Page 107 of Property of Necro
Perfection.
Ugh.
I toss the whisk back in the bowl and grumble to myself.
I’ve officially reached an all-time low. Comparing minotaur jizz to frosting.
I need to get laid. Stat.
By a real cock.
Not a rubber one.
Now, please excuse me while I throw myself off a cliff.
Chapter
Thirty
I’ve donethe girly makeup thing, fixed my crazy hair, and even put on real clothes—a tight eggplant colored dress that clings to every curve and strappy sandals, even though we’re slowly cruising into fall. I look okay. Uncomfortable. Yes. But at least I no longer look like a wild-haired troll who lives under a bridge. I’m presentable, as evidenced by the number of drinks men keep buying me tonight. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear they’re trying to get me shit faced so they can get me in bed. Joke’s on them, I’m a horny bitch. All they have to do is ask. Your girl’s weak. I don’t need alcohol to cave—just a pretty dick.
Angel, a giant of a man and a Sacred Sinner Nomad like Sunshine, throws his massive arm over my shoulder. “Muy Caliente,” he says, staring down the front of my low-cut dress.
I elbow him in the side. “Perv.”
He laughs. It’s deep and booming and loosens something in me that’s been locked down since I trudged up the stairs to join the party, an hour after it started.
Oldies rock music pulses through the speakers as Sunshine and Kali slow dance on the makeshift dance floor. He’s all up on her like they’re teenagers on the verge of losing their virginities, not a married couple who’ve known each other forever. It’s sweet. I’m happy for her.
Till slips around the bar, claims my empty glass from me, and hands me a refill. She nods to my latest friend—a barrel-chested, tatted-up, bald man, wearing a black t-shirt and leather boots. He’s probably in his early forties if his gray goatee is anything to go by. Hot but not my type. Not edgy enough. I bet he’s never killed a man with his bare hands. And yes, I know that should be a disqualifier for most women, but apparently, strong, competent, emotionally stunted killers are my kink.
He lifts his drink to his lips, eyes on me, in a toast of sorts. I lift my drink in return, in thanks.
“Do you know him?” I tilt my head back to ask Angel, who’s busy mouthing the words to the current song. Only he’s doing it in Spanish, his native language.
“Who?” he asks.
I nod at the guy facing us in the corner of the bar. It’s obvious we’re talking about him, but he doesn’t seem to mind when he smirks over the edge of his glass.
“Baldy? No. Never seen him before.”
I’d ask Kali, but she’s dry humping her man, and Till’s too busy slinging drinks to bother.
I shrug and sip my gin and tonic with the purple umbrella. Angel sways with me. Side by side, we dance to song after song. Till swaps out my drink every time it’s low, and each time it’s baldy in the corner, paying to get me drunk.
We catch eyes now and again, and as the alcohol soothes my system, loosening my hips and my lips, I find myself stumbling over to him. Setting my empty drink on the bar, I slip between his parted thighs and rest my hands on the tops of his knees as I lean into him, giving him a spectacular view down my dress and the titties he can suck on later.
“Why you buyin’ me drinks?” I stumble forward, and he catches me around the waist to keep me from making a bigger ass of myself. Pulling me in closer, he brushes his lips across my cheek, and I moan. It’s been so long. Too long.
I slip my arms around his neck, heart beating out of my chest.
“I wanted to make you feel good,” he purrs, and damn if his voice isn’t gruff and panty-melting. Either that, or it’s the alcohol. Either way, he’s getting lucky tonight.
I need dick.
This one will do.
“I feel good,” I reply, pressing my tits to his chest.
