Page 8 of Rambler's Snow Bunny
“You like it here?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She shrugs, her fingers going back to fiddling with her bikini top. “It’s okay. The guys are nice, for the most part.”
“For the most part?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing. Just... you know how it is.”
I do know how it is. Club life ain’t easy, especially for the women. And from what Morpheus said, she was a Cherry—a club whore who sleeps with the members.
The thought of her with other men makes my jaw clench.
“Anyone giving you a hard time?” I ask, my voice dropping lower.
She looks up, surprised by my tone. “No, not really. Not anymore.”
Not anymore. There’s definitely a story there.
“Good,” I say, taking a step closer to her without really meaning to. “Because if they were, I’d have to do something about it.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
She tilts her head to the side, studying me with those big blue eyes. “What do you know?”
That you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. That I want to know every secret you’re hiding behind that smile. That I’d burn this whole fucking place down if someone hurt you.
“I know you’re somethin’ special,” I say instead.
She breaks eye contact first, looking down at her bare feet. “You really are sweet,” she says quietly.
I’m close enough now that I can smell her, watermelon and something warmer underneath, like vanilla. It’s intoxicating.
“How old are you?” I ask, needing to remind myself why the things I’m feeling are all kinds of fucking wrong.
“Twenty-five,” she says, looking back up at me. “How old are you?”
“Fifty-three.”
I wait for the disgust to cross her face. The polite step back. The quick excuse to leave.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, she nods like I’ve just confirmed something she already knew. “I figured you were older. I like the gray in your hair. It’s sexy.”
Christ. This girl has no clue what she's doing to me.
“I’m old enough to be your father,” I point out the obvious.
She smiles, a sly little smirk that makes my dick hard as steel. “But you’re not my father.”
No, I’m definitely not. And the things I wanna do to her right now are far from paternal.
“You should go,” I growl. “Before I do something we might regret.”
She bites her lower lip, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to toss her on the bed and have my way with her. “What if I don’t want to go?”
I take a deep breath, fighting for control. “Trust me, you do.”
