Brooke Blaine

“That was better, but I still think we’re missing something. You’re getting the frustration across like you want, but your voice is too smooth, my man. What do you do, drink hot tea and lemon every night?”

I snorted. “Nah. I get what you’re saying, though. I want some gravel to it. Some grit. My voice just isn’t cooperating.”

“That was the cheesiest fucking thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Killian was shaking his head in mock disgust. “You two gonna make out right here? Maybe go get a room.”

The angel had said he wanted a date, and wasn’t this what people did on dates? Asked about exes?

“Don’t be nervous,” Viper said, then took a sip of his coffee as he surveyed the chaos.

“I’m not.”

He snorted and looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, okay. Because I can’t read you like a fuckin’ book.”

“You don’t read books.”

“By the way, we’re never letting you leave, so don’t even think about it,” Jagger added, and then looked at Killian. “That was in his contract, right?”

“In the fine print.” Killian winked.

“Good.” Jagger pushed his shot glass forward and waved his hand. “Another round.”

I’d thought Viper was a lot of things over the time I’d known him: an intimidating rock god, a playboy with a sharp tongue, and an intensely passionate lover.

But I’d never, ever thought of him the way I did now.

As a coward.

I did what I always did when someone backed me into a corner: I punched back with no thought other than landing a winning blow.

“There. Now we’re both just a fuck.”

Sweet God, he had definitely been worth stealing for.

Even his smirk was fucking hot.