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My thighs clench. I’m definitely needing to do that…
“Little Bird,” King interrupts my happy daydream. I find him staring directly at me now, leaning against the counter. “If you keep looking at me like that, we will both end up dead.”
I chuckle, the depth of his words not yet sunken in. “I wasn’t.”
His perfect eyebrows shoot up.
“Fine, maybe I was.” I’m not going to pretend that I don’t find him attractive or that I don’t feel something for him. I wouldn’t have slept with him last night had I not. I’m about as open about my feelings as my legs were last night.
He pushes off the counter, and every step he takes closer to me, he steals one hundred breaths. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I answer, searching his eyes. I see the fire in his. The way they hood with every stride.
I go to step back when one of his arms reaches out and wraps around my back, pulling me into his chest. His chest that I’m getting well acquainted with. “We can’t do that again.”
“What?” I ask, swimming in the pool of his eyes, but well aware that an anchor is strapped around my ankles, and if I don’t swim hard enough, I’ll sink to the bottom of the ocean.
“We. Can’t. Do. That. Again.”
His words power through me like a frenzied preacher at Sunday service. I rear my head back, yearning for some distance. “Okay, but why?”
He releases me, just as someone patters down the stairs. I don’t look at who it is. I don’t care. I want to know why we can’t do that again. There’s obviously a reason. If there wasn’t, King isn’t the type of man to tiptoe around anyone’s feelings. He’d flat out say he didn’t want me.
“King, what the fuck, man? Why are you not ready?” Killian scolds him.
King releases me and steps back, before I get an answer, and slowly disappears up the small stairwell.
“Little Bird,” Killian interferes, and I snap my attention to him. “It’s for the best. Trust me.”
I scoff. “I remember one day not long ago, you told me not to trust you.”
Killian’s carefree smile falls. “I know, but on this, you can.”
The drive to the “party” is long. All of us are piled into a black souped-up Rolls Royce SUV. Wheels, windows, even the grill at the front is black. King is driving, I’m in the passenger seat—not sure why—and Kyrin, Kill, and Keaton are in the back. I’ve tried asking about this party, but none of them have much to say about it. We drive for another fifteen minutes, swerving between cars on the highway and drifting against the ruthless humidity of the South. The sun has set, leaving a burnt orange residue smudged through the sky. We finally pull into a small, gated community. The fence line is hardwired, with the peaks of each curve reaching for the sky. King turns the music down and lowers his window. He leans over, and I watch as he reaches for a small pin box and punches in a long sequence of numbers.
Weird, I think to myself, but otherwise, ignore it. He shifts back into his seat just as the wired gates squeak as they open, allowing us to enter.
“What is this place?” I ask. An air of familiarity brushes over my fickle flesh, but before I grasp onto it, maybe squeeze it a little to see if any recognition drips out, it’s gone.
“Just stay close to us,” King announces, his eyes flying to the rearview mirror.
“What? Why? I thought this was a party?” I watch as we drive down a dark street, with homes as large as the White House. Large, white old plantation homes with manicured lawns pass one by one. Each house has a streetlight hanging near the front, claws of metal grasping onto the bulbs. They look medieval, wrong, in this type of exclusive setting.
King drives us up a driveaway at the very end of the street. It’s long, and has manicured hedges that line it all the way to the front of the house where a fountain is awaiting the center of it. Four monstrous-sized pillars hold up the structure of the home at the front, all glistening white with clean windowsills and a heavy front entrance door that makes you want to run away, rather than knock on it.
“Dove,” King interferes my gawking.
“Yeah?” I look right at him, searching his eyes.
“You don’t take anything from anyone that is not us four. Do you understand?” I do, yet I don’t. But I understand. I mean, it’s a party.
“I know not to take drinks from strangers, King.”
“That’s not my point, Dove,” he throws my tone back in my face. “It’s not your drink you should be worried about.” Then his eyes savagely drop down my body, landing straight between my thighs.
