Scanning, I don’t see her blood red dress anywhere. Heading back out to the backyard, I watch as the guests start to depart, with Silas directing everyone. I grin tugs at my lip. He exudes power and control, and from what little Jace has told me, Silas Kenzington grew up in a similar cesspool. The first time I met him, we almost came to blows, but we squashed any beef once he realized I wasn’t interested in his woman. The woman who interests me is just as off-limits.
“Where is he?”
Pulling out a cigar, my third for the week, I light the tip. “Upstairs.”
Silas nods and walks past me back into the house, and I step out, breathing in the cool fall air and turning the corner, only to stop short. My body tightens when I spot her standing alone, staring out at the sunset. Pinks and golds are painted across the sky. The crunch of my feet on the gravel makes her spin around. She looks uncertain, wary. I watch her, not looking away. It’s my opportunity to get my visual fill of her, now that we are the only two on the terrace. There are tears on her face. Her mascara is running a little, and when she rubs her arms, warding off the chill, I step closer. It shouldn’t bother me that she was crying; I see tears all the time - tears of men, women, and children. But seeing her tears resurrects a part of my soul that I had reserved only for Ivory and Angel.
Moving closer so that we are only inches apart, a kaleidoscope of images is burned in my brain at seeing her up close. I had forgotten about the smattering of freckles. The liquid green of her eyes. The plush upper lip is slightly bigger than her bottom lip. All the details I’ve missed despite my surveillance. The floral smell that lingers around her. She looks differentthan she does when she paints, pristine, and not wild. Her hair is done in perfect loose curls. I miss seeing her smudged, the frown between her brows as she paints. That concentration is my favorite.
The last time I almost caved and took her. Kidnapped her and took her with me the night she was painting. The man with her wouldn’t have been hard to subdue, but luckily, he left, leaving her alone. Seeing her pick up what looked like knives to paint made me rock hard.
I wonder if she liked the charcoal I made from her ex-boyfriend’s butchered and burned hands. I wanted to sign my name. When she left for the back of the studio, I picked the rudimentary lock and stepped into her space. I could smell her scent, something sweet and sultry.
I touched her tools, which were neatly organized in her leather knife roll bag. I growled, enthralled by it. It looked like the one I owned that was made from the skin of a second kill. Her painting knives were much too dull to do any real damage, but I took a pair, determined to sharpen them. I gripped their wooden handles, already making a plan to sharpen their edges and turn them into weapons. A weapon I wanted her to use on me, cut me as she rode my cock, but this time there wouldn’t be paint staining the blade; it would be my blood. The image was so real, so visceral, that my cock started to weep cum, ready to make it happen.
I tucked the knives in my pocket, knowing she could catch me if I didn’t move quickly. When I spotted tubes of paint along the wall, my darker side emerged. The need to confuse her, alarm her. See her breathing increase, the way it would if I were chasing her, subduing her, cutting her. Watching her touch the red paint, coating her fingers, almost had me leaving my hiding place in the shadows of some bushes across the street. I wantedto reveal myself and replace the paint with the real thing. I could smell her fear, her curiosity, and it added to my lust.
“Do you want me to go?”
She doesn’t look at me when she answers. “Do you want to go?”
Fuck. This woman. Her haughty, sassy response makes my cock perk right the fuck up. Instead of telling her exactly what I want, pinching the end of my cigarette, I tuck it behind my ear and slip out of my jacket, draping it around her shoulders.
She jolts and stares at me. “What are you doing?”
“You’re cold.” Her nipples look fucking delicious, pressed against the stretchy red fabric. My mouth salivates. When she takes the edges of my jacket and pulls it closer, I grit my teeth, wishing it were my cut that she was wrapped in, with the words El Búho on her back, and she rides my cock.
“Thank you,” she whispers as she continues to look into the distance.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye, liking that she looks warmer now. I stuffed my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t give in to my craving. Relighting my cigar, I suck in another lungful, thinking about my focus for the last month I’ve been working on her gift. I wish I could see her open it. But I can’t get cameras inside her friend’s penthouse. Kingsley Mark is too heavily guarded.
Camryn quickly wipes away her tears. “Sorry for crying.”
I don’t respond, watching her.
“I guess you don’t cry much,” she says it in wry humor.
Not since Ivory’s assault when she was 12 years old. “Why?”
“Why am I crying?”
I lift an eyebrow, waiting.
“My big mouth caused this. It’s my fault the woman, Mallory, is here.” She sniffs, and more tears run down her face.
I give in to temptation and touch her, tilting up her chin, smoothing my thumb along her delicate, refined jaw. I grit my teeth at the soft texture of her skin. I haven’t touched her since that night at Jace’s house, and the sight of her wet lashes and the trails of tears down her face hit me hard. I’d love to see her cry, salty tears sliding down her cheek as she struggles to take my cock down her throat. I don’t want tears of worry and guilt. I want tears of pleasure and sweet pain. “Don’t apologize.” I wipe her tears, and her eyes widen. I slowly slide my thumb across the curve of her jaw. The same one I admired all evening. She trembles, and I step closer. Just a taste. One taste to hold me.
“Cam? Are you out here?”
I slowly release her smooth skin and curl my fingers into a fist, as if to hold in the velvety texture. Turning, I watch a curvy Black woman with bright red hair, her face covered in freckles, walk around the corner. She stops short when she sees us. I like her direct stare. She’s not afraid of me, but is still cautious. She looks at Camryn. I see the moment she notes the tears. She frowns, protective energy radiating off her gorgeous frame. I smirk and cross my arms, waiting to see what she’s going to do. She walks to Camryn and rubs her back, watching me. I respect it. She whispers in Camryn’s ear. Camryn still looks at me and then down before nodding and leaving with her friend. I trail behind, liking that Camryn is still wearing my jacket.
Chapter 12
“Where’s everyone?”
I look up and catch sight of a man I haven’t seen in person for years. Keith Barclay is now a far cry from the guy I remember hanging around our house when my brother Adam would invite Keith’s brother, Kory, over. Back then, he was the guy that everyone talked about in our circles. Athletic, handsome, and with a hefty bank account. He was almost a decade older than I was. When I was around 13, he came over to visit my brother Adam. I was in the kitchen making a sandwich, and he cornered me. I didn’t know how to respond when he told me I was sexy and that he thought I was so pretty. When our housekeeper Maria showed up, she told me to come and help her upstairs and then whispered to me to never be alone with him because he was what she called‘malvado.’ and that his intentions weren’t good.
Each time he came around, I avoided him until two years later, when I was 15 and he approached me again at my father’s annual Christmas party. Jace found Keith pressuring me to go upstairs with him, told Keith to fuck off, and then ushered me upstairs to my room, instructing me to lock my door.
