“I know why you’re out of
control,” he murmured. “I probably would be, too.” Probably? No freakin’ doubt about it. His own leash neared the
snapping point.
Her eyes reflected her
confusion “You do?”
Motherfucker!
Had he said that out loud? Even
if he’d correctly guessed why she’d been acting out, the dingy club corridor
didn’t exactly come equipped with an armchair psychoanalyst’s couch. Not that
he was in any position to play how-do-you-feel-about-that
with her.
He shook his head, trying to
clear it. Don’t fucking lose it now, pal.
Get a grip. Regain control. Rein yourself
the fuck in. More difficult when she stood so close. Im-fucking-possible. But by the unholy get of Lilith, she smelled
good. Like the Cinnabon stand at the mall. His guilty weakness whenever a regal
assignment took him topside to the human plane.
But better than that.
Spicier. Muskier. As if trickles of rich mocha, dark chocolate, a hint of
pepper, and brain-melting sex had been swirled into the alluring bun recipe.
His mouth practically watered. He wanted to devour her.
No comments:
Post a Comment