Page 42 of Unveil
“Hm. Guess I’ll never find out, then.”
“We’ll see about that, baby.”
I resist a shiver. His delicious accent grows thicker when he calls me “baby.” Slow and intentional, curling his tongue around the word like he wants me to feel every letter, and good God, it’s working.
“Now come on. Be a good girl and drink your water.” He picks up the bottle again and tilts it back.
I have half a mind to reject it again, but my throat aches, so I lean forward and drink like I’ve been lost in a desert.
As soon as I see my reflection in the review mirror, though, I almost recoil. My hair is still half-up, held in place by my feather crown, but hairspray clumps strands that fight to tighten back into their natural curl. Mascara smudged, foundation smeared, and my lips are swollen from last night’s makeout session. A freaking mess is what I am.
And yet Orion’s focus is solely on me, his eyes darkening.
Why is he looking at me like that?
I follow his gaze as it glides from my lips around the straw and down my body like a caress… stopping where my nipples peek out, trying to escape my bodice’s sweetheart neckline. Jesus, the little sluts are begging to be sucked by his sinful mouth again, and I will not have it.
Calm your tits, ladies. He’s the damn villain.
I suck the last of the water, and slowly sit back against my numb arms.
His eyes flash like he can read my mind.
“Luna… don’t you d?—”
I lurch forward and spit the water in a powerful stream right at his face.
He doesn’t even try to stop it, just accepting his fate. I lick the leftover drops from my lips and grin, anticipating an argument.
But he shakes his head good-naturedly and chuckles.
Chuckles.
His huge tatted bicep flexes as he untucks his black T-shirt to use the hem to wipe his face. The fabric rises, revealing the hilt of a sheathed knife, an F burned into the leather. My eyes drift from it to the rest of him, and my lips part.
“Damn, baby, I didn’t expect you to squirt all over my face before I even get to fuck you.”
“You’re disgusting,” I murmur, but I’m only half paying attention, because his tanned, corded back muscles ripple as he swipes the water from his face, rolling underneath fresh, angry cuts that crisscross his flesh over intricate tattoos.
I wince. They must be painful. Did he get them from fighting the Wildes?
I shudder, unsure what to do with that thought now that I know what happened last night.
My eyes snag on one tattoo in particular—a macabre ballerina skeleton with a gorgeous, painted skull face, dressed like the black swan,performing a fouetté turn en pointe up his ribs. She’s absolutely stunning, with her cherry cola hair flowing around her in waves…
Holy crap.
That’s me, right? This sexy stalker lunatic—who claims that one day I’ll magically agree to marry him—tattooed me dancing my favorite ballet on his droolworthy body before I ever even spoke to him.
He’s insane…right?
And am I also insane because I think that’s hot?
Okay, yes and yes. Great. Awesome.
But in my defense, I’ve been influenced by Lucy’s books about fictional men who bestow mind-numbing orgasms and can’tactuallystalk and kidnap me. This guy’s done all of the latter, and nary an orgasm in sight.
Bastard.
