Chapter 2 This is Madness
My pulse is a frantic, uneven beat. I don't understand this impulse...I don't allow myself impulses.
He turns his head, his gaze drifting across the room toward my end of the bar, but it never lands on me. Instead, it sweeps the crowd like he’s cataloguing every person, every detail, every movement.... taking it all in. His eyes... hazel, flecked with gold and green....are deceptively soft yet impossible to look away from. There’s depth there, and it drags me in before I even realize it.
I don’t just watch him, I track him.
The bass makes the air in the club feel like it’s vibrating, but the noise doesn’t touch the clarity of my focus. He moves to the far end of the bar and I watch as he assembles a pair of absurdly colorful cocktails for two girls who are leaning so far over the mahogany they’re practically in his lap. He’s talking to them, and they’re eating it up.
Suddenly, the rhythm breaks.
As if he can feel the heat of my stare, as if the sheer intensity of my gaze has finally scorched its way through the crowd, he turns.
Our eyes lock.
The collision is visceral. It’s like hitting a wall at eighty miles per hour. My hand tightens on my empty glass, my knuckles turning a sharp, bloodless white against the crystal. I don't look away. I don't know how. I watch his gaze dart across my face, sharp and assessing, before it drops to my hand, then back up to my eyes. He says something to the girls as he pours their drinks and begins to walk toward me.
My spine stiffens. I reach up and tug at the knot of my silk tie, loosening it just enough to breathe. He doesn't stop until he’s directly in front of me, leaning over the bar so that the distance between us is halved.
There’s a brightness to his scent, something green and alive, and it clashes violently with the sharpness of alcohol and the perfumes clinging to the air. Fresh and cool, like he hasn’t let this place touch him yet. I inhale before I can stop myself.
"Your glass is looking a little lonely, don't you think?" His voice is a smooth, low-timbered vibration that settles right in the base of my spine.
My gaze drops to his chest, searching the dark fabric of his tank for a name tag, anything to give me a handle on him. There’s nothing. Just the smooth, damp skin of his collarbone and the pulse thrumming in his throat. It’s disappointing.
I like labels. I like knowing exactly what I’m dealing with.
He arches a dark brow when I don't answer immediately. "Do you need a moment to think about it?"
I force myself to focus, but it's difficult when his hair is such a tempting mess. The damp strands are clumped together, falling over his forehead in a way that makes my fingers twitch with the sudden, irrational urge to reach out and brush them back.
I don't like this. I have a system. My entire life is a series of controlled variables. When I want to fuck, I find someone efficient, someone fleeting. I find a body I can ruthlessly pound into until the noise in my head stops, pay the bill, and send them on their way before the sun comes up. This, whatever this is, is a glitch.
He gives a small nod, as if he’s already bored of my silence. He starts to turn, his shoulder rolling as he prepares to walk away.
"Whiskey," I say. My voice is rougher than I intended, a jagged rasp that finally breaks the spell. "On the rocks."
He pauses, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He doesn't say another word, just turns his back to me to reach for a bottle on the shelf.
And he reaches for Umbra.
My own creation.
The glass catches the fractured club lights, gold lettering flashing. He leans in again, bracing his weight against the bar, and this time he doesn’t pull back. The proximity is a physical assault. My gaze drops, traitorous and hungry, to his lips. They’re full, light pink and slightly parted.There’s a faint sheen there, like he’s just run his tongue across them.
I imagine those lips wrapped around me, the friction of them, the heat. I bet he’d make the most melodic sounds while he took every inch of me.
I curse myself internally. This is madness.
He gestures lazily with the bottle, tilting it slightly so the label faces me. My label. The one I rejected six times before approving. The one I obsessed over until it felt like a scar. The amber liquid catches the neon light. “Management’s got us pushing this tonight,” he says, voice smooth but edged with something playful. “Apparently it’s exclusive, pre-market, very hush-hush. We’re supposed to talk about it like were in on some elite secret.”
My gaze narrows. I spent eighteen months perfecting the peat-to-oak ratio of that liquid. I sacrificed sleep for the clarity of that amber hue.
"You sound unimpressed," I say, my voice clipped. "Don't like it?"
He shrugs, a slow, casual movement that makes the stud in his ear glint. "It’s good. Smooth. Smoky." He glances at the bottle. "I’m just more of a vodka guy. Clean, simple, doesn't pretend to be a life-changing experience....." He brings a ringed finger to his lips and a smile flickers across his face, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Don’t tell them I said that though,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough to make the words feel like a secret meant only for me.
He grabs a fresh glass, ice clinks as he drops a few cubes in.Then he lifts the bottle of Umbra and pours slowly, the amber liquid sliding over the ice in a smooth, controlled stream.
"Besides," he continues, sliding the glass toward me until his fingers are mere inches from mine. "At the price they’re planning to charge for a bottle of this, it should come with a guaranteed tax write-off."
"Maybe some people are willing to pay for the best." I counter, my voice dropping an octave as I hold his gaze
"And some people just like the way the gold leaf looks on the bottle," he shoots back, leaning his elbows on the bar. He’s extra close now.
My system is screaming at me to reach out, to grab him by his neckline and pull his face toward mine just to see if he tastes like the vodka he claims to love.
I reach for the glass instead, my fingers intentionally brushing against his. The contact is a jolt of pure, unbridled heat that settles right in my gut. He doesn't flinch. If anything, he leans into the friction, his eyes holding mine with a steady, maddening curiosity.
I pull the glass toward me and take a slow sip, my eyes pinned on him. The Umbra hits my tongue, but for the first time in my life, I can’t taste the craftsmanship.
“So, you like it?” he asks afterwards.
I take a slow breath and glance at my glass, then back at him. “It’s the best I’ve ever had.”
For a brief moment, surprise flashes across his face. It’s quick, gone before it registers. Then his lips curl into a small smile. “Maybe my palate’s just not as refined as yours,” he says lightly, chuckling under his breath
I feel my gaze drop to his lips again, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. But I can’t look away.
“I doubt that,” I mutter, my voice a little rougher than I intended. I slowly raise my eyes back to his. For a moment, he looks almost thrown, something I can’t place flashing across his face. His smile falters, just a fraction, before he recovers, tilting his head slightly.