Page 17 of The Bloodfeather Promise
“Almost broke your neck there.” His biceps, now the golden tan of a surfer, not the waxy, pale hue of a rocker, flex beneath my fingertips. The greedy light in his eyes is barely banked. “Easy, now. I’ve got you. Just hold on to me.”
The nightof the concert was a dream come true. Why? Because somehow, the broody, bad-tempered guitarist of Seven Seconds was now sitting across from me in the band’s limo. Me. An ordinary girl, with a love for books and a tendency toward shyness. And, an unfortunate obsession with this man.
I was so obsessed with this guy. If he had dragged me off by the scruff of my neck, I wouldn’t have objected. Not. One. Bit. However, I was ashamed to admit, he did not have to resort to such tactics. I practically dove into that limo when he growled at me. I tried mustering up a smidgen of self-respect when he threatened me with public sex in the bar, but even that failed miserably. His motives were unclear, but even if I was a pawn of some sort between him and Dylan, I wouldn’t have cared.
Mostly because I loved Greyson Finch to the point of being stalkerish. He was moody and mysterious and brilliant. His music reflected an edgy darkness that sang to a hidden, darker side of me, beckoning me to come out and play along with him. It explained why I did not stalk out of that dive when the suggestion was so casually tossed out that he and Dylan take turns having sex with me. Right there in the middle of the bar. Encouraging bets on the action was the height of depravity.
I just don’t understand why he made such a concentrated effort of provoking Dylan into some sort of rage.
After all, I wasn’t exactly his type. And Lord knew, the man had a type. Tall, leggy, catty blondes, like the two that rolled out from beneath the table.
I slapped him, then couldn’t help but wonder. Would I like being his? Even if just for one night? I knew the answer, based on my shaky breaths. I knew I would go with him, even as all hell broke loose and the two men started an honest to goodness brawl right there in a bar in the middle of the Sunset Strip. I hoped the display of male testosterone was short-lived because I couldn’t wait to have this man’s hands on me.
I couldn’t wait to give him anything he wanted.
Even if the band’s manager hadn’t begged me, even if my friend Carly hadn’t encouraged me, I had already decided I would follow Greyson wherever he wanted me to go. Unfamiliar lust, sweet and heady, overwhelmed me until I clenched my hands together. It was the only thing that kept me from attacking him right there on the buttery soft seats. I squeezed my legs together against a jolt of pure need. A fire ignited within me, one only he could extinguish.
While we were in that limo, I stared at him. The color of rich chocolate, his shoulder-length hair was tousled and messy, as if he was repeatedly raking his hands raking through it in exasperation. A rough hint of stubble shaded his chin and jaw. He looked as though he had not shaved in a couple of days. Hard. Jaded. Humorless. And so young, yet, his hazel colored eyes were filled with old pain.
He was a twenty-four-year-old rock god who did exactly what he wanted. Took what he wanted. And no one stopped him. The world lay prone at his feet.
He was kind of scary.
Intimidating.
And very hot.
In a tortured, haunted, “can’t fight my demons” sort of way.
I followed Greyson once we reached the hotel, along with a rather large bodyguard, who sat up front with the limo driver. Despite my determination to sleep with Greyson, I avoided eye contact with the bodyguard. Dark haired, wearing black Ray-Bans, he trailed us, standing quietly in the corner of the service elevator as we rode to the top floor. It was reserved exclusively for the entire band, and the elegantly decorated corridors were at odds with the picture we presented. I’d dressed like a hooker for the show, with my black leather skirt and matching thigh-high boots, and Greyson was bloodied and bruised. His grey t-shirt was ripped in a couple of spots, exposing his abdomen and the muscled ridges there.
The giant strolled nonchalantly at our heels until we reach Greyson’s suite. Using an unmarked cardkey, he pushed past us, unlocked the door, then stepped aside so Greyson could usher me into the room. In the middle of my back, hard and unrelenting, was Greyson’s hand. He’d kept that hand on me since we exited the limo, guiding me into elevators, and through the hallways with unrelenting insistence.
“Thanks, Conrad. See you in the morning.”
“Sure thing. Buzz me when you need me.” Conrad’s voice was as stony as his manner, but I still blushed. He was referring to the moment when his boss was done screwing me. Part of the man’s job description was obviously that of escorting women out of Greyson Finch’s life when he was finished with them. The realization froze me in place as the suite’s door closed behind me with a quiet click.
“Want anything?” Greyson’s husky question cracked the ice forming around my feet.
He made a beeline for a huge floor to ceiling mirrored bar constructed of glass and chrome. Bottles of various liquors decorated the floating shelves. Greyson reached up, grabbing one along with a highball glass. The lighting inside the suite was so soft I could barely make out what he was doing, but I heard the clink of ice, the sound of liquid being poured.
He was quiet in the limo after I refused to sit beside him, spending much of the time cleaning up the blood on his lip. Now, he held the glass up alongside his face, pressing it gently to the beginnings of a black eye. He watched me, unblinking, and I could almost envision what he had planned for me. What he would do to my body with my full cooperation. A tiny shiver of anticipation raced up my spine.
I shook my head, rejecting his offer of a drink.
He smiled, lips curving slightly, fully aware he’d unnerved me. “Not one thing? My treat.”
A generous wave of his hand indicated a varied assortment of pill bottles scattered across a large iron and glass coffee table in the living room area. I was still standing in the foyer of the suite, and seeing another shake of my head, Greyson’s brow furrowed slightly. Moving from the bar area, he picked up two of the clear, amber-hued bottles, studied them, then shook out a few tablets from each one. The pills were swallowed in one gulp. What did he take? Uppers? Aspirin? Xanax? I didn’t want to know, but the bottles all had prescription labels.
I fidgeted with the zipper of my wristlet, which was just big enough to hold the essentials. He must have mistaken my edginess for something else because Greyson abruptly stalked toward me, dragging me into his arms.
“Same rules apply here, sweetness. No cell phones allowed.” His gaze heavy-lidded, he slipped the tiny purse off my wrist, tossing it into a chrome and Lucite chair. “No photos. Unless I take a few for my own enjoyment. Would you like that? Posing for me? There are so many positions I can place you… face down, ass up. On your back, those beautiful legs of yours spread for me. Waiting for me to fill you. Or maybe, maybe we begin with you on your knees, mouth open.”
He didn’t give me a chance to refuse his suggestions, or even time to work up indignation.
Pulling me close, his head lowered, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip. It was a languid, seductive act, the atmosphere between us soaring into a blazing intensity. I almost moaned aloud from the pressure of his teeth. It was as if he was exploring how hard he could bite me before I recoiled in pain. But the discomfort had the opposite effect on me. Instead of retreating, I pressed myself against him. Greedy and wanton, I wanted more. More of him.
Knowing what would happen. Knowing exactly what he would do. If Greyson did not pass out first, I would not walk out of this room with my virginity intact.
