Page 117 of Stalker's Toy

Not about the exhibit, not about my art, not even about the collectors who have traveled halfway across the planet.

None of it.

I don't give a single shit about anything except her.

I pull her closer, feel the heat of her, the edge of her body against mine.

She's a storm and I'm drowning, and I've never wanted to die so much.

Her boots knock against my shin, and she digs her nails into my shoulder.

She's all around me, wrapping me in the only kind of madness that makes sense.

I feel her soft whimper vibrate through me like an electric fucking charge.

I catch a glimpse of a woman with glasses staring.

Her eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

I bet the gossip will fly tonight, through every high-society circle in this fucking city.

About how Henrik Lindberg's gone crazy over a girl with a skull necklace and a tattered dress, fishnets that run.

They'll say I've lost it, that I've let this strange red-haired beauty ruin me.

They can say whatever the hell they want.

Mia doesn't pull back.

She doesn't care aboutany of them.

Her breath is warm against my neck as she finally loosens her grip, giving me space to see the fire in her eyes.

"God," I say. "You're making a scene."

"Good," she whispers, and it's like the word lights a fuse.

Everyone can see us, all the collectors and critics and assholes who came to judge.

She doesn't care if they see us, if they talk, if they fucking riot, and neither do I.

Her lipstick smears on my collar, deep burgundy against the black.

She's crazy enough to make this happen, crazy enough to burn with me in the middle of all this.

She knows I need it.

She knows she's as necessary to me as air, maybe more.

Her grin is defiant and sharp, and I can't help it, I have to kiss her again.

The whispers are growing louder, but I don't give a damn.

She pushes against me with that wild energy, her mouth relentless, her body pressed close.

It's consuming, like standing too close to the sun.

I might just catch fire, and I don't care.

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