Page 25 of Howl You Doin?
Connor O’Doyle
Calmeth thy titties.
I walktoward the laughter and steady hum of voices, the bustle from the ballroom reverberating loudly through the castle. At least everyone seems to be in good spirits.
I sweep the dark cloak behind me and adjust the fake fangs in my mouth, checking one last time in a large mirror that everything is in place. Today, I am Dracula.
Vlad would be keeling over with laughter if he saw me wearing this—or maybe not, since he’s always had more than enough to say about my suits. But, if this works, it will be well worth it.
Even Felix came back with numbers higher than even I expected from the risk assessment. A Dracula immersive experience would sell and continue to sell for decades. He also mentioned that anything we add to the castle is an asset, so creating a week-long event with two dinners and a gala is going to boost the castle’s success exponentially. If only the staff would get in line.
I pray the choreography lessons go smoothly.
I take a deep breath and open the side door to slip into the ballroom without issue. The light-blue walls are decorated with various pieces of art that I placed haphazardly, and dotted about the room is furniture that I will be storing in the empty catacombs soon. The waiters look like penguins, just how they did more than a hundred years ago.
My mouth creases into a frown. The maids’ dresses seem to be a tad short, but I am sure something can be done or added.
“Excuse me,” I say when I’m forced to sidestep a male flailing his arms widely, and he almost clips me in the jaw.
He moves out of the way, and I stride past him, smiling and nodding in greeting at whoever meets my eyes.The stylist person should be here somewhere.
A scent hits my nose and I sniff the air discreetly with a frown. How does her scent keep changing? I unblock my nostrils fully and groan as her undiluted aroma touches my nose. My gods, she smells exquisite.
I see her in the small crowd of staff, and my brows narrow at her face.
“What are you wearing?” I almost groan, my dick immediately jerking when I notice the glossiness of her lips.
Somehow they look plumper, more kissable, and the last thing I need is to find them so delectable I could start nipping at them in a room full of employees. How she has this effect on me, I’ll never know.
Her lightly tanned skin looks flawless, almost reflecting the smallest glittering highlight. A rosiness that usually isn’t present in her cheeks except for when she’s flushing, makes her appear warmer, as one might be when aroused—like in the dream I had of her. The lightest golden eyeshadow turns the amber of her eyes far more mesmerizing than I remember, and she flutters dark eyelashes at me, making my damn stomach clench.
“I’m wearing what you made us all wear, obviously,” Whitley sings, misunderstanding me. Then she waves to her outfit, and what she’s wearing grabs my attention. “Are you happy now?”
My gaze dips and I know I’m doomed.
Holyshit.I know what all the costumes are to look like, since I approved them with the designer, but she should not look that fucking erotic in it.
Her arms fold over her voluptuous chest, and I have to hold back a growl, unsure if it is at her petulant tone, or because I want to start panting after her skirts like when I was a younger lad back in the 1800s. I take her by the elbow before she can amass even more attention and walk toward the edge of the balcony. I breathe in fresh air, avoiding looking anywhere near her chest again.
“Not particularly, no.” I answer her through clenched teeth, need making my jaw muscles pop. “What will make me happy, Miss Whitt, is for all the staff to present themselves to guests in costume three times a week.”
“I cannot believe you,” she says, and it’s clear she’s trying to keep her ire in check.
At least I’ve managed to distract her from how my blood is boiling... straight into my trousers.
I take a glance at her and can’t withhold my grin.
Her cheeks that moments ago were warm, are now a splotchy red beneath her sexy makeup as rage bleeds from her eyes.
“Is wearing a pretty dress all that bad?” I murmur, admitting that she really does make for a delectable, albeit fiery chef.
“Pretty dress?” she splutters, holding her hands out wide while I avoid looking at anything remotely inappropriate and laugh at her obvious discomfort. “This is funny to you? Seriously?”
“Calm down, woman. It is no different than what anyone else is wearing.”
It’s no different, and yet I want to remove every set of eyeballs that got a look at her before I did. I gesture for her to join me on the balcony, glad she doesn’t make more of a scene and just tips that pert nose into the air. I’ll be damned if I argue in front of the staff with her.
“Come here.” I tug her arm, which she quickly pulls away from me, looking affronted.
