He swallowed hard, staring at her — the way her lips curved around his name, the way she sat there, robe half-open, defiant and daring.
"It's not happening, Sharona. Now, do you want to discuss this or not?" His jaw flexed as he stared her down, refusing to let his gaze wander to the teasing slip of skin that her robe kept threatening to reveal.
"Fine," Sharona said, drawing out the word. "I'll pour us some drinks then." Her hips swayed lazily as she made her way to the bar, the robe whispering around her legs.
The bar itself was a display of indulgence — rare scotch, and champagne older than some nations. Sharona's fingers brushed over the bottles before she selected a vintage bourbon, pouring two generous glasses.
But her other hand— dropped two small white pills into one of them. They fizzed quietly, dissolving into the liquid as she watched with a faint smirk.
She turned back to him.
