Lavender smoke streams behind Poppy as she leads us deeper into the den of vipers. Flashing lights flicker and flit over bodies wrapped in velvet and straps, lace and chains. Pheromones perfume the air with the smell of sin and sex, heady and sweet.
Yet all I see isher.
Poppy Morgenstern is a lightning strike in churning waters. Her low-cut, single-sleeved silk dress is the same bloody shade of scarlet as my suit, standing out with stark, electrified beauty. Half herpastel pink locks twisted into twin space buns are held in place by spray-painted shuriken stars. The rest of her sleek tresses stream down the curve of her exposed spine, framed by delicate gold chains hanging in strategic intervals from her nape to her dimpled tailbone.
Goddamn,I could watch those little divots for the rest of my miserable life. They pop and fade and pop again with every sway of her hips, distracting me from the marvel of her apple ass and her toned legs wrapped in gladiator sandals from her elegant ankles to her succulent thighs. Her upturned eyes are lined with thin wings of kohl, her tempting lips stained red like she’s been kissed by a bloody rose. She isn’t a demon or a devil or a succubus or even a goddess. There is no word for her species, because she’s the only one to have ever existed.
She’s the only one that ever will.
Poppy leads us over to a guarded set of descending stairs, reaching into her purse and passing wads of big bills to each of the hulking bouncers. They unhook the thick rope and wave us on. Halfway down, the pounding bass recedes to a distant rumble. A smog of cigarette smoke greets us, ushering in a menthol migraine splitting my senses at the seams.
We slip through a set of heavy black velvet curtains at the bottom of the steps into a long hallway lined with private lounges. Poppy steers us into the last on the left, and I try not to react to what I see.
It’s a little difficult to remain composed, though, when there’s a stage on the other side of a glass wall showcasing a naked woman on a dais covered in black roses. Her chocolate tresses pool on the floral floor as she lazily rides a man worshipping every inch of her.
This isn’t just a private lounge. It’s a voyeurism room.
The woman wears a black-feather mask to conceal her eyes, but I see her lashes flutter shut as she slides her fingers down to where she ends and he begins. She flicks her clit and lifts her soft, supple bodyto show off the thick wet cock impaling her over and over again, along with the glow-in-the-dark strap-on he wears to delve into her ass and magnify her pleasure.
An ache threatens to tent my trousers—
“Brontë.”
Poppy catches my eye with a fiendish spark in her baby blues. She fills two glasses with rich amber spirits from a bar cart and pats the only piece of furniture in the room: a plush velvet loveseat designed to swallow carnal sin.
“You look uncomfortable,monsieur,and you know what that does to me.”
I force myself to move, unbuttoning my jacket as I settle into the seat. Poppy’s stare drops to my exposed abdomen, bare beneath the coat as per her request, roaming the tattoos and muscles that clench beneath her shameless perusal. I let my own gaze slide over the sliver of soft, beige skin trailing between her breasts that are magically held in place despite the flimsy fabric draped over her chest. The front of the dress matches the back, plunging all the way down to her taut navel, adorned with those thin metal chains.
I want to snap each one with my fucking teeth.
Poppy hands me a glass. Thank the angels it’s bourbon.
Then she plops straight onto my lap.
I let out a garbled curse,the sudden presence of her ass on my dick flushing all my blood south. I have no defense against the immediate reaction of my erection jutting against her tailbone. She goes rigid, the whites of her eyes flashing. I chide myself inwardly, grasping forsomethingto fight my own aching need.
Dead pup—
No. Anything but that.
James P. Sullivan.
That helps.
Wookiee.
That helps even more.
I’m Sullivan, she’s the Wookiee.
That definitely doesnothelp.
Poppy wiggles in place, undoing all my progress. She drapes an arm over my shoulders, casually fixing the collar of my jacket, and settles against me with a contented hum that wraps talons around my skull and drags them all the way down my fucking spine.
“Comfy,” she muses, sipping her drink with a shit-eating grin. “You?”
“Peachy,” I grit out. She’s made herself at home like a cat in a patch of sun while I’m taut as a drawn bowstring straining for release.
