Page 7 of The Bloodfeather Promise
I see everything. Doesn’t she realize she’s exposing herself?
Yes.She knows. She knowsexactlywhat she’s doing. Knows I have a crystal-clear view of her strapless bra and the gorgeous breasts contained within the delicate, ebony lace cups.Damn. It would be black lingerie. Black. And lace. The stuff of a man’s wet dreams. My kryptonite.
Fuck. I can see all the way down to her damned belly button from here. She voices no objections, nor does she move as I take in the view.
Astounded by the bounty of this gift, I sit uncharacteristically frozen while a sweet smile dimples her cheeks. Twinkling with diamondlike brightness, a pendant of some sort nestles in the delicate hollow of her throat. My eyes momentarily flicker to it before hijacking her gaze once more.
She’s got one hand braced flat on the table between us while staring steadily at me as if trying to determine what makes me what I am. What makes me tick. Why I’m a monster. Her intoxicating beauty, the unexpected surrender of her flawless soul allowing me to look my fill is the stuff of fantasies. And that’s just what I’m doing. Fantasizing what I will do with her. How I will stand behind her, knocking those long, coltish legs apart with a nudge of my knees. How my hands will grip her hips so hard she’ll have bruises to count the next morning.
My pleasant daydream is obscenely interrupted. She slaps me with such force, my head snaps to the side.
Soft and husky, like downy feathers, her voice sweeps over me. “You are an uncouth, pompous jerk, Greyson Finch. Don’t ever speak to me like that again. These other women may accept it, hell, they may even like it, but I do not.”
For an eternity her gaze holds mine. Then, just as calm and cool as you please, she spins on her heel and sashays away. Before I can fully process what just occurred, she’s back at Dylan’s side, and nestled safely under his arm.
“Daayyuumm!” Jett bursts out in a howl of glee.
“Holy shit,” Brant whistles. He sits up straight, giving a pointed assessment of the brunette.
The groupies are scared out of their minds, and if they weren’t trapped in our booth, I think they would actually bolt.
Dylan, damn him, grins at me. I want to wipe that triumphant smirk off his face with the weight of my fists. Instead, I ball them up at my side.
No one else has any idea what just happened. Everything continues on as before. If anyone saw this willowy brunette leaning toward me, they either think she asked for an autograph or begged me for a chance to duck beneath the table.
The imprint of her palm is stamped on my skin like a cattle brand, leaving a mark the color of fire. I’m not sure if I wanna laugh or lose my shit. Right now, I’d say both.
“Think I just found a girl I could marry,” Dylan chuckles. The look he throws me is brimming with challenge, and I accept.
There is a collective holding of breath when I slide out of the booth and stalk toward him. My true focus is the girl. She’s on the very edge of the seat, within easy reach. Hard to believe, but I think she isn’t afraid of me. Not one bit. Not even as my hand tangles in her shoulder-length hair. When I tilt her head back, and she returns my stare with unapologetic defiance.
Fire and lightning erupt the moment I touch her. The tiny hairs on my arms are instantly ablaze, catapulting my emotions into a confused tailspin. Lushly and sinfully plump, a shade somewhere between pink and peach, her mouth is almost level with my groin. What would it feel like having those pretty lips of hers touching mine? Or even better, wrapped around my cock?
I’ll have my answer before this night is over.
“Come with me.” The order is soft but unyielding. I’m not leaving here without her.
“Why?” The barely audible response echoes as though she blasted it from a cannon.
Everyone at our table stares at her. Including me. Her response is not exactly a refusal, but it’s hardly an agreement either. I’m high as fuck, but that’s not why I’m momentarily stumped. How long has it been since someone didn’t jump when I demanded?
“Greyson,” Dylan warns in a low, serious tone. “Don’t drag her…”
My eyebrow lifts high with his plea. I dare him. Dare him to try and stop me. Dare him to keep me from taking what I want. From taking her.
Damn, her hair is soft. It winds through my fingers like black, silky ribbons, and abruptly dizzy, I grip it harder. My vision is slightly blurry and her hair is a lifeline until things level out. I study her features while steadying myself. Sure, it’s dark in this corner, but I already know my brunette girl has long, lavish eyelashes and a heart-shaped face. With the shadows creating dramatic angles of her cheekbones, she’s visually stunning, a piece of art come to life.What color are her eyes?
I mentally shake my head at the fanciful turn my thoughts careened away on. Who gives a shit if her eyes are brown, green, or blue as long as I’m fucking her six ways from Sunday?
“Why?” I repeat her response. Feeling more like my usual self, I tug her hair. Hard. The music thumps so loud, it’s a bass drum playing inside my chest, but the tiny moan that slips between her lips turns me harder than stone. I want her moaning just like that when I’m deep inside her. When I’m paying her back for that slap she gave me. “Just come with me, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you enjoy the ride.”
If it wasn’t so dark, if I wasn’t so fucked up, I’d swear derision flashes across her features. Her voice is still so soft I gotta lean down to catch her sarcastic response.
“A bit crowded on that crazy train. Sorry, but I’m afraid I must pass on your amazing offer.”
The subtle reference to Ozzy makes me laugh aloud. A sense of humor. How refreshing. And definitely cute. “Oh, you aren’t gonna want to do that,” I drawl confidently.
“Why not?” Now, she’s being willfully impertinent rather than just curious. My hand tingles with the desire to deliver a few well-placed smacks on her rear-end for the sass she’s giving me.
