She’s in the kitchen, her back to me. The place is…grand. Cozy, like. A small scrape of an apartment, but it bursts with life.Plants hang from every corner—green vines trailing from shelves and the ceiling. Dark romance titles are stacked near her feet. Some pitch black mixed in.
Well, then. A bit of the dark stuff wrapped in a sweet little package, then. It’s always the quiet ones. She likes the monsters in the stories.
I wonder if she’ll like the monster lying on her floor.
I’ve never gone for this type of girl. My father made sure of that. It was always high-class, sophisticated women—corporate guru daughters with sharp tongues and sharper ambitions, a family princess or two who knew how to work a room, and call girls when I needed something simpler. The types who wear black heels, red lipstick, and fishnets. Nothing wrong with any o’ them. They knew the game. They played their parts.
But this girl…she’s refreshing. Down to earth. Inconveniently tempting with her feisty words and full, sassy lips. Made for biting.
Her hair falls in loose curls of sunlight and copper—strawberry gold framing her face just right. Ivory skin, soft and unmarked save for freckles across her nose and cheekbones, like someone dotted her with stardust. And those eyes, damn. Bluish gray like the sea after a storm. Quiet, deep clouds, charged, holding secrets she doesn’t even know she’s keeping.
Young body. Ripe in the hips where it counts. Smaller breasts, high and shapely. Still a decent handful. A pert little bottom she can’t hide beneath her dress. Perfect for my hand.
Christ, she’s pretty. The natural sort of pretty. The kind that doesn’t need the armor of makeup or designer labels to make a man look twice. The kind that makes a man want to keep looking.
The kind that’s making this man’s cock throb to the point of discomfort. Good thing I’m a rare shower, not a grower.
She’s making ramen. The cheap, packet kind.
Aww, darlin’. You deserve a proper meal. And an Irish one.
She turns, and I close my lids.
“When you wake up,” she mutters, and I can hear the pout in her voice, “I amnotsharing my ramen with you. You royally fucked up my night.”
Right hames of her night, I suppose.
She walks closer. I can feel her near me, the warmth coming off her. I will my dick not to jerk. It doesn’t obey. And I hope she doesn’t notice.
“I don’t care if you’re the hottest guy in my existence, even with all your creepy tattoos,” she whispers.
Well, now. Hottest guy in her existence. A grand start, that. I’ll be filing that away for later.
I can practically feel her gaze roaming across the canvas on my skin.
“Oh, God,” she goes on, her voice dropping to a terrified, little whisper. “You better not be a serial killer who’d love to put my body parts in jars.”
I fight the urge to laugh. It would only do a number on my ribs.
Your parts are lovely as they are,I think.But I prefer them intact. Andwarm.
She eats her noodles at a small farmhouse table, reading away while she slurps. Once she’s finished, she tidies up, quick and efficient.
“Okay,” she sighs. “Bedtime.”
She disappears into what I assume is the bedroom. I test the restraint on my wrist. A heavy-duty zip tie. Clever girl, so she is. I could snap the wee thing if I had the mind for it—it’s not steel—but I don’t want to. Not yet.
The bedroom door opens again.
I peer through my lashes.
She’s changed. The blue dress is gone. In its place is a matching set of pink pajamas. Short sleeves. I focus. Are those…butterflies? And dogs?
Aye. Pit bulls with butterfly wings printed all over the pink cloth.
Adorable.
She goes back to the kitchen, and the whistle of a kettle follows. Tea.
