Goldie adjusts her pink pleather dress with a sniff. “Ted and I have been living together for over a year, and every time I bring up marriage, he changes the subject.”
Cinder sets her hand on Goldie's shoulder. “Ted adores you. Don't worry about it. And besides, my engagement isn't even real. To Prince-follows-his-dick this is a publicity stunt, and to me, it’s about getting the truth.”
Goldie bites her lip and touches Cinder’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry to hear about your dad. I bet you guys will unearth something together.”
“We aren’t exactly working together, just using each other,” she clarifies.
Ain’t that the truth. If I had my way, I’d be using her for a lot more.
She can use me for anything she wants.
After the way Cinder responded to my words only a mere couple of hours ago, I’ve filed away that her attraction far outweighs her disgust for me.
The way her nipples stabbed at the silk robe, they were begging me to pinch, lick, and tease them. The scent of her blood and arousal filled the room, until I was near ready to blow in my pants from the promise of her alone.
The outline of her lace underwear also had me in a chokehold. I wanted her to slip that piece of fabric down before shoving it into my mouth like a gag so I could suck on her desire soaked panties.
Judging by her aversion to having my fangs near her skin, I imagine that might make her more comfortable too.
The fact Cinder wasn’t averse to me kissing her mouth, but vehemently against me putting my lips anywhere else also hadn’t escaped my notice.
Was she really so worried I’d just bite a chunk out of her arm like some animal?
I pretend not to notice the sweep of Snow's eyes as she assesses me. “Yeah, but maybe you should go through this engagement for real. Because that prince is a hot piece of ass I'd chain down any day.”
I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from grinning.
“He'd probably be into the chains,” Cinder says quietly, maybe to herself.
I suck on an olive, careful to keep my gaze averted so I don't get caught eavesdropping.
She hasnoidea.
As the night continues, people ready to unwind from their daily responsibilities stream in until the bar is packed. Cindercommands the space behind the bar like a dark empress, all sharp edges and fuck-off attitude.
I’d waited in the living room of her tiny apartment until she came out dressed for work, and my cock instantly got hard again. My poor prick hasn’t fully relaxed since.
In the layered dresses she wears in the Midnight realm, she is a haunting gothic phantom of beauty. But in fishnets, leather, and clothes with cutouts in all the strangest places, her hip bones bared but her legs covered, she is a forbidding dominatrix.
I would drop to my knees and lick her boots if she asked. Instead, she sweeps past me without a word, counting on me to follow her around.
Cinder is a slip of a thing, skinny as a wraith, but there's no denying the raw power she wields. It's there in the jut of her chin, the line of her brow as she stares down anyone foolish enough to test her.
And oh, how they try. I watch from my perch as a string of cocky bastards belly up to the bar, thinking they have a shot. Cinder shuts them down with a withering glance, those violet eyes flashing like shards of amethyst.
It only makes them hungrier for her.
I know the feeling.
It's a thing of beauty, the way she moves. Each pour, each shake of a cocktail is a dance, her lithe body swaying to the music pumping through the joint.
I lean back, savoring the burn of my second martini as I drink my goth princess in. She's a monochromatic dream, all black hair, black lips, and black lace barely covering her moon-pale skin. The only pops of color are the vivid tattoos winding up her arms, a serpentine tease disappearing beneath her sleeve.
Fuck, I want to follow those lines with my tongue, map every inch of her until I know her body better than my own.
I shift in my seat, trying to ease the tightness in my jeans. I'm here to watch over her, to make sure she's safe, to make sure she comes back with me, but damn if she doesn't make it a sweet kind of torture.
My attention snags on a rowdy group of finance bros shouldering their way to the bar. They're already shit-faced, with ties askew and eyes glassy as they place their orders. The ringleader, a hulking meathead with a thousand-dollar haircut and a spray tan, leers at Cinder like he's ready to eat her alive.
