Page 22 of The Huntress and Her Hound

Under blacklights nude women with neon body paint and tall heels pleasure men on couches and dance on poles. Almost no one has clothing on, and if they do, it’s in the process of being stripped off.

“Happy hunting,” the guy slaps my upper back. “And just a heads-up, condoms are a must with these whores.”

I frown, thinking I’m pretty sure that goes both ways in a place like this. But whatever. I readjust my hat, and step toward the back corner so I can take in the area. There’s a bar on the far side and a dance floor with grinding nude bodies.

Where is Cher?

I pop my jaw, carefully scanning every face once again. Finally, my gaze lands on the most modest fucking woman in the room. She’s standing just off the end of the bar, sipping on something clear, while a tall, dark figure looms next to her. Even from across the room, I can tell his gaze is on the well-placed cut out in her top.

And I want to pluck his eyes out with a sharpened pencil.

Cher tips her head back and laughs, and the fakeness is written all over her expression. She arches her back from the wall, and I roll my eyes. She’s trying way too hard to get his attention.

So... She’s got daddy issues.

My hands sweat at the prospect of fixing that problem for her. She could call me “daddy” if she wanted to. She could call me whatever the fuck she wanted as long as she crawled to me while she did it.

But I’m not who she wants. That’s clear as fucking day. She shies away from me like I’m a virus, and then comes here to nab a walking bag of AIDs.

I lean back against the wall, knowing I should just leave, but instead choose to torture myself with the sight in front of me. Her choice of man is one in a suit and tie, clean-cut, and oozing of everything I used to be—and everything I abhor.

My teeth grind as he places a hand on her waist, a portion of it bare skin. He leans over her, going for a kiss, but she turns her head just in time. His lips land on her jaw, and I clench my fists as he seems to whisper something in her ear.

“Let’s get out of here.” I can hear the words. They’re what I would say, too. I momentarily shut my eyes, sickened by the inferiority I feel to the man in the suit.

He leans away, she nods in agreement to whatever he told her, and then, he pushes off the wall and heads toward a restroom sign. I swallow hard, seeing my chance. I could approach her. I could do so many things if she’d let me. I can fuck better than he can. Well, maybe. But at least I see Cher as more than just a fucking vagina to infect.

“You look lonely,” a body blocks my view of Cher.

“You could say that,” I answer, leaning slightly to the right to regain my sight.

“I can fix that,” a female voice giggles. A heavy scent of citrus perfume enters my nostrils as a wet sensation tickles my neck, and then chest. My eyes stay fixated on Cher, leaning against that wall, looking so fucking tempting in her good girl attire.

I feel buttons of my shirt coming undone as lips work their way down my abdomen. I suck in a breath, growing hard as my eyes focus on Cher’s feminine jawline, slightly disheveled hair, and thick lips.

Those belong around me. Not her sex club fuckboy.

My jeans snap undone as the man I just thought of reappears from the bathroom. Cher pushes off the wall to greet him, a wretched smile on her face. It makes me nauseous, and I reach down right as the slut on her knees goes for my cock. I shove her to the side, ignoring the yelp.

“No thanks,” I grunt, zipping my jeans back up and rebuttoning them. “Go find some other dick to suck. I have shit to do.”

She mutters something as she stands to her feet and stalks away, but I don’t pay her any attention. My eyes remain on Cher and her fuckboy, heading for the back entrance. I redo my shirt and follow at a distance, thankful for the silence as I exit a few minutes after them. I keep my distance, but it’s obvious the two of them are drunk. They wouldn’t notice me if I reached out and touched them.

He gropes her ass as he leads her to a hotel a couple of blocks away, and every inch of me is screaming to just go back to the apartment. It’s over.

But I can’t stop. It’s like a fucking car wreck that I can’t look away from.

Why him, Cher? Why?

He leans over onto her. She uses two hands to brace against him, her laughter echoing through the street. My jaw ticks. My fists clench. I hate everything about what I see. I want it to stop.

I want her to stop.

“Here we are,” he slurs loudly, grabbing her hand and tugging her inside the hotel. I pause outside. I know I shouldn’t go further. I’m guaranteed to be caught on camera following them. I also know that I don’t want to see what happens next.

Fuck it.

I pull out my phone and schedule an Uber back to the apartment, finally giving up the chase for the night. I’m starting to think her secret is as simple as it gets. She enjoys the benefits of the Vegas nightlife—and maybe she doesn’t want Henry to know. Maybe she’s ashamed of running through men like discarded, shredded envelopes.

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