Not as a guest, nor captor.
She entered as theevent.
The whole reason why we came together this evening.
Because not even the massive claw hanging from the ceiling had more pizzazz than her.
Deja strolled in, wearing a sexy red, strapless gown. It must have been made of liquid silk because it appeared more like it had melted onto her curvaceous body, instead of wrapped around it.
The tops of her voluptuous cleavage spilled out so deliciously that I caught myself doing a double-take. A second one. A third. I wasn't even into women, and Deja had me reconsidering my entire orientation.
Damn. She knows how to wear a dress.
The bodice plunged into the deepest, lowest V—stopped just above her navel—anchored at the bottom by a single twist of diamonds that rested against the cut of her sculpted six-pack.
Her body is crazy.
A black diamond choker sat tight at her throat. The chain dripped down her collarbone and ended in a single tear-drop ruby that rested between her breasts.
She wore red opera gloves up to her biceps.
Her long, silky black hair had been swept up to one side and fell down in sleek finger-waves that framed her face. If no one knew she was a hairstylist, they probably guessed. The strands looked too gorgeous, too loved on.
Her makeup was seducing. A perfect black cat-eye, long red lashes that dazzled me from my seat, lips painted deep wine red and glossed until they gleamed.
And to make the sexy meter shoot up to the top and fucking shatter, that dress had slits on both sides that ran from her ankles to her hips, showing off her sculpted thighs.
Her hips kept time with the bass. The rest of her body—especially those bouncing breasts—belonged to a song no one else could hear, but I bet most of the men in the room yearned to get a listen.
The trumpet player had been holding a high, flirting note when Deja first stepped through the doorway. Now all of his notes skipped off beat. So much that I directed my gaze to him.
Ah. He’s watching Deja too.
The man stopped playing for a few seconds, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and returned to the song. Yet, his gaze remained on her.
I didn't blame him.
This was a woman built by mornings nobody saw—five a.m. squats, protein shakes, weighed-out chicken, no wine formonths—and tonight every one of those mornings had cashed in at once.
She stopped a few feet from the doorway and remained there, enjoying our gazes on her. And no one complained.
But. . .where’s Rin?
I sat back in my chair and just watched Deja simply stand there and captivate the men.
Every Claw at the table had stopped chewing.
Every Fang had stopped talking.
A roomful of dangerous men.
Yakuza killers.
And every one of them wasdroolingover a Black woman.
Damn right.
Pride filled me. I sipped my champagne just so I wouldn’t loudly snicker.
