I was born with looks that could melt the panties off a nun.

Not like one of those fat babies with squishy cheeks that make everyone croon, "Aww, he's so cute." No. My mother said anytime she'd pick me up from the stroller, her friends would tell her straight-faced, "That's a lady killer right there, Rionà. Your son will make an utter mess of our daughters."

And I did. Standing at six foot four, with an athletic build and a pair of electric-silver eyes, the ladies were hopelessly drawn to me like toddlers to a wall socket.

But not her, the beauty at the Four Seasons Jumeirah, sitting with her back straight and legs crossed on the mauve barstool at the end of the bar. Her flawless body was carved for sin. Breath stealer. Every curve and dip of her luscious figure had beckoned me for the last three weeks, drawing my gaze like a needle to a magnet. Mine, and every other female-lusting man at Hendricks Bar tonight.

Up at the backlit onyx bar, her golden-brown skin sparkled in a way that begged for me to touch it. The woman was laughing and having a good time with a bartender, whose face, physique and swagger made him an Aubrey Graham doppelgänger. She languidly raised the champagne flute of bubbly rosé by its stem. I swallowed hard, enthralled by the way the glass brushed her plump lower lip, and how the alcohol caressed her soft, pink tongue.

I'd do anything to be that glass.

Three weeks of watching her from a distance had roused my curiosity to raging levels. I needed to get closer to this beauty before the seams at my groin tore apart. I recalled my observations of all the men who'd dared to approach her directly. Some men beckoned the barman with a two-finger salute and paid for her drinks, but any keen observer noted how her lip curled into a knowing smile every time the barman initiated a return to sender or poured the drink into the sink.

The braver ones, who didn't rely on their wallets to start the conversation with her, walked up boldly with their charm on full display. And like clockwork, they'd leave with hunched shoulders and drawn lips in less than twenty seconds. She was glorious in her dismissal of men, flawless in execution, shooing them away like bothersome flies.

I befittingly gave her a nickname: Glorious Thing, and I wasn't going to end up like any of those idiots swirling around her.

Drink in hand, I took purposeful steps to the bar counter and placed my whiskey on the HB monogrammed coaster. While I pulled out a stool two seats away from her, I craned my neck and quickly checked out her ass. It was worship-worthy—a summoner responsible for the neck aches of many men and women who twisted their necks for a glimpse whenever she entered or left the room.

Playing my part as a disinterested bar regular was imperative, and I tore my eyes away from Glorious Thing back to my drink. I swirled the amber liquid inside my glass and took a sip, savoring the smooth burn down my throat and the smokey finish on my tongue.

The bartender greeted me with a polite and practiced smile. "Good evening, Mr. Greene."

I gave a clipped nod while unlocking my custom-made Vertu phone with the thumbprint sensor. For a few seconds, I pretended to look through my notifications before my eyes flickered back to Glorious Thing. She had endless twirls of shiny hair cascading gracefully over her exposed shoulders, splayed in a brown halo of hickory, walnut, and peanut. But nothing compared to her shield-lowering, honey-welcome-home smile. I didn't know her, but she had a hold on me. She made my cock twitch, pin a firm trajectory toward her direction, and scream Daddy, I want that one!

Quickly, I started scrolling through my socials while I considered my next step. Yes, she was insanely gorgeous, and yes, I was going to take her for a spin, but why hadn't she noticed me yet?

Here I was, two seats away from her, a stud in every manner of speaking. The ridged biceps, muscular arms with meandering veins, and washboard abs leading to the captivating Vee were all labors of six days a week at the gym. Pumping iron and running laps were my preferred ways of stress relief, second only to servicing the ever-demanding female population. So many women...so, so needy. I often joked with my trainer that I deserved a gold star for all the extra daily calories I burned from daily fucking.

And Glorious Thing would be the next woman on my sexercise routine, as soon as I figured out a way to make contact longer than twenty seconds.

I ran a frustrated hand through my inky hair, pushing back the locks sweeping over my brow. The clock was ticking, and I had nothing.

While aimlessly swiping up on my phone, a particularly creative nude caught my eye. My phone was flooded with unsolicited naked pics from former, current, and future fucks from Los Angeles. And although I wasn't really interested in this floozie called Cherry, she had taken an aerial selfie with cut-out art from Forbes Magazine with my name and photo on the front page. My image—taken from "Thirty Under Thirty: Millionaires Edition"—was stuck between her silicone-enhanced breasts. A trail of single letters mapped a pathway to her ginger-dyed pussy hair.

"EAT ME HIA."

Never.

But I'd encourage her to learn some basic spelling and update her information; I was part of the Billionaires Club now. My brother Rian and I had just inherited our mother's estate, and my father's business's net worth had already climbed past ten digits.

Despite the many thirsty messages I overlooked on the daily, my boredom wasn't driven out of pickiness. I didn't have a type. Didn't want a type. I was a flavor-of-the-day kind of guy. The decision to bone was based on boob or butt size and often how easy or air-headed the girl was. Even the hotshots lined up. Pined for me. Begged me to give them the prized jewel between my legs until it became a boring chore.

That's why I jumped at the opportunity to work in my father's second-largest division here in Dubai. I wanted a fresh start. But my fascination with Glorious Thing over the last three weeks had eroded my resolve to the hornball lifestyle. Now, sitting right there with her perfectly spankable ass, she lured my seven senses and threw the rest of my resolve out the fucking window.

As I was preparing my approach, a pot-bellied man wearing a yellow polo shirt slid onto the stool between Glorious Thing and me. I cursed under my breath. To be cut from her presence was like being sucked into an acrid vacuum. Unbearable. My plans for the evening had to start soon if Glorious Thing was to scream my name all night long.

Yellow polo guy's shirt rode high enough to be a crop top when he reached for a cigar in his office bag. I turned away to avoid smelling the cheap smoke as he flicked his lighter. A barman leaned in and whispered something close to his ear, jutting his chin toward the outside balcony.

Go time.

I slammed my glass against the marble counter and the bartender's gaze immediately fell on me.

"I'd like a better whiskey." My request blanched the bartender's bearded face.

The Macallan in my hand was far superior to any other liquor the man could offer. But this bartender always had a territorial gaze on Glorious Thing, and I needed his attention away from her. While he ran an exhaustive list of what beverage would please me, I could snatch some alone time with her.

I positioned my drink to the left, behind my elbow, tracking the bartender's movement. He reached up for a bottle placed on the top shelf and—

"Come on! Could you watch it? Now I'm going to be all sticky. Urgh!" Glorious Thing uttered, her butterscotch-syrup voice giving me goosebumps.

Her head lifted.

Saints. I stopped breathing. All the stolen glimpses from a distance had not prepared me for her ethereal beauty up close. My eyes were immediately drawn to her luscious lips, a pink-rose color with a hint of cognac-brown around the edges.

They'd look so perfect wrapped around my—

I shook my head out of the stupor, moving my gaze past her cute button nose until our eyes locked. She had the most stunning green eyes I'd ever seen. Rare, like the finest vivid emerald.

She was out-of-this-world stunning.

My brain finally kicked into gear. I scrambled for the nearest bunch of napkins and stretched out my hand.

"I'm so sorry. Please, let me help you clean that up."

"Thanks," she breathed.

The drink had spilled on her leg and down the sides of the leather stool. A gentleman would have stayed clear of her thighs and cleaned the surrounding areas. But I needed to feel her. I wanted to be sheathed in that charm that had me in a chokehold.

I started rubbing the mess off her thighs, waiting for her to stop me.

She didn't.

I gripped her leg for better cleaning. She fit perfectly in my grasp. Her honey-golden skin was like fine silk, rich and flowing. It took all my willpower not to caress her.

Our hands became a mess of entwined limbs holding dry white tissues, but neither of us moved an inch. When I craned my neck to look at her again, the outside world ceased to exist.

I took a long inhale, wishing I could bottle up her scent—a fusion of lilacs and...cotton candy? She was definitely good enough to eat. For the first time ever, I was too stunned to talk to a woman. This one had captivated all my senses.

Her soft hands gripped my wrists, balancing herself as she stood up. Her pillowy breasts nestled in front of my face as the little black dress bunched across her tiny waist. My eyes delightedly swept over her full cleavage as I quickly assessed her mouthwatering set: undoubtedly perky, D on the double. I'd played with enough tits to become a free consultant.

Glorious Thing narrowed her eyes and glared at the object of her irritation: me. I stepped aside and moved out of her path.

Her departure to the bathrooms stole our charged air, and I strained to catch the fading click-clack of her heels as she traipsed across the shiny marble floor.

Starstruck, I thudded on the stool next to hers and stared at the fresh whiskey cocktail like it could cure my stupefaction.

I wasn't some pimpled teenager on a first date. I was an experienced ladies' man. Yet, at this moment, my extensive fuckboy resumé felt inadequate. What would I say? What was an acceptable topic of conversation? What would make her smile?

Wrong question. This means you care.

Curiosity about her corrupted my veins faster than blow. Despite shadowing this woman long enough to earn me a spot at a crappy PI academy, I was raging for more with her. I would get her to talk to me, laugh with me, lie in my bed beside me. Not because I wanted it, but because I needed it.

Fucking her was playing second fiddle to knowing her, and I couldn't give two shits. I would have her no matter the cost.

I made myself comfortable on the barstool, resting my back against the wooden slats and craning my neck toward the direction Glorious Thing had disappeared to.

Two minutes turned to five, and I restlessly started tapping my shoe against the footrest. What was taking her so long? Had she used another exit and left the hotel?

What would I say when she returned? Ask if her dress was dry?

That'd be too lame.

I pondered my better options. To make this a pleasant and long night, I had to ensure she didn't find out I spilled the drink on purpose. The best way to do that was for me to act like I'd moved on from the accident. I beckoned the bartender.

"Macallan. Neat. Thanks."

"Certainly, Mr. Greene."

He flipped a tumbler glass up in the air and caught it behind him without looking. I sighed, completely unimpressed with the mixology gymnastics. All I wanted was to get another drink and calm my nerves before Glorious Thing returned.

"Didn't you like the rosemary and wood-infused Japanese whiskey?" the bartender asked.

"What drink?" I responded with furrowed brows, like he'd just spoken a foreign language to me.

He jutted his chin toward my previous seat...the untouched glass with the "better than Macallan drink" I had requested.

"Fuck," I mumbled under my breath, staring at my Oxfords. Had he figured it out?

He had.

Placing the fresh Macallan on a black coaster before me, he leaned forward and whispered, "Careful with this one." He winked before moving to the next customer.

Goddammit. How could I have been so reckless?

And him? How dare he think he could just talk to me like I was some nobody? I could have him fired in—

"I have to leave, pudding," Glorious Thing's voice stopped my mental rant. My ravenous eyes swept over her body as she planted her elbows on the counter, forcing her little black dress to rise higher on her thighs as she spoke to the bartender. "See you tomorrow?" she added before blowing him a kiss.

"Sure thing, gorgeous," the bartender answered.

Suddenly, my entire body was a bag of sand. Their secret lovey-dovey code names for each other meant they were that close or probably dating. I couldn't move my limbs, couldn't utter a word and beg her to stay, couldn't even turn my fucking neck and look into her eyes and see if that spark, that fire we shared for a millisecond, was still there.

But what did I expect? That the object of my three-week obsession was just free and waiting for me to waltz in and take what I wanted? The idea that that was my dream case scenario angered me because now I knew one night with her would not sate me. I needed a week, or two, or maybe a month, and then I'd tire of her. It would be a small price to pay for letting my mind form a stronger bond with her than my dick.

"Should I call you tomorrow morning?" she whispered.

They weren't living together. Small win. I peered at his face to see his reaction.

"The fuck no," he mouthed, before adding softly, "Curtis is coming over later tonight."

Unless Curtis was a girl's name, this meant the bartender and I weren't in competition for the same holes or the same girl. I sat up straighter, my earlier desperation turning into an urgent possessiveness as I plotted my next move.

I unashamedly ogled her as she walked away. If the bartender already knew my crime, I might as well justify just how crazed I was for her. As soon as she disappeared past the shiny revolving doors, I turned to him.

"Hi, I'm Lorcan, and I need to see your friend again."

He pressed a forced smile, gave me a brusque nod, and continued mixing a cocktail for another gentleman. I felt the sting of his snub, but I needed her, so I reined in my annoyance.

Reading the name sewn on his shirt, I addressed him more firmly. "Dom, as I mentioned, I'd like to see her ag—"

"Not here." He cocked his head for me to go toward the less busy end of the bar. His brown eyes followed me as I slid into an empty seat like a petulant child who needed reprimanding.

"Now, listen attentively, Lorcan. That's my friend you are after, and the only reason I'll help you is because you took a bold risk with her."

I narrowed my eyes, playing innocent.

"You know exactly what you did with that drink today, and I've observed you dismiss everyone at your table for the past three weeks. You've been after my friend the entire time. Am I wrong?"

"No."

"Good. Because if you are going down this road with her, there's one thing you should know."

"I'm listening."

"She is not your usual one-night-fuck kind of girl. If those are your intentions, don't pursue her."

"You think I'd stalk her for three weeks and leave her after one night?"

He raised a brow, no doubt my choice of words triggering his protectiveness over her.

"I didn't mean it like that," I clarified. "She is in no danger from me." Running an exasperated hand over my face, I admitted, "She's driven me to the edge of insanity, and I need to see her."

"All right then. Be here at four p.m. tomorrow."

"That's it?"

"You thought I'd give you her number?" he deadpanned.

I shrugged my shoulders. "My evenings can be...busy."

He had a record of how many people wanted to go to my bed every night. I assumed he'd give Glorious Thing one up.

"Well then, unbusy yourself. Because she would give you the pin to her credit card before she gave you her number."

What the fuck was I getting into? Who was this woman, and how long was I going to chase her? Did her pussy drip with life's elixir, or was it just like the rest of them?

I sighed, taking a bunch of hundred-dollar bills from my wallet and placing them on the counter.

"Thank your colleagues. I have a date to prepare for."