Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 106312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
I don’t even waste my breath on him; just simply shake my head no as I turn to get the bartender’s attention.
“Fucking skank,” the overconfident asshole seethes.
“What did you just say?” I ask, now turning to give him my full attention. He looks me up and down, making me feel dirty with the action.
“What, you think you’re too good for me? I offered to buy you a fucking drink, not ask you to suck my cock, you rude cunt.”
I scoff at him.
“First of all, I would never suck your cock, and I pity any woman who does. Second of all, ‘cunt’ is a lovely word, so don’t use it as an insult when it’s a cunt you want. Unless you prefer the sausage, that is,” I snap back, angling my head to the side and waiting for his reply. He spits in my face. The second that filth touches me, my body works on reflex, reaching out for the half-empty glass on the bar. I smash it across the side of his face, and it fractures into a dozen pieces. He doubles over, barely catching himself, shocked. Then, with great satisfaction, I watch as the anger takes over like he can’t believe a woman hit him with a glass to his fucking ugly-ass face.
“That’s no way to speak to a lady,” I tell him calmly. Glass litters the floor between us, and I shake off a small piece that landed on my boot.
His hands ball into fists, and the shock of what I just did now hits him hard.
“You fucking bitch!” He lifts his hand, ready to hit me, and my body hums with delightful anticipation. I’m going to fucking ruin this guy. But as he goes to swing, another hand catches him by the arm.
The newcomer’s wrist sports a very flashy watch, and his forearm is covered in ink. While I don’t know every tattoo the man has on his body, I know those hands belong to Eli Monti.
“I think it’s time you leave,” Eli says. “My men will show you out.” He nods to the security guys who have followed him to the bar.
The dumb fucker hasn’t even noticed who’s speaking to him, his gaze pinning me with a glare. I confess I feel his frustration since my fun has been cut short.
“How about no. Remove your hand so I can teach this bitch how to treat a man—” The idiot pales as he finally looks up at Eli, recognition dawning on him.
Eli casually steps in front of me, twisting the guy’s hand as if to shake it. He brings the man into what looks like an embrace from behind as he whispers something into his ear. The man grunts in what looks like physical pain as a vein pulses at his temple. He nods frantically at whatever Eli is saying.
“I’m—” The man gasps. “I’m s-sorry.” He barely gets out the words.
Eli releases him and shoves him as if he’s no more than filth. The man stumbles over his own feet, but as he tries to stand, I realize he’s holding his stomach. I look down at Eli’s hand, where blood glistens on the knife he’s holding.
“Is that my knife?” I demand angrily. I’ve been wildly pissed that I lost it the night I threw it at him.
“Wouldn’t most women ask if I stabbed the man instead?”
“Well, that much is fucking obvious. Give me my knife back.”
The corner of his lip tilts. “No. This is mine now. And shouldn’t you be apologizing for smashing a glass over someone’s head in my establishment?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “It was an accident. My hand, which so happened to have a glass in it, slipped and accidentally hit him in the face. And I don’t need you to defend me. I can handle myself,” I say, flipping my hair over my shoulder and leaning over the bar. “But now I’m really fucking thirsty since your presence, as usual, puts me in a mood.”
He leans in, and I hate how acutely aware of his body heat I am. Of the harsh, intoxicating smell of his cologne. My nostrils flare, and I hate the fact I like how good this fucker smells. I nudge him away. “You’re too fucking close. And shouldn’t you smell like melting skin or maggots or something?”
This time, he does smirk as he holds his hand out expectantly to the bartender, who hands him a white cloth. Then he begins wiping down the bloody knife as if it’s the most normal thing to do at a bar. “So you like how I smell?”
I look up at him, dumbstruck. “Wow. You really do love yourself, don’t you? Also, your bartenders are shit servers.”
That grabs the attention of one of them, and they give me a death stare. I shrug. “What? You haven’t once asked me what I want.”