“My edge is still as sharp as ever.” I cast her a playful side-eye. “I’m just more particular about the things I cut.”
“A shame…” Vivienne flicks the cherry into a nearby ashtray. “Does this mean I’ve missed my window of opportunity?”
“You’ve always wanted things you can’t have,” I tease. “What a toxic way to live.”
She chuckles. “Toxic, yes, but so very exciting. I have a theory that it’s what keeps me young.”
“In that case…” I decide to throw her a compliment, a little something to say thank you. Reaching over, I slowly drag my thumb across her bottom lip, whispering, “Stay toxic, my dear. It’s doing wonders.”
She snaps her teeth at me. “No fuck, no touch.”
I throw my hands up in defense, grinning. “Feisty.”
She smirks. “If I recall, that used to be your preference.”
My smile fades. “Don’t.”
“What? Am I not allowed to state the facts?” She glances over at Emery. “All I am saying is that tastes, perhaps, change.” She sighs when my jaw tenses. “I am not insulting you, my dear Quinton. I am praising you.” I frown at her. “Finally, you’ve acquired a more sophisticated palette. It took long enough.”
She’s right. I did have a type. I’ve always had a penchant for women ruled by fire, by the sun. I liked that overpowering energy as if they could ignite a room with their presence alone. Emery is powerful in a different way. She’s powerful like the moon, capable of changing tides, emotions, energy. The sun will never be inhabitable. It’s too destructive in nature. But the moon? The moon is welcoming, even its dark side feels like home.
“She’s special,” I say, offering Vivienne a genuine answer.
“Mhmm,” she hums, her gaze snapping toward the ottoman. “It appears you’re not the only one that thinks as much.”
My stomach churns, muscles clenching and pained as I follow her sight line, and when I hear those words slipping pasthisfucking lips, I damn near explode.
“May I join you?”
Cavanaugh.
THE GRIM REAPER
EMERY
La petite mort.I’ve never really understood that phrase until tonight. But I feel it, with every lick, every kiss, every calculated touch, I die a little death. I see white lights. I hear white noise.
Women know how a woman wants to be pleased,needsto be pleased. And they keep killing me, so raw and tender, and entirely debilitating, completely consuming. My mind swirls with pleasure and release, and it’s so peaceful, so serene, so fucking?—
“May I join you?”
Suddenly, the soft, white clouds on which I lay turn gray, conjuring thunder, the loud rumbles of imminent destruction. Death no longer tastes sweet. No. It’s bitter, riddled with poison and lies, and despite my efforts to remain adamant in my decisions, a dangerous sort of longing.
My eyes snap open, and for a second, I pray it’s an illusion, a post-death hallucination. But like all my prayers, this one isn’t answered.
With charcoal eyes colder than sin, Damon hovers above me, like the grim reaper, like a king of the afterlife. My heart races, breathing rapid as he stares down at me.
“Do not look so surprised, mami,” he rasps. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?” His jaw tightens as his livid gaze floats across my exposed and glistening body. “I would ask if you’ve missed me, but it appears you’ve been keeping yourself rather busy these past few days.”
With as much dignity as I can muster, I prop myself to my feet, my three new friends scattering away as Damon shoots them a hard, commanding look.
“Why are you here?” My voice comes out so fucking weak, so pathetic. I attempt to straighten my posture, but my bones fear the confrontation, the impending fight. I fake the confidence nonetheless. “Why are you here?”Better.
His lip twitches. “Why?Are you honestly asking me that question?” He takes a purposeful step toward me, and my calves bump against the edge of the ottoman. With a glint of pained frustration in his eyes, he whispers, “Are you afraid of me, Miss Jones?” His gaze flicks across my paling features. “Is that why you ran?”
I’m unsure how to answer his question. Am I afraid of him? It’s so vague. So convoluted. There are many parts of him. Parts that scare me, parts that rejuvenate me, parts that make my heart ache. I’m not afraid of him in the way that he thinks I am. I don’t fear for my safety, for my well-being. I’m afraid of him like a child fears the dark. Irrational.
Before I can respond, a familiar warmth rolls in, creating a chaotic climate of battling pressure systems. And suddenly, it becomes difficult to breathe.
