Page 21 of Velvet Thorns
“What is it?”
“Leave the mask on. I’m sure you’re gorgeous underneath, but there’s something about not knowing… about being with a complete stranger that drives me out of my mind.”
Perfect.
“Fine by me,” I murmur, already turning away from the heat in his gaze.
I enter the room and cross to the minibar, pouring two fingers of whiskey into crystal glasses. When I turn back to face him, he’s already watching me. It's the same look that used to pin me in place across crowded hallways, the one that made me feel like I was something special to him before he showed me exactly how disposable I really was.
I hand him a glass, making sure our fingers don’t brush because even that tiny touch might blow apart the fragile control I’ve built around my anger.
“Can I ask you a question?”
He lifts the glass to his lips, inhales, then sets it back down on the nearest surface. “Shoot.”
“Does it make you anxious that I know exactly who you are, while I went through all of high school completely invisible to you?”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “No, but I’m intrigued though.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a fucking mystery. You could’ve hung a sign around your neck that said,‘Fuck me, Phoenix,’and I would’ve walked right in, no questions.”
I take a sip of my drink, letting the burn steady my pulse. “Doesn’t seem like the smartest move.”
“I’ve made worse decisions for women far less interesting,” he says, slipping off his black leather jacket with a roll of his shoulders.
Now I can see exactly how far those tattoos go.
He’s covered in them—more ink than flesh.
But it’s the tally marks on his forearm that I can’t tear my eyes away from.
There’s no beauty in them. There’s no design. Just bold lines carved into his skin, starting at his wrist and climbing to the crook of his elbow in perfect rows.
Who the hell counts something and then brands it into their skin for life?
His other arm is more intricate. It looks like thorns winding up his bicep, but there’s more to it than that, details I can’t quite make out from here.
“Do you usually follow masked women into hotel rooms?”
“Only when I get the feeling they’re going to be fun to play with.”
I step in closer, slipping behind him as I begin to circle hisbody. My fingers trail lightly across the back of his shirt, and the reaction is instant. He goes rigid under my touch, and I want to believe his body remembers what his mind has chosen to forget.
“You’re wound tight. Something making you nervous?”
“Nothing makes me nervous,” he replies, but there’s a roughness in his voice that wasn’t there moments ago.
“You sure about that?” I whisper behind him, close enough that my breath stirs the dark hair at his nape. “Because whatever version of me you think you’re getting tonight?” I drag my nails lightly across his lower back, pausing at the waistband of his jeans. “You’re not even close.” He turns his head slightly, and for one devastating second, I catch a glimpse of the boy he used to be—messy dark hair and a smile full of trouble. “If you want me, you’ll have to work for it.”
“That so?”
I finish the circle, standing right in front of him again. “It’s that, or you can walk out that door and find some desperate ex-cheerleader downstairs who’ll spread her legs the second you crook your finger.”
He shakes his head, eyes burning with something that looks almost feral. “If I wanted easy, Annie, I wouldn’t be here with you.”
“Then let’s toast,” I say, raising my glass. “To bad decisions and better memories.”
