Page 71 of Forged

Their waitress passes near the service bar, and I lift a hand to catch her attention.

“The couple at the table in the far corner,” I say quietly, tipping my head toward them. “What shots did they order earlier?”

“Tequila,” she replies.

“Send them two more. From me. I have a tab open.” I slide a fifty across the counter. “Bring one for me as well.”

She accepts the bill and orders the drinks. She places two on her tray and sets one in front of me.

As she crosses the floor, my heart hammers inside my chest. The transition from observation to participation is a carefully walked line. Satisfaction rises in me knowing how close I am to closing the gap.

The waitress sets the shots down on their table. Neomi’s gaze lifts first, confusion flickering before sharpening into curiosity. Lars’ brows draw slightly as he scans the room.

The waitress gestures toward the bar, and I allow myself to turn fully toward them.

Our eyes meet across the distance.

Neomi studies me openly, her attention innocent. Lars’ gaze settles with more restraint, measuring rather than reacting.

I lift my glass in acknowledgment. The pause stretches long enough to make my stomach clench. Then Lars reaches for his shot and Neomi follows his lead.

They raise their glasses.

I hold their gaze as I bring mine to my lips. The tequila burns sharp and acidic as I swallow. Across the room, they do the same.

When I lower the glass, Neomi grins, intrigue settling into her expression. Lars continues watching me. There’s no visible defensiveness in him, only assessment.

The waitress clears the empty glasses. Neomi leans across the table and presses a kiss to Lars’ cheek before rising with a few folded bills in her hand. She moves toward a side stage, the lights catching in her hair as she approaches a dancer.

Lars tracks her movement until she’s out of reach. Then he looks back at me. I allow a small smile to form.

For a moment, the noise of the club recedes beneath a low thrum in my ears. The lighting blurs at the edges. The space between us narrows as we watch each other.

His expression changes. The calculation remains, but the guarded edge softens.

Then, slowly, he smiles.

I’ve seenwomen move through this club for years.

Confidence here is currency. Seduction is a choreographed game. I’ve watched men lose their composure over a glance, over the brush of a hand along a lapel. The Monarch always carries an undertow of tease and escapism. But watching my wife experience this corner of my world turns me on more than I expected.

When she rises to tip another dancer, there is no insecurity in her. She leans in close, whispering playfully into the dancer’s ear, and slides folded bills into lace with a composure that suggests she understands exactly what this place is. The men at surrounding tables glance in her direction, but none of them approach her. They understand hierarchy. Even if they don’t understand who she is, they know she’s here with me.

When she returns to the table, she settles onto my lap without hesitation, her thighs across mine. Her fingers slide into my hair and curl lightly at the base of my skull, nails grazing my scalp just enough to make my cock twitch.

“Are you behaving?” she whispers against my ear.

“I’m trying to,” I answer, my fingers tracing the inside of her thigh.

She kisses me before I can say anything more. It isn’t a polite kiss meant for public display. Her mouth presses to mine with confidence, champagne still lingering on her tongue. I pull her closer, my hand flattening against the curve of her back as my other tightens at her waist. The music is loud around us, but the only rhythm I’m aware of is the slow drag of her tongue against mine and the way her breath begins to thin.

When I lift my head, her eyes are dark, and her lips parted.

It’s then that I feel it again—the gaze from across the room.

The man at the bar hasn’t looked away since the tequila exchange. He watches with a stillness that reads less like indulgence and more like curiosity. Even now, his attention isn’t focused on the stage, or the dancers, but on us.

From across the floor, I take him in properly for the first time. He’s tall, easily over six feet, built with the kind of muscle that doesn’t come from vanity but from discipline and repetition. Golden skin catches the low club lighting in a way that makes his features look even more masculine, and his light brown hair is pushed up and back from his forehead. His eyes are dark, and ink disappears beneath the collar of his black button-down, the fabric stretched over broad shoulders. His pants strain against the muscles of his thighs, a watch sits on his wrist, rings catching light as his fingers curl around his glass.