“I have news for you, Mr. Bigshot Internet Star. Communication is a two-way street. I know thousands of people hang on your every word and worship your advice like gospel, but I’m not one of them.” She was already so far in that she decided to go for broke. “In fact, I find you and your approach offensive.”

“Do you?”

Damn his dark soul, he grinned.

Those might have been the wrong words. Rather than offended, he seemed challenged and invigorated.

“Please sit,” he repeated.

The bartender meandered closer, putting away wineglasses, then leaning back to adjust the gold garter he wore around his biceps.

“No more threats?”

“I never threatened you, Willow.”

God. The way he said her name—breaking it into two syllables and trailing off in a whisper of seduction that shot rockets through her. He wasn’t just dominant. He was dangerous. “You’d have to promise to zip your mouth shut and listen to me too.” She marveled at her defiance of a man wielding so much power over her life.

“Agreed.” He extended his hand.

She stared at it. The one time they’d touched, she carried his psychic impression for days. This time, she was smarter. She ignored him and lifted herself back onto the stool.

He lifted one eyebrow in a mock salute.

Once she was as comfortable as she could be with him crowding her space, she reached for her drink.

He flicked a glance at her hand, looking for the X, she guessed.

“You came here to scene,” he said.

“Nothing gets by you, does it, Sherlock Holmes.”

He signaled for the bartender and ordered a club soda. “Look. Can we have a truce?”

Not with the way nerves zapped through her veins.

“You’re a sub.”

It was a statement more than a question. She’d had these discussions with numerous men, and none of them had disturbed her as much as he did. “I’m more of a bottom.” She swirled her straw around the inside of her glass.