Chapter 1

chapter

one

Lizzie

“So tell me something,” I say to him, planting my hands on his table and leaning towards him. Those silver eyes of his flicker with amusement. “Are you going to just sit at this table eye-fucking me all night, or are you going to invite me back to your place?”

For a moment, I can’t believe those words just came out of my mouth. Who am I right now? I don’t go home with strangers. I certainly don’t go up to men—regardless of how stupidly hot they are—at bars.

The man in question sits at the small table like he’s never had to make excuses or apologies for taking up space. A man-spreader, but not just because his massive thighs are open. He’s enormous. Huge shoulders and biceps, meaty pecs and a dad-bod belly that makes him look like he’d be perfect to nap on. Strong enough to protect me from anything. Tall and broad, with closely trimmed brown hair and a beard, both silvering in the sexiest of ways.

The stranger’s eyes flash, as he tilts his head back and laughs. Loudly. It’s a full-body laugh that inexplicably makes my eyes sting with tears.

I’m about to tuck tail, turn around and walk away. But then the chair across from him slides out next to my hip. I didn’t see him move the chair, it just slid out. Does he have sentient chair servants like the Beast? Should I expect singing and dancing from the salt and pepper shakers next?

“Sit down, sugar,” he says. His voice is a rich baritone that makes me think of decadent dark chocolate.

Sitting my denim clad butt on the chair, I give him what I hope is a cheeky grin. I say hope, because I’m not used to flirting with strangers. I’m a single mom. My two kiddos are with their paternal grandparents for the week of Thanksgiving.

That’s a holiday dinner I used to be part of, back when my ex and I were still on speaking terms. Back when my not-in-laws were still clinging to the illusion that I’d be able to reform their wayward son and make an honest man out of him. Btw, wayward is their term not mine. I wouldn’t call Billy wayward so much as a womanizing, manwhore.

Nevertheless, Billy and I officially, finally-and-forever broke up when I found that when I was in the hospital giving birth to our son, he hadn’t been in Dallas on a work trip, but rather in Miami with a Russian whore.

Okay, I don’t know for sure that she was Russian or a whore. I’m extrapolating based her name, accent, and attempted blackmail.

My point is, once my not-in-laws realized I couldn’t magically transform their son into the man they wanted, I got cut from the family holidays. So, for the first time since I became a mother, I am on my own for nearly a week.

I didn’t stop at this bar on my way home after dropping off my kids with the goal of picking up a one-night stand. I stopped for a drink because driving straight home to cry all by my lonesome just seemed pathetic. But after one drink, I met this guy and here we are.

“I have been eye-fucking you,” he admits. His large hand holds his glass of amber liquid—Scotch? Whiskey?—casually. Using that hand, he points his glass at me. “Noticed you straight away when you walked in wearing those tight as fuck jeans that mold to every tempting curve.”

I try to come up with a sassy or sexy, flirty thing to say, but all I can think about is crawling into his lap and having those meaty arms wrapped around me.

“What’s your name, sugar?”

“Liz.” I don’t really know what makes me say that. I mean, it’s not NOT my name, but no one calls me Liz. Ever. Elizabeth, sometimes. Lizzie, most of the time. But never Liz.

“Liz,” he says my name as if he’s tasting it. “Graham.” He reaches across the table and I let him take my hand to give it a firm shake.

“Nice to meet you, Graham.”

“Likewise. I’m glad you came over to my table,” he says.

“Were you planning on inviting me to go home with you? Or do you make a game of turning women on and then leaving them to fend for themselves?”

I honestly don’t know where this brazenness is coming from. No one has ever accused me of being a shrinking violet. I can hold my own with most people. But I’m not bold or demanding. There’s something about this man, though, that makes me want to go after what I want. And I want him.

For tonight, at least.

He leans forward, his thick, corded forearms on full display. He’s got what I’m assuming is a tattooed sleeve on his left arm. A surprise in some ways because this man reeks of money. Or maybe I’m assuming that because of where I am. Crescent Bend is one of the most exclusive communities in Texas. It’s nestled up against a gorgeous lake and the ultra-rich from all over Texas own vacation homes here.

In any case, I guess I just didn’t expect a forty-something year old rich guy to have a full sleeve of ink. Maybe I’m just used to the pretentiousness of Houston.

“Do you need me to take care of that ache for you?”

Damn. Those words from that man have me feeling needier than I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe ever. He hasn’t touched me. Has barely spoken and yet I want to take all my clothes off and lay myself out on the table in front of him to feast on. A man his size definitely has a hearty appetite and I’m a hearty girl.

“Need?” I say with a light laugh. “No. I’m quite good at getting myself off.”

Again he laughs.

God, even his laugh makes me wet. I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.

“Fair enough,” he says. “Let me ask this way, then. Liz, would you like to come home with me and let me make you come at least three different ways?”

I cock a brow. Is that hubris or confidence? It’s hard to tell. I do know that with my limited sexual experience (Billy, who I stupidly thought was “the one”. Twice!) men are often big talkers with no follow through. Billy couldn’t find my clit with a map and a flashlight.

“That’s some big talk,” I say.

He nods. “I’m a big man.”

“That you are.”

“So, are we just going to flirt, or do you want to spend the night with me? Because I’m nearly done with my drink.” He tips the glass up and pours the rest of the liquid down his throat. “And I’m going to walk myself home.”

“I definitely want to spend the night with you.” I said that so quickly there’s no way he didn’t notice the truth about me—that I have zero chill.

He gives me one nod, then pulls out his wallet. He drops two hundred-dollar bills on the table. I knew he’d be tall, but when he stands next to my chair, he towers over me. I take his hand when he offers it. He pulls me up so our bodies are flush together.

The nerves inside me have become an entire Cirque du Soleil show in my stomach with all the flipping a flopping. The truth is, I’ve never done this before.

I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman and I’ve never had a one-night stand. It wasn’t even necessarily on my bucket list, but one look at this handsome silver fox and it topped any list I have or haven’t made.

“Did you say you can walk to your house?” I ask.

“I did. It’s not far from here at all.”

I toss a thumb over my shoulder. “I have my car here.”

“You can follow me there or leave it here. Whatever you prefer.”

“You could ride with me?”

“I can do that too.”

Together, we walk to my car, our hands still thread together. Once we’re settled in my car, he gives me directions. It’s literally one turn. He takes up so much space in the passenger seat that his shoulder brushes up against mine. He directs me past a mansion perched on the lake. The lane circles around before dead-ending in front of a smaller house. The over-sized lot almost makes the smaller house more impressive.

Billy’s parents have a house close to here. It takes nerves of steel to own this kind of property, in a neighborhood like this, to build a small house instead of a mansion.

“I feel like maybe we should set some ground rules,” I say once I’ve parked in the driveway.

“We can have whatever rules you want, sugar,” he says.

See, if he keeps calling me ‘sugar’ in that soft Texas drawl, I’m gonna melt like butter in a preheated skillet.

Still, I need to say these things because I don’t know what expectations men have about hookups like this. “I don’t want to be tied or held down. I don’t do butt stuff. And I don’t like to be degraded.”

He turns to face me and tilts my chin so our eyes meet. “I don’t know what kind of men you normally spend time with, but I don’t get off on degrading women. Ever.” He practically growls that last word, leaving me with no doubt about the kind of man he is. “We can do as little or as much as you want. Tonight, you’re in charge, Liz.”

I nod. Again, the prick of tears inexplicably stings my eyes. Why am I so emotional tonight? And why does the thought of a man putting my needs first nearly wreck me?

He leads me into a door on the ground floor near the garage that looks like it probably holds at least three cars.

He flips on lights, and then we step into a large open room. Everything about the space reeks of understated elegance. A kitchen full of sleek modern appliances is on one end and a cluster of chairs around a fireplace on the other. A pool table divides the two spaces. The furniture is oversized and comfortable. It looks occupied, but not lived in.

There’s only one door leading off the central room, which makes me think there’s only one bedroom. This is undeniably the vacation room of a bachelor.

“Can I get you a drink, sugar?”

I blow out a breath. “Maybe.”

He closes the distance between us and cages me in against the pool table.

“You’ve lost some of your bravado, sugar. I won’t make you do anything. You can turn around and leave right now, if that’s what you want.”He leans back, giving me the space to move away from him if I want to. When I don’t, his lips quirk. “I want you to stay. I’m dying to get my hands and mouth on your thick curves.”

Instead of answering or thinking anymore, I pull off my shirt and toss it on the table behind me, then do the same with my jeans.

“Goddamn you’re gorgeous, Liz. Fucking breathtaking.”

His hands grip me at my waist, then he lifts me to the table.

You’ve had me hard as a pipe since you walked into that bar.”

I lick my lips. “I’ve been wet since I first saw you,” I admit.

“Lay back,” he says.

I do as I’m told and now my butt is elevated higher than my back because it’s perched on the edge of the table.

“Let’s spread these thighs and take a look,” he says. He parts my knees, placing one of my feet against his chest. Then his eyes home in on my panties.

“You are soaked,” he says. He swipes a finger over my needy core and even with my panties acting as a barrier, his touch still makes me moan.

“You keep doing that. Moan and tell me what you like. Call my name, whatever you need to do. You can make as much noise as you want.”

Why is that so hot?

“Graham,” I say his name. “Touch me. Please.”

“It’ll be my pleasure.”