‘Tis the season of Wicked Deeds (A Holiday romance Book 1)
‘Tis the season of Wicked Deeds: Chapter 3

I snap myself out of the daze he trapped me in with his deep and sultry voice. It had a hint of an accent I can’t quite pinpoint. Struggling to get my bearings, I realize I haven’t spoken in over a minute.

“Hi,” I murmur back, the single syllable floating in the tiny space between us. My voice is a breathless whisper you hear only in porn.

Intense by a hundred degrees, yet mischief dances in his golden eyes. His mouth curves at the corner in a smirk, not missing the note of desire I was desperately trying to hide. I crane my neck back as he takes a step closer, his body heat engulfing me like a hug in the winter.

Focus, Twinkle. Focus.

You’re not here to make him want you or lead him on.

“Tina, is it?” he asks politely, as if he wants to continue the dance of silent flirtation.

But the sound of my best friend’s name on his tongue throws cold water all over my lust. Dousing the flames to ashes. I blink and focus on my secret mission. The sooner I get this date over with, the sooner I can run the hell out of here instead of developing a crush on my best friend’s future husband.

It has disaster written all over it.

Because once she realizes the mistake she’s made sending me here, she’s going to want to give him a second chance.

“You’re late,” I say with forced annoyance, silently confirming my friend’s identity.

He doesn’t take offense at my rude tone. Or that he was merely late by a few minutes. Unperturbed, he smiles and replies, “My apologies. I would never keep a gorgeous woman like you waiting on purpose. The traffic today wasn’t on my side, I’m afraid.”

A smooth talker, then.

Too bad, he won’t get under my skin. As Tina said, I never give in under pressure. Ignoring his charm would be the ultimate test to my willpower because cocky men have always been my type. He screams he has it in spades, as well as the bantering skills. Another weakness of mine.

I have half a mind to use his tardiness as an excuse and leave right now, but it would defeat the purpose.

I need to end this date in a way he knows it’s the first and the last.

“Shall we go to our table or would you like a drink first?” I ask, deciding to cut to the chase before I do something I regret, like stupidly ask what cologne he wears that is scented like rainy days and chilly nights.

“Isn’t that my question?”

“If your tardiness is any indication, I’d probably be waiting a while.”

His smirk grows into a full-blown smile, finding me amusing rather than haughty, impolite, or rude. Yet I wonder how far he’ll let me push before he thinks I’m not worth his time, let alone a girl with whom he would want to spend the rest of his life.

When he doesn’t immediately retort, I put my lukewarm drink down and stand to continue talking at our table. Swiftly, his hand—so much larger than mine—captures my wrist to halt my progress. An electric shiver courses down my spine at the small and innocent contact.

My gaze drops to where he holds me, his thumb caressing the inside of my wrist. Once. Enough to kick my heart rate up. I glance up, finding him watching me raptly. He does the slow and teasing motion again, causing my breath to hitch.

“Our table isn’t ready yet, darling.” His voice drops an octave as he gently but firmly pushes me back down on the stool. “Sit. Tell me what you’re having.”

“Cranberry vodka,” I utter without a second thought.

The authority in his voice, with no room for argument, makes my flimsy panties go damp. His sinful looks and cocky grin are a trap meant to distract from the dominance he’s concealing. The kind that thrills me rather than scares me.

It calls to the dark corners of my heart that I keep sealed shut.

To the hidden fantasies I daydream about alone in my bed.

It’s too late, though. The seal is broken. Cracked at the seams. Now the faceless man will be replaced by him. A tattooed, muscular Greek god with soulful eyes and a panty-melting smirk.

Is he the devil?

He must be.

It’s the only possible reason I can conjure to justify his hypnotic effect on my psyche.

Jolted by my reaction to him, I tug my hand out of his grip, which is a mistake. Because he shifts closer and rests that same hand on my side on the bar top, effectively caging me in. The bar became crowded in the last few minutes I was drooling over my date.

My knee brushes his thigh, raising goosebumps along my skin. The urge to move back is strong but the lack of space doesn’t allow much wiggle room. Meanwhile, his scent envelops me and I race through my mind for something to say. Anything to distract myself from the treacherous thoughts running rampant in my head.

Spill the beans.

Make him yours.

I sneak a glance at him while his attention is diverted, signaling for the bartender. The move shifts the muscles beneath the material of his shirt enticingly. My fingers twitch to unbutton the studs keeping his shirt together, slide it down his broad shoulders, to see where his tattoos lead.

A second curiosity keeps bugging me and before I can stop, I blurt it out. “Do you call every woman you meet sweet names on the first date?”

His head tilts in my direction, his interest piqued as if he didn’t expect the question. Or maybe he’s quite used to calling women nicknames that it’s become second nature.

“Do they offend you?” he asks before dipping his head low until we’re inches apart, so we can hear each other over the mindless chatter around us. “Was it gorgeous or darling?”

“Neither.” I shrug before giving half a smile. “Truth doesn’t offend me. As long as it’s coming from a genuine place, not casual flirtation.”

“Isn’t that why we’re here, though?” he retorts playfully. “To talk and flirt and see if we’re compatible?”

“Flirting skills are not a quality I’m searching for in a husband.” Running my finger over the rim of the glass of my useless drink, I point out, “Definitely not a prerequisite for a long, married life.”

“Hmm, interesting.”

I frown. “Why is that?”

“Nothing.” It’s his turn to shrug, his arm flexing and the intricate tattoos rippling over the muscles. “I must have misinterpreted when I read you wanted a partner who could be both charming and flirty under the qualities section in your biodata.”

Fuck. Rookie mistake.

I should’ve read Tina’s biodata.

I’m saved by the bartender, who finally makes his way to us while I backpedal to fix the utter blunder of my slip.

“How may I serve you, sir?” the young man behind the bar asks.

“I’ll have a scotch. Neat.” Julian gazes my way. “Would you like another drink?”

“Trying to get me drunk?”

“You’re the one drinking in the afternoon.”

“Touché.” He chuckles, throaty and sexy. I ignore the butterflies and reply, “No, thank you. One is my limit for the day.”

The bartender scurries away to get his drink. Julian doesn’t take his eyes off me. They roam over every feature of my face. Again, lingering a second too long on my lips. A rush of warmth spreads through me.

There’s no denying our chemistry for two strangers meeting for the first time. Our bodies keep seeking each other, leaning and tugging closer by an invisible thread. He’s as powerless to it as I am.

The tension is so thick it could be cut with a knife.

Taking the drink when the bartender sets it down in front of him, I notice he has small tattoos on his knuckles too. Letters. Skulls. Circling the rim with one long finger, he brings the glass to his mouth. Watching me over the rim, he takes a small sip and swallows before licking the corner of his lips.

I feel it directly between my thighs.

A mental image forms in my head of him lying between my spread and tied-up legs, his mouth hovering right over my clit before he licks it with his tongue. It sends a blast of heat and lust to my pussy.

Seduction lies in his every movement.

The man is lethally dangerous.

My heart, which is running a marathon behind my rib cage, flips upside down when Julian reaches forward to tuck a stray hair behind my ear with his fingertip.

“Just so you know, I prefer first names if the other person offers the same courtesy.” Pausing to let his words sink in, I realized that it hasn’t gone unnoticed by him that I haven’t once spoken his name. “Darling.”

The darling at the end sounds both like a taunt and a dare.

However, saying his name feels intimate.

Crossing a line into uncharted waters.

At least this way, boundaries are set and I’ll only remember him as a handsome stranger I once met.

Besides, the last thing I want to hear is my best friend’s name from his mouth. Every time he says it in his rich and deep voice, it’ll be the equivalent of a dagger to the heart. On the other hand, a sharp reminder of my goal.

Before I can form a comeback, we’re interrupted again.

This time by the pretty hostess. “Your table is ready, Mr. Kashyap.”