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I grab his face, my brows caving as I press my lips to his.
His other hand glides up my arm and he deepens the kiss, his tongue fighting for entrance I’m prepared to give.
But then his sharp cry of pain shocks my mouth.
No sooner than I get my eyes open, spotting my dance partner rubbing at the back of his head and spinning around in rage, am I yanked backward like a fucking bungee cord when stretched to its fullest or tightest point.
I trip over my own feet, fighting for balance on six-inch stilettos as I stare straight ahead.
Blood drips from the back of the guy’s neck, soaking into his gray shirt as he raises his hands, but they don’t make it halfway into the air before he’s swallowed by two figures, dragged through the crowd and out of sight.
My eyes shoot wide, my feet darting forward, but the hand gripping the band of my bra through my dress reminds me of its presence and doesn’t allow it.
I’m shoved forward, spun, and pinned to the edge of the stage.
I suck in a large breath.
Wild angry marble blues with shaky lids glare into mine.
His jaw twitches, his muscles flexing and releasing over and over again. He shoves at me, even though I’m already flat against the wall, and pushes into me even though he’s already as close as possible.
And then he growls and tears away, but not by much.
It takes me a second, but I stand tall and now I’m pissed.
I push him, but he doesn’t budge, so I try again.
Ransom grabs my arms, locking them between his, forcing my elbows to bend, so now we’re eye to eye.
“Get the hell off me,” I growl, jerking in his hold to no avail.
“What the hell are you doing?” he growls back, lip curled high. “Huh?!” he shouts louder, angrier. “What the fuck are you thinking, Jameson?!”
“I’m not!” I yell instantly, and he blanches, but only for a split second. “I don’t fucking want to! I want to do whatever the hell I want!”
“This isn’t the place!” he barks, tossing my hands away.
“It’s the perfect fucking place!” I throw my arms out wide.
I’m practically hyperventilating, waves of shit I don’t want to think about or acknowledge crashing back in like a fucking tsunami now that I’m standing here, forced back into my reality by an asshole that shouldn’t even exist in it.
I look around at the average men in jeans and sneakers, to the plastic ‘Bride’ tiara in the distance and the ‘Finally Legal’ paper sash proudly worn to my right. No one knows more than the person to their left and nobody gives a shit who you are.
There is no expectation, no dress code.
It’s nothing but a busted-ass bar pretending to be a nightclub at the edge of an alleyway not far from a tourist corner.
I scoff, a low laugh leaving me as I give myself some space, my eyes hardening and moving back to Ransom, who has yet to look away from me. “This is the perfect fucking place.”
He hears it in my tone, the heavy, the pathetic hint of misery, as do I, but only once it’s too late to change or charm up.
His eyes narrow on mine, before darting to the wound on my cheek and pausing there.
His chest rises and falls rapidly, his nostrils flaring, and before I can think to move, he’s grabbing me again.
He hauls me into him, anger and frustration and something I can’t quite name driving the creases between his brows deeper, the edges of his gaze tighter.
And then his hands are on me, rough and tight and dare I say possessive.
Heat pulls low in my core, but I force my arms still at my sides.
This isn’t what I wanted tonight.
I wanted a stranger.
I needed a stranger, and the guy in front of me should feel like the perfect one.
But he doesn’t.
I hate it.
Ransom’s palms run lower, moving over my hips, and framing the curve of my body over the strings of my thong. He squeezes, shifting, his mouth now aligned with mine.
I attempt to pull away, swallowing my own breath when his hand flies up to my jaw, keeping me where he wants me.
His eyes are furious, desperate, and narrow when my tongue sweeps out to wet my lips. He starts to shake, his entire body radiating with heat and power, with frustration, and any fight I had in me vanishes.
Do it.
Kiss me.
Bite me.
Want me.
He’s close. To me, to doing exactly what my mind has no right to cry for, yet is. The shake of his grip grows wilder, undeniably noticeable, but he doesn’t take. His hands drop, a wall slamming over his eyes.
My shoulders begin to fall, but then a bruising grip wraps around my upper arm from behind. In one quick move, I’m whirled around, pulled forward as my head is yanked back, and Beretta’s there, his lips hot on my neck with zero hesitation.
