Page 72 of Forbidden
I watch her in the reflection, and I say nothing. Storm walks closer, and she stands in front of me. She adjusts my hair and tie, then steps back. “Better.”
I want to thumb her lower lip, and I want to drive my tongue inside her mouth again. I, however, inhale long, and slow. “What does he do?” I ask, before stopping myself.
“I don’t know. Actually hang on, something to do with media.”
“He sounds like a dick,” I say and yes…
Kill me now.
“Well, look at you,” Storm says with a raised brow. I growl which is something I try not to do. “So, how about your harlot? Are you going to screw this one?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “It depends.”
I should have said, No!
Storm looks unimpressed, and she drinks her whiskey. “Is she easy, like the rest?”
“I can’t remember,” I say. “Likely.”
“Right, but what does she do?” It’s a fair question, and it’s time to be honest.
“Modelling. I think.”
“What, you don’t know? In fact, what do you know about her?”Storm watches me close, then she pulls my tie weirdly aside, making it crooked.
“Hey!” I yell. “And what about that dipshit you’re going out with?”
Storm raises a sassy brow. “Hot, and he works out a lot.”
I shake my head and grin. This is so messed up, but it is far from boring.
“I may even get laid,” she says out of the blue. I don’t like that. Not one bit. I need to make sure no one gets in her panties. Even warm panties I’ve held in my hands! I remember something, and it worries me. It’s time for containment.
“Okay, it’s time to discuss new house rules. You can’t go on a date unless you’re wearing panties.”
“Who says so?” Storm asks eyes big, and pissed.
“I say so,” I say lifting my chin.
“And who are you, the King?”
I step forwards slowly, and I am now inches away. “Yes, I’m the fucking panties King!”
The sassy vixen laughs in my face.
“Well, you’re going to have to check for yourself, then. Please… Go right ahead!” she says throwing her chin up and placing her hands on her hips.
It is one hell of a challenge. I’ll give her that.
I walk around Storm, and she watches me close. I remember the swords on my wall, and my fine collection.
I have world-class swords and sabers from around the world, and some are worth hundreds of thousands. I walk to the stone wall they are all mounted to, and I look up. I’m proud of my sword collection, and it is rated as one of the world’s best.
Finally, I select one, and I reach up.
It is a fine silver sword, from the Napoleonic period. This one cost me half a million in an Parisian auction.
After cutting and slashing the air several times, I pause. I reach for fine black leather racing gloves I used in Europe, and I put one on. I’d worn the gloves while racing my Aston Martin in France, coming second in a disgraceful act of failure.
