Page 73 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
“I don’t want you to hate yourself.” His words send goose bumps across my body. “I want you to lose yourself with me. Just for a moment.”
My fingers move to hold his head, curling into his hair, soft pants escaping my lips. The car windows are fogged, and that is the only thing that can keep the rest of the world from seeing the way his fingers pump into me over and over.
His thumb presses harder against my clit, and any response is lost as well to the whimpers and moans that fall from my lips. I lose myself the way he wants me to.
On the drive home, I realize I don’t want to be found. The day Poppy died, I died, too. I’ve spent so long looking for someone who was gone orsomethingto make me feel alive again.
What if I get lost with Caldwell instead?
Chapter Sixteen
We’re back in the vampire den two days later.
Margaux finally makes time for us in her busy schedule, and having her by our side builds confidence in me. Between her and Caldwell, I’m protected on both sides—but Margaux is especially useful as she leads us through the club.
“Have you been here before?” I ask lowly, knowing she can hear.
“Don’t ask silly questions,” she says. “My coven owns the place, darling. I was here when we were still using fake IDs.”
My confidence wavers. “You didn’t think to tell us that little detail?”
It’s more of Margaux keeping her family secrets. I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Does it matter? It’s not as ifIown it,” she says.
To my surprise, she looks to Caldwell for support.
“We’re here. That’s what matters.” He shrugs. “What’s the plan?”
We stop at the bar, and Margaux hums, quietlyscanning the room. She does it so subtly that no one could be the wiser.
In a smooth motion, she turns to the bartender. “My usual blend.” She flashes a polite smile.
Margauxdoescome here often. The bartender has a glass of red wine in her hand in no time.
Caldwell and I aren’t as lucky. The employee looks at us expectantly. To no one’s surprise, Caldwell orders an old fashioned.
Instead of ordering for myself, I lean closer to Margaux—an old habit from our childhood. It isn’t the first time she’s taken me out of my comfort zone, though last time, it was more along the lines of me being incapable of pronouncing a French menu.
“Can they make a French 75?” I whisper.
If it were anyone else, Margaux’s smile would seem condescending.
She pats my arm. “Of course they can.” Margaux orders my drink.
When I turn to Caldwell, he’s watching me with a lifted brow. “No old fashioned this time?”
“No,” I say smoothly. “Never again.”
“You’re missing out.”
We shouldn’t be drinking at all. We’re here for business, not pleasure—but no one here is supposed to know that.
The question about the plan goes unanswered, and it’s too late when I realize why. Half the people in this room can hear us whispering, and Margaux knows better than to say anything out loud.
It’s unsurprising when she picks up her phone. She dims the screen, and her nails click against it as she types out a message.
My phone buzzes a moment later.
