Single.
Time.
I’ve never been the type of man to become addicted to anything. Mainly because I haveactualcontrol of myself. Unlike most of the male species. But Heather… she’s different. I’m absolutely and irrevocably infatuated with her. She might be the only person on the face of this planet that could order me about and I’d get a hard-on just by the tone of her voice alone.
“You’re doing it wrong.” I smirk, chuckling as the words involuntarily leave my mouth, and I watch her entire body go rigid. “If you need some help, I can—”
Heather spins on the heel of her white sneaker, glaring in my direction. “First of all—” She points the tip her knife towards me, eyeing me with suspicion. “Who the fuck are you?” I go to answer, but she cuts me off again, “And secondly… ‘Panic At The Disco’… why are you watching me like some crazed stalker weirdo? Because… Ew.”
She curls one side of her mouth up in disgust, but I don’t pay attention to that, I can’t, because without warning to either of us, I burst out laughing, taking Heather by surprise because that clearly wasn’t the reaction she was expecting from me.
The reason I’m laughing so heartily, is because it’s the first time I’ve ever heard my image being compared tothatband, and maybe, just maybe, I’ve become even more consumed by her because of it.
Is he… laughing at me?
Has this man really thrown his head back and found my sarcasm funny?
Because that’s not at all what I expected his reaction to be after I not only pointed a knife at him threateningly, but insulted him by calling him emo in not so many words. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it was just the first thing that came to mind when I turned to face the gruff voice trying to give me tips on how to discreetly get rid of my father’s body.
His throaty laugh is deep, smoky, similar to the sensation of running your fingertips over luxurious velvet. But not only that, the undertone of it is soft and rich at the same time. A tone comparable to the way dark chocolate melts on your tongue after your first taste.
It’s a comforting, yet captivating sound that feels familiar when you hear it. The sound begins to warm me from the inside out and I have no idea why I’m reacting to it the way I am either.
It’s as though I’ve heard it before, but I can’t place where.
He’s dressed head to toe in black, too.
Black fitted jeans, and a black fitted Henley that clings to his lean, muscular frame deliciously.
Okay, Heather, calm down.
Black Chuck Taylor high tops to match the white, low top versions on my feet. I mean, Christ, even his hair is black. But that’s not all, he has a black and grey skull tattoo resting inside a black peony that covers the top part of his neck, with what looks like black paint bleeding down his throat.
As he hugs his stomach—still laughing—I get a better view of his hand tattoos. One inked with a black rose, and the other, some form of purple flower I can’t quite place. It’s the only piece of colour on his body from what is readily available for me to look at, no doubt travelling further up his arms and body to places I can’t quite see… but might want to.
What is wrong with me right now?
When my mystery man pulls both sleeves up, I’m able to see more of the ink work he has decorating his forearms. His left is tattooed with a Gothic-style castle, and the right arm has a demon and an angel fighting, with a moon and sun on opposite sides.
“Don’t laugh at me.” I snap myself out of the delirious trance of checking him out, jerking the knife further towards him. “None of this is funny!”
He holds up one hand in surrender, the other still pressed to his stomach as the deep rumble of his laughter begins to subside, and yet I can’t stop myself from focusing on the way the corners of his mouth curve up so appealingly it makes me want to kiss those lips and see—
Whoa!
What in the fresh hell was that?
“I’m sorry.” He glances at me with a beaming smile, and it’s only then I notice the colour of his eyes. The brightest blue I have ever seen. So clear that from far away they almost look as thoughthey’re the colour of the sky on a clear summer’s day. Thick black eyelashes frame the almond shape of his eyes, causing the blue to pop even more.
“Wow,” I whisper to nobody but myself.
His eyes are an intoxicating shade I could get lost in, and I’m pretty sure many women do. So why the hell do I get the slight hint of jealousy flowing thickly through my veins at the thought of him with other women? I envy that women before me have had the pleasure to look into his eyes when he’s lying on top of them, and—
Yeah, okay, we’re not going there.
Not this time.
“I wasn’t laughingatyou.” His humour finally subsides except for a few brief pops of air. “It’s just the insult you used; I haven’t heard that one from—” he cuts himself off.
