Holy fucking hell.
Robyn’s breasts are fucking beautiful. The night I took her home, I spent more time on them than was strictly necessary. They’re full, soft, and so damned heavy. They fit in my hands like they were made just for me. Tonight, the bodice of that dress is cut low but not overly so. It’s tasteful. It’s elegant.
It’s also devastating.
I stand there for a few moments like I’ve been hit with a cleaver between the eyes.
Then I notice that there’s a male with her.
He’s well-built, with hints of salt and pepper at the temples. He’s in a tuxedo. He’s smiling down at her. One hand is in his pocket. The other is around the stem of a wine glass that he hasn’t lifted in a while. His attention is on her face, and then it dips down for one second and comes back up to her face.
He’s looking.
I can’t really blame him, but I want to pluck his eyeballs out for it, anyway.
He says something, and Robyn laughs. It isn’t the polite laugh she’s been doling out all night. It’s an actual laugh. Her shoulders move with it. Her head tips back a fraction, and her hand comes up to her chest in a small reflex.
He touches her arm. Just above the elbow. It’s light and friendly. His eyes dip again for half a second, and the touch lingers.
He wants to fuck her.
I see green.
The hot, ugly kind. It rolls up through my chest and into the back of my throat, and I feel my dragon flex along my ribs with a force that makes my jaw tighten in order to lock him down.
Shit!
I have no right to feel this way.
She isn’t mine.
She laughs again when he whispers something in her ear.
Fuck that!
She’s my date. We agreed in the car that everyone here was to believe it.
I’m going after her.
