Page 8 of Demon Loved
“L-Let’s do this,” she stutters, attempting to adopt a false bravado.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” She nods her head once, her voice firmer. “Let’s fucking do this.”
My smile physically hurts as I release a whoop, squeezing her more firmly against my chest and hardened cock. When it rubs against her ass shamelessly (my cock’s a fucking hussy), she gasps, and I just know she’ll have that gorgeous blush darkening her cheeks.
“Before we do…” I grab my phone off the bench seat, position us so the opening of the plane is the backdrop, and then snap a selfie of the two of us. When I pull the phone back, I see my own face grinning back at me like a maniac, while Katrina’s face appears devoid of any color. Behind us, all you can see is fluffy white clouds interspersed on a light blue canvas.
Raz is gonnashithimself when he gets this.
“Are you guys doing this or not?” the instructor snaps, and I once more growl at him like a fucking dog.
“Oh, we’re doing this,” Katrina says, full of snark and shocking the shit out of me. “We’re totally doing this.”
“Hell yeah we are!” I smoosh my lips to her hair. “I fucking love you, babe!” Before she can comment, before she can even think about my words, I release a whoop and grab her, turning and racing towards the opening, air whipping Katrina’s hair around my face. I have a second to think that I forgot to put our helmets back on before I dive head first out of the plane, taking Katrina with me.
3
Kastros
Katrina slidesaround the edge of the classroom, as if clinging to the walls will draw less attention to her. Fat chance of that. Akor fucking stole her away yesterday, and my eyes have been longing for the sight of her.
It feels like centuries since I held her tiny, precious form in my arms and we danced. I keep dreaming about her, about the soft skin of her arms and how she looked like she wanted me to kiss her. It’s been torture and I’d blame Raz for that, but he hasn’t been around at night so I know it’s not him.
My eyes glide over her from head to toe, trying to check for even a scratch. But she looks perfect, her porcelain skin unmarred.
My chest is still sore from how it tensed up last Friday when Akor texted us all a picture of the two of them together, about to jump from a fucking plane!
Of course, the bastard didn’t bother telling us that they’d already landed safely by the time he’d sent the text.
I’d punched him for that when he’d gotten home, right in the jaw. And a second time, when he’d laughed.
Fucker.
He’d put our beautiful girl in danger.
I watch Katrina sit down at her desk, carefully tucking her skirt around herself, shielding those gorgeous legs the best she can with that tiny skirt.
I cringe when I see her lift the desk and turn it slightly so she can hear the other students with her good ear. Guilt swirls through my stomach, as disgusting, slimy, and cold as smoked salmon.
I press my lips together and weigh whether or not I should even approach Katrina. Van tried, and she ran. Akor basically kidnapped her, so I have no idea where she’s at right now. Does she hate us? Fear us?
I study her body language for any clue, but other than her rigid spine showcasing how uncomfortably aware of me she is, I can’t tell.
Fuck this.
I shuffle my papers, trying to come up with a reason to talk to her or pull her away from the notecard quizzes she just started with Tim. His eyes flicker back and forth between us suspiciously, as if he knows something is going on between us. I wonder if Alanna told him anything, after she saw us kissing at the hotel. So far, the geeky girl has remained silent, but I can see her eyes narrowing whenever she thinks we’re not looking.
I don’t give a shit about people knowing. But I know Katrina does. I try to minimize my staring as I think of a reason to get her on her own. My eyes swivel past the American flag hanging on the wall and towards the door to the hall.
In walks the stupid fuck who started all this. William Washington. I don’t know if I’m grateful or loathe him. I probably lean towards loathe.
The golden-haired schmuck saunters in with his sunglasses on and a jacket slung over his shoulder like he’s the best thing since the sauna got added to Hell’s entrance.
Yeah, Lucillania likes to be ironic like that.
He’s wearing a shit ton of cologne, and my nose crinkles as he passes. For once, I’m grateful not to have a tongue, because I’m certain I’d be tasting that putrid scent right now.
