Page 87 of Our Little Cliche
CYRUS
There’s nota single eye ball that isn’t locked in a fixed position on my woman. Man, I’ll never get sick of saying it…
My woman.
I admire her as she stands brave and tall up on the entry stairway while the host announces her to the fellow authors, publishers, and narrators alike down below. I keep enough distance as to not look so obvious that I’m so desperately, and hopelessly in love with her, though I’m certain it’s very clear.
Part of me—a whole lot of me, actually—wants to cave these people’s noses in for having theaudacityto drift their retinas upon her. I won’t, obviously, I’m not an idiot. Some look like they’re even salivating at the mouth, as if they might have just in fact pictured her sitting on their dicks later tonight.
Come to think of it, their gaze might have something to do with the fact that she looksjust fucked,if that was a describable feature: slightly staticsex hairwith cheeks the color of a freshly slapped ass.
Then there’s the women. Simply staring, drawing in her beauty, and probably wishing they could pull off wearing a dress like that, or have her natural tan, or could manage to have hairthat sits around her face the way it does. I’m no woman, but I can only assume that they’d compare themselves to others like that. My sisters did it all the time growing up.
God, I miss them.
I haven’t seen them since dad’s funeral. We lost touch after the estate was given to me. It’s why I can’t bear to get rid of their belongings that take up space inside, because it’d mean getting rid of memories.
I quietly clear my throat, looking away from Holly while she is announced as my assistant and editor under Riverton House Publishing. I hate this. I hate not being able to stand beside her. It’s a kick in the guts, and my reminder that I can never truly publicly treat her the way I want to…the way she deserves.
I want to scream from the rooftops that she ismy woman. Show her off to the world. Put it in headliners. Make it damn fucking clear that I love her more than my lungs need air, dammit. My fists clench under frustration and disappointment, then a gentle applause welcomes Holly, pulling me back into focus as she sways down the stairs. I’m up next, and the last for that matter.
Don’t look at her ass.
Don’t look at her ass, Stone…
Dammit, I cuss internally, because Ididjust in fact look at her backside. I make a quick recovery, adjusting my glasses, and give them a brief wipe down with the handkerchief…
TheHolly-climax-stainedhandkerchief.
How am I going to manage the entire nightnotlooking at her like this? Today was hard enough, but now? She isdiabolicallystunning. Fuck, I couldn’t even leave our room tonight without making her cum for me first. Had I left it until we got back I’d probably not be able to resist the urge to fuck her on the dance floor.
A subtle flare of a brow from the host is my queue to get into position. “Please welcome, award winning and bestselling author C.M Stone,” the woman speaks into her mic and I glance over the faces I’ve grown familiar with. Some I’ve come to love and admire, nodding, and smiling at them.
My jaw tightens as I watch Quinn plant his dirty old mitt at the small of Holly’s back, pecking one side of her cheek, then the other.
Careful. Holly is mine, old man.
When Holly looks back at me, her hand strokes down her neck, right along the delicate area I previously had my fingers pressed against, and I just know for certain that she’s teasing me with her thoughts.
A chuckle breaks free from my nose, humored by the delicious fact that Quinn hasnoidea of the things I’ve done to Holly. I’m so glad that I didn’t leave any marks around her neck from gripping it so tight. And god fucking damn, had I known she would be into breath play I would have offered it to her sooner.
The host continues my introduction. “Local to the cozy town of Banff, Stone is known for his international bestselling novelIn The Shadows. A dark, erotic, stalker romance with…many… happy endings. Stone is striving for the glory of becoming a New York Times bestseller. On days that he isn’t writing, you may find him deep within a book himself or tucked in the basement whittling away, carving decadent art that can be found in many eccentric homes all around the world or at events. A round of applause for C.M Stone.”
But I barely hear the cheer that follows, for my concentration is focused… somewhere else.
Holly.
My phone vibrates against my thigh. I don’t usually pull my phone out while mid conversation, but since I’m being bored to my grave by Bentley—an old pops telling me the same damn story for the umpteenth time from his bestselling veteran war novel—I peek the screen half way out of my left pocket.
It’s a message from Holly.
Miss Holly Cate:
You look so…
She’s sitting a few people down from me, why would she be messag?—
Miss Holly Cate:
