Chapter 3 Choke-Hold

"There's this cocktail I've been trying to perfect," he says, his voice smooth, almost inviting. "I was thinking of using this whiskey... could be just what it needs." His eyes meet mine. "What do you think? Will you taste-test it for me? Give me your honest thoughts?"

He gives me that easy, unbothered smile, and adds, "It’s on the house, by the way."

I hesitate for a brief second brief second, but then I give a curt nod.

“Cool,” he says with a quick flash of a grin, turning on his heel to grab his supplies. He places them on the counter, close enough that I can smell the faintest trace of the ingredients before he even starts mixing. There’s something about the proximity that feels.... intentional.

He starts working, his hands moving fluidly, then he speaks again, almost as an afterthought. "Never seen you here before," he says, "First time?"

I take a slow breath, thinking about the first time I stepped into this place. It was early, the place was still closed, and I was just here to check things out, sign a few papers.

"Something like that," I mutter. He presses on, curiosity in his voice. "You from LA?"

I nod once, not giving too much away.

"That's nice," he says.

The noise of the club is a distant roar, filtered through the static of my intense focus. He’s effortless. He moves through the crush of orders with a rhythm that suggests he’s hearing a music no one else can.

A girl slides into the space next to me. She’s young, dressed in something silk and red that’s meant to turn heads. She doesn’t look at me....she looks at him. She wiggles her manicured fingers, a small, knowing gesture. "I’m back," she announces, her voice pitched to carry.

He chuckles. It’s a warm, familiar sound that grates against my nerves like a rusted blade because he clearly recognizes her. He leans in, his forearms resting on the bar, the fabric of his tank top pulling tight across his chest. "Thought you might be," he says. "Did you make it to that spot I told you about? Or was the wait too long for your taste?"

"It was fantastic!" she purrs, leaning closer. "My friends insisted we come back here because your drinks were the highlight of the night."

I track the exchange with a cold, clinical detachment that masks the roar in my blood. Every tilt of his head, every flash of that easy, practiced charm is a needle under my skin. His weight shifts forward until he’s invading her personal space with the practiced ease of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. A slow, devastating smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"So, the friends staged a coup to bring you back?" he asks, his voice playful. "Does that mean I’ve yet to win you over personally?"

The girl lets out a breathless laugh, putting a hand up as if to shield herself from the sheer force of his attention. "Stop," she says, her voice mock-serious and dramatic. "Seriously, Kaden, have some mercy. I have a documented weakness for hot bartenders. It’s a problem. I’m pretty sure I need a twelve-step program and a long stint in rehab at this point."

Kaden.....

The name echoes in my mind with a precision that irritates me. Now that I have it, he isn't just a variable anymore. He’s a person. A target. A man whose name I want to hear breaking against the silence of my penthouse.

His smirk deepens, his eyes dancing with a light I haven't seen since I sat down. "So, you think I'm hot?"

"You know you are, you menace!" she shoots back, pointing a finger at him. "Consider this a formal warning...Chill out with the eyes. You’re going to cause a safety hazard in here."

He chuckles, the sound vibrant and effortlessly warm. She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, her eyes scanning his face with a hunger that I find sickeningly familiar. "What nights do you work? So we know exactly when to come by."

"I’m here pretty much every night," his voice drops to a smooth, playful register.

"Lucky me," she whispers. He promises her the drinks will be ready in a heartbeat, and she lingers for a second before winking and disappearing back into the crowd.

I feel my jaw lock. The territorial instinct is a sharp, jagged thing, clawing at the inside of my chest. I wonder if that’s his type. I wonder if I’m sitting here, a fool entranced by a man who spends his nights flirting with girls for tips. The thought that he's probably straight makes my jaw tighten until it aches.

I’ve already pictured him underneath me.

He turns back to me.

The smile....the one he just gave her, the one that was light and easy....doesn't just fade, it vanishes. His expression shifts into something more guarded, more weight-bearing, as his eyes meet mine.

He leans in. "Everything good over there?"

I realize then that I’m glaring. I can feel the heat in my eyes, the predatory set of my shoulders. I force my features into a mask of indifference and give him a single, stiff nod.

"Fine."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. He turns to the cocktail he’s been crafting for me. He pours the liquid into a fresh glass. it’s a deep, bruised purple, capped with a white foam. He garnishes it with a single, dark cherry that looks like a drop of blood at the bottom of a well and slides it toward me. His fingers linger on the base of the glass, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a split second before snapping back to my eyes.

I reach for the glass. As my hand closes over the cold crystal, our fingers brush....not a fleeting ghost of a touch, but a firm, lingering contact that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my gut.

He doesn't pull away. Instead, he leans in, invading the scant inches between us until the heat radiating from his skin is a physical pressure against my chest. He tilts his head, his lips hovering mere inches from my ear, and exhales a single word.

"Choke-Hold."

His voice bypasses my brain and strikes somewhere primal. My spine goes rigid, a sudden, violent tension locking my muscles. My cock aches with a heavy, insistent throb, reacting to the sheer depth in his tone. Then, as quickly as he invaded, he retreats.

He lets go of the glass and pulls back, a small innocent smile playing on his lips. As if he hasn't just dismantled my entire system with two syllables. "That’s what I’m thinking of naming it," he explains, his tone light, conversational. "It has a certain... grip to it, don't you think?"