Page 4 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

“Please excuse me, I need to find my mom,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

I watch as she steps back, her retreating figure igniting a desperate urge in me. The urge to claim, to possess, to have her by my side forever.

The intensity almost takes my breath away yet leaves me feeling exhilarated.

I watch as she weaves through the crowd, each step taking her farther and farther away from my reach.

Fly away little dove…soon you won’t be able to.

The liquor burns my throat as it goes down, the warmth it leaves in my chest is soothing, a brief reprieve from the tension twisting inside me. I tilt the glass, watching the amber liquid swirl, wishing it could dull the other burn—the one sparked by her.

The party winds down, the chatter and laughter fading into the background, and I sit alone, surrounded by half-empty glasses and discarded conversations. The dim lighting casts shadows across the room, but all I can think about is her—how she looked at me, how she walked away. I grip the glass tighter, the edges ofmy control fraying. The night feels heavier now, colder, and no amount of alcohol can drown the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Everyone’s gone, but I’m still here, stuck in my thoughts, replaying every moment, every word, every missed opportunity.

The stillness of the room only amplifies the growing need in my chest. A need that threatens my sanity and consumes my every rational thought.

It’s more than just wanting her—it’s a hunger, an obsession that claws at me from the inside, demanding to be fed.

I drain my glass and reach for the bottle at my elbow, barely registering the embossed, expensive looking symbols etched on it as I refill my glass again.

A familiar voice stops me, “Tell me that isn’t Dad’s very expensive, ‘one glass in a blue moon’ whiskey?”

Archie stands, a few feet from where I sit, his hands in his pockets. He grins at me, the dim light bouncing off his short blond hair.

“Maybe,” I respond, taking a sip. “Tastes expensive.”

“Dad is going to kill you, you know?” he says, claiming the seat beside me. I ignore him as he stretches his hands over his head and groans.

“Pour me one would you? It’s been a shit night.”

I do as he asks, picking a new glass and splashing some alcohol into it before sliding it over to him. “What?”

“Besides Dad trying to set me up with some diamond mining heiress that’s barely of age, not much.” He pauses to sip at his drink before giving me a once over. “Seems you had a better night than me.”

I shrug, draining my glass once again. Rhea’s defiant gaze flashes in front of my eyes, and I can’t help a grin. “You could say that.”

Archie raises an eyebrow at my grin, his curiosity piqued. “Oh? Who caught your attention this time?”

I lean back in my chair, letting the warmth of the alcohol settle in. “Her name’s Rhea.”

“Rhea,” Archie repeats, rolling the name around as if it holds some hidden meaning. “And?”

“And she’s…” Words feel inadequate, but how do I explain her? The way her presence lingers, the pull she has on me. “She’s not like the others.”

Archie chuckles, sipping his whiskey. “You always say that.”

“I don’t,” I cut him off, my voice sharper than intended. “This is different.”

He tilts his head, his gaze narrowing as he studies me. “Different how?”

I don’t answer right away, the memory of Rhea’s piercing eyes, her cold politeness, and the rigidity in her stance playing on a loop in my mind. The way she made me feel—restless, unsettled, hungry.

“She’s a challenge,” I finally say, my voice quieter now, almost contemplative.

Archie smirks, leaning back in his chair. “A challenge. Sounds…” He takes a sip of his drink.

I smile, though it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Dangerous, maybe. But I’ve never backed down from one before.”

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