Sunrise Malice

Chapter One Stefania

The enormous man looming over me at the bar has a dark stain spreading across his crotch and he’s looking at me like he wants to strangle me to death.

And I can’t blame him, because I just spilled an entire glass of wine right onto his dick.

I hate clubs. I especially hate how loud and crowded they are. But my work wife, Giorgia, convinced me to come out with her tonight. Since it’s Saturday and I have no other plans basically ever, I figured I can skip wearing my Snuggie on the couch for one evening to put on something nice.

Now it’s an hour into my night, my feet ache, I’m teetering around like I’m the newest member of a stilt-walking class, and this monster of a human is staring at me like he’s going to squeeze my skull into paste with his thumb and forefinger.

And I’ll deserve it.

Well, mostly. I was walking along trying to convince myself that actually I’m having a lot of fun and I love going out when I bumped right into this redwood of a human and he spilled the entire freezing-cold contents of his drink right down the front of my dress.

Since I’m an absolute psychopath, instead of handling it like a grown-ass adult with, like, rent and health insurance and a modicum of impulse control, I immediately decided to go ahead and spill my own drink in the guy’s lap as a form of petty revenge.

It was a knee-jerk reaction. Someone spilled on me so I spilled on them. I’m not proud of myself, but there it is.

We’re both soaked through, and I’m completely at fault.

“I am so, so sorry,” I say, waving my hands in front of him as if I’m trying to fan his pants dry. I’m definitely making things worse because now people are looking and I’m waving at some stranger’s private area. Giorgia’s somewhere in line getting herself a refill, which leaves me without backup, and I’m pretty sure I’m in a whole ton of trouble.

The man steps forward. We’re lost in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by strangers who are too drunk or too busy partying to care about what’s happening. He’s enormous and muscular, and wearing a dark button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off a pair of gloriously veined forearms. I am a huge sucker for forearms, and this guy has a set like he was sculpted from my most twisted fantasies. His dark, wavy hair is pushed back haphazardly like he rolled out of bed ten minutes ago in that unkempt-but-sexy sort of way, and his deep brown eyes stare pure hate at me as his gaze rakes up and down my body. I’d say he’s handsome, except it’s hard to think a guy’s hot when he’s a few steps from pulverizing me into bloody goo.

“Stop doing that,” he says, grabbing my wrist so I can’t fan at his junk anymore. He pulls me close and my brain short-circuits for a few seconds because I’m busy staring at the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life—even the freaking stubble on his cheeks is somehow model-perfect like a whole team of groomers spent the afternoon trimming each strand.

Then my brain catches up with the situation and I am one-hundred percent in the wrong here. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that! You spilled on me, so I spilled on you, and that was totally stupid.”

“You’re right.” His breath smells like mint and whiskey. “My spill was an accident. Yours was on purpose. Now we’re both soaking wet, and only one of us made a very poor choice.”

I don’t like the way he’s talking to me, even if it’s completely justified, and my stupid stubborn streak rears its ugly gremlin head again. “Maybe if you weren’t so huge and taking up all this space—” I start but manage to stop myself. Real mature, Stefania, victim blaming the poor guy.

His expression darkens as he grips my wrist tighter.

“Don’t you even start with that. You’re the one teetering around like you barely know how to walk. Are you drunk?”

“What? No, I’m not drunk. Are you drunk, asshole?” I don’t know why that annoys me so much. It’s honestly a reasonable question to ask since I stumbled on my way to the bar and started this whole mess, then proceeded to assault him with alcohol for absolutely no reason at all.

“Then you’re just an insane person,” he says through gritted teeth. “That’s worse.”

This is officially getting out of hand. I take a deep breath and remind myself that this guy has every right to be pissed off at me right now. “Seriously, I’m sorry, okay? I’ll buy you a new pair of pants, I promise.”

“I don’t care about the money. I care about fixing our mutual problem without ruining my night.”

“Well, unless you have spare pants or know how to dry us both off, looks like we’re both out of luck.”

I try not to laugh at the absurdity of this conversation. Even though I’m completely mortified, some part of me knows this situation is objectively funny—I mean, we’re two grown adults with wet crotches yelling at each other in a crowded, dark night club, a place my older brother happens to own.

He considers for a moment and I get a chance to study his handsome face. He’s got a well-defined jaw and a nose that hooks like it’s been broken a few times. There’s a rugged vibe to him, even though he’s wearing a sleek, expensive suit—that’s currently soaked through with cheap wine.

“You’re coming with me,” he says and starts dragging me away.

Well, now we’ve crossed the line, and the fun’s over. “Let me go, you overgrown slab of lab meat,” I say and try to knee him, but he blocks it with his thigh and doesn’t even grunt in surprise or pain. “Last warning before I make your life a living hell.”

“And how will you do that? You’ll try to hit me in the balls again?” He pulls me closer, eyes staring into mine. But now there’s the hint of a smile. “Go ahead and try. I’ll peel your soaking wet panties off and shove them in your mouth if you do.”

My jaw drops and my eyes go wide. He still hasn’t let me go, but I stop struggling, because there’s a sudden keening wail in the back of my head and a pulse hammers deep between my legs.

“Are you always this petty?” I manage to squeak out, but now he’s moving and dragging me along with him. “It was an accident, you dickhead.”

“No, my spill was an accident. Yours was very much on purpose.” I stumble in his wake, barely keeping up as my poor ankles are on the verge of rolling over. “If someone accidentally bumps your cart in the grocery store, do you stab them in the neck?”

“That’s a totally different situation,” I complain even though it’s kind of not.

“I bet you’d knock a little kid over at the park if one accidentally stepped on your foot.”

Okay, now he’s just being funny. “Probably, and the little shit would deserve it,” I say and try to yank myself away, but he’s not letting go. “Where the hell are you taking me? Hey, seriously, what are you doing? I said sorry, and I’ll pay for your pants, I swear.” Fear creeps into my throat as we approach the bathrooms, and now I picture myself bent over a sink with my panties in my mouth as this asshole rips my dress up over my hips—and while it’s an extremely disturbing fantasy, I can’t deny the heat gathering in my core.

There is something very twisted and broken in my head.

Here’s the thing. I haven’t had sex in a really long time. Not since college—back when I was a little wilder and freer and not everyone knew my family well enough to keep their hands off me. It’s not like I was throwing myself around or whatever, but I had a healthy and normal dating life, and plenty of opportunities to explore my physical urges with safe and attractive partners, most of which I happily followed through with.

But now it’s been almost three years since I graduated. Three long, dry, terrible years of vibrators and finger stuff in the shower. Giorgia keeps saying I need to just go out and get fucked by the first decent guy I meet, but she doesn’t really understand what would happen if my brothers found out their precious little sister had a filthy one-night stand. I’d rather not have blood on my hands all because I needed to get dicked-down in a bad way, and that’s why I’m basically humming with need right now from one single filthy comment from an absurdly attractive man.

I’m not proud of myself, but a girl’s got needs.