intoxicating feel of him, when a throat-clearing cuts through our passion.

“Boss.” A man’s gravelly voice sends ice through my veins.

I scramble out of Tyson’s embrace to the ground, my heart pounding for a different reason. Oh God. What am I doing? I’m engaged. This can’t happen.

“I should... I need to go,” I stammer, unable to look at either man as shame and guilt crash over me. I grab my purse from where it fell and practically run from the tent, leaving my dignity behind.