Sugar turned, and the view of her backside was heart-attack material. She swayed it in a soft side-to-side action that could’ve hypnotized him. Her dark-brown hair swished to the same cadence. Fisting his hands into pockets, he ignored the guttural need to knot his fingers into that silky mess.

She marched to the bar, fending off suitors, and ordered shots. One. Two. Three of them.

Great, Sugar’s on a kamikaze mission. That was not the kind of behavior he wanted to see up in this joint.

She gave a listless flick of her wrist, and the bartender pulled out the bottle.

Hell no. He’d had enough. She wasn’t drinking herself vulnerable in Abu Dhabi. The club might’ve turned a blind eye to two chicks knocking around guys on the dance floor. But it would also look the other way if any man pushed his luck with her. Willing or not, drunk or sober, Sugar was on the short list of a few men who were eyeing her. If she was leaving unwillingly, it was going to be with him.

Jared swallowed the rest of his drink and embraced the burn. He slammed the glass down, got up, and shoved imbeciles out of his way.

From behind her, he clasped her bicep. Their gaze connected on the mirrored wall in front of her. He nuzzled into her hair. The scent of vanilla and flowers filled his nose. And he flexed his grip on her muscle, letting his thumb caress the underside of her arm. “We’re going.”

She didn’t turn around. “I’m not.”

“Make a scene if you want.” He grabbed hold of her other arm. He rejected the urge to slide his palms over her skin. “No one will care.”

“I’m not going to bed with you.”

“Didn’t ask you to.” He breathed her in again and inched closer. “Move your ass, Sugar. Before I move it for you.”

He would wait a three-count. After that, she would be slung over his shoulder. That wasn’t his best course of action, considering he didn’t know how much that too-short skirt would cover—or what was under that skirt. He groaned. One, two… Jared held his breath, willing her to slide off the barstool. And three.

She stood up, elbowing him away.

Thank fuck.

“Fine.” She put her arms out to assure her balance.

He grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers into hers. It was small. Delicate. Innocent and feminine. Surely, you’ve held a chick’s hand before. Right? It was an unfamiliar feeling. So, eh… maybe not.

Her fingers tensed against his knuckles. Other than the knife cut on her palm, her hands were unbelievably smooth. How could she work on AR-15’s and have survived an Afghani mountain without getting so much as calloused fingertips? He had no idea. The only explanation was that she was a champ.

They exited the club, and he guided her toward the row of elevators. His hand, still interlocked with hers, balanced out her slight wobble while they waited.