Whiskey Masked Attraction

The first time Jaxon Reid laid eyes on Selene Hartley, she was laughing, head thrown back, crimson lips parted just enough to reveal teeth as white and sharp as truth. The sound was low, throaty, like whiskey sliding over ice. Dangerous. Addictive.

He knew then, long before the drinks, the cards, and the destruction, that she would ruin him.

The poker lounge smelled of money and aged bourbon. Dark leather chairs circled a velvet-green table in the center, dimly lit by a brass chandelier. It was Grant Reid's pride: his private den of power, lined with glass cabinets filled with rare spirits and photos of politicians shaking his hand.

Jaxon didn't belong here. Not in this room, not in this world.

He adjusted the cuffs of his thrift-store blazer and poured himself another shot of his uncle's forty-year-old Glenlivet. Screw it. If Grant wanted to flex, Jaxon would drink the damn flex.

"You're heavy on the pour," came a voice, smooth as silk behind him.

He turned.

Selene stood at the bar, all curves and confidence, draped in a burgundy satin dress that clung to her like a second skin. Her dark hair fell in effortless waves over one shoulder, and her eyes, God, her eyes, looked like they knew every secret he ever tried to bury.

"You're watching?" he said, raising his glass with a smirk.

"Always," she said. "You're the only one here who drinks like it hurts."

He swallowed hard, not from the liquor. "Maybe it does."

Selene leaned in slightly, the scent of her perfume wrapping around him like smoke, jasmine, vanilla, and something darker. "That's the difference, Jaxon. Pain tastes different when you sip it slowly."

Grant's voice bellowed from the table. "You playing or staring?"

Jaxon tore his eyes away and joined the other men. Billionaires in designer watches, politicians with polished lies. All friends of his uncle, people who saw him as the lost nephew dragged in by bloodlines and guilt.

He sat. The cards slapped against the table like warnings. Scotch burned his throat as he threw in a chip.

The game started.

Selene remained at the bar, one leg crossed over the other, nursing a whiskey like she wasn't the most watched woman in the room. She didn't look at him again, but he felt her, her gaze like a heat on the side of his neck, her laugh breaking through the low hum of man-talk and false bravado.

The first hand, he lost. The second, he bluffed. By the fourth, Grant was watching him like a hawk.

"You know," Grant said, lighting a cigar, "I never figured you were the type to take risks. Not after the mess your father left."

There it was.

The dig. The shadow.

Jaxon forced a smile, twirling a chip between his fingers. "Maybe it runs in the family."

"Your father drank himself into a grave," Grant said. "Don't follow his legacy just because you're too lazy to make your own."

Laughter at the table. Jaxon downed another shot, letting the fire numb him.

Selene stood. Her heels echoed as she approached. She leaned down between them, whispering something into Grant's ear, her hand brushing his shoulder. Then her eyes flicked to Jaxon, just for a second. A flicker of challenge. Or pity. He couldn't tell.

"I'm heading upstairs," she said to Grant, then, without waiting for permission, turned and disappeared into the hallway.

The game wore on. Jaxon kept losing. He wasn't here for the money. He was there because Grant summoned him like a pawn, one reminder away from cutting him off completely. He hated every second of it.

An hour later, most of the guests had left. Grant passed out in his recliner, snoring with a half-burnt cigar in one hand and a scotch glass tipping dangerously in the other.

Jaxon lingered at the bar, staring at the half-empty bottle of Glenlivet. He didn't want to go back to the empty guesthouse. The silence there was louder than anything this place could offer.

"Still drinking like it hurts?" came the voice again.

Selene.

She was barefoot now, wrapped in a silk robe, a glass of wine in her hand. Her hair was up, strands falling loose, like she'd just stepped out of a dream.

"You always sneak up on people?" he asked.

"Only the ones trying not to be seen." She slid onto the stool beside him. "You let him get to you tonight."

He snorted. "That obvious?"

"He always pokes your scars. He likes watching you bleed."

"I know." Jaxon stared at the amber liquid in his glass. "But I keep coming back."

"Why?"

He turned to her. "Maybe I'm hoping one day, I'll beat him at his own game."

"Careful," she said, her voice like velvet. "He only plays games he knows how to win."

Jaxon studied her, her tired eyes, the soft downturn of her lips. "And you? Why are you still here?"

Selene blinked slowly, like she'd been asked the one question no one dared.

"Because leaving costs more than staying," she whispered.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The clock ticked. A log shifted in the fireplace.

Jaxon poured another shot, this time for her. "Then drink with me. If we're both stuck, we might as well enjoy the cage."

She hesitated. Then clinked her glass against his. "To cages."

They drank.

The whiskey hit slower this time, warmer. Her hand brushed his when she set her glass down. Neither of them moved away.

"Do you ever think about it?" she asked, her voice low.

"About what?"

"Burning the whole thing down. The house. The name. All of it."

He looked at her, really looked. "Every day."

Selene leaned in. Her breath tickled his jaw. "Then maybe we're not so different, Jaxon Reid."

His lips were on hers before he thought it through.

Soft. Desperate. A collision of pain and longing and something that had been building from the moment she smiled at him across the poker table.

She kissed him back. Hungry.

Her hands tangled in his hair, his palms pressed to her waist, silk and skin beneath his fingers. She tasted like red wine and ruin. He wanted more. He wanted everything.

Then.

"Stop," she whispered, breathless, pulling back. Her eyes searched his face, frantic, afraid. "We can't."

Jaxon's chest heaved. "I know."

But neither of them moved.

Outside, thunder cracked.

Inside, two hearts beat too loudly.

And somewhere in the distance, Grant Reid stirred in his sleep.