Page 141 of Fallen Omega

“You’re going to fuck Knight.”

The breath in my body freezes. “He asked me out on a date.”

Reaper steps in, crouches down. “And then he’ll fuck the virgin right out of you.”

“I might not. He might not,” I say.

“That’s a lie.” A phantom of a smile appears. “And you want to.”

“Reaper—”

“Don’t. Just have fun. It’s how this needs to be.”

He picks up my hand and I think he’s going to kiss it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sucks my four fingers into his mouth. It’s so unexpected, my clit throbs hard.

Unexpected. Intimate. Hot.

Then, looking at me, he runs his tongue over them and bites hard on them, once, twice three times.

“Reaper.” I want to touch him, reach out and trace the scars he wears like medals, like armor. I want to slide under his long-sleeved T-shirt and stroke his tattooed skin, learn all the pathways of scars and knotted skin from injuries, the places that tell silent tales of how he’s survived. I want to touch and kiss and lick them all. “Reaper…”

He lets me go. “I’m sure Dante told you to wear your hair up. Show off your mark. That…” he drops his gaze to my hand a moment, “helps enhance it, as do those fresh bruises.”

And with that, he leaves too.

If I live to a hundred, I won’t ever understand them and that’s why I’ll always be an outsider. Why I need to go. Because me leaving is still on my personal agenda.

One day.

Knight takes my breath away. He’s the epitome of class and dash, of modern Daddy Dom, and a charming, fun date. My first date.

He’s moneyed and doesn’t care and yeah, I can’t breathe.

He grins, spinning for me on the pavement outside, Julien having collected and escorted me out. In the soft, early evening air, Knight’s dimples flash and that caramel hair’s all copper highlights with touches of gold.

His green eyes are on me, and more than appreciative.

“What do you think, Liz?”

His suit isn’t black. Rather, it’s the deepest, darkest violet that’s almost black, with pinstripes of lavender, as is his waistcoat. The suit’s modern, cutting edge, and the colors daring in their own subdued ways. But the green-gold silk tie that matches his eyes makes it.

“A dashing Daddy,” I whisper.

His grin widens, catches on a little filthy intent, and he goes from charmer to filth in an instant.

“And you look like just the kind of present I love to unwrap.” He leans in, his scent unadorned by perfumes or cloaks. It’s just him, heady and soft and sharp, spice and sweet, masculine and mine.

And my insides go haywire.

Two hours ago, when Dante and then Reaper came to my room, seems like a lifetime ago. I showered, dressed, spent a little time applying a touch of matte red lipstick in a dark,deep rose of sunset, one redolent with rust like what’s left when the orange burns away and the blues are ready to descend. I also put on some mascara and a little eyeshadow. Not much; I’m not really skilled in this arena.

But even the little there seems to transform me into someone else, someone more experienced, exotic. And I pinned my hair. It cascades down in tendrils, my throat bare and the mark glowing, on display, enhanced by Dante and somehow Reaper’s bite on my fingers that now tingle with memory.

And the bite itself.

It’s somehowmore.

A deeper felt thrum.

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