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As I close the distance between us, that scents hits me again, only this time it’s like a torpedo strike. My erection knows no shame. Her braless tits are making my mouth water. I’m sure I could be arrested for the things she’s making me think.
And feel.
Still, eighteen?
Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking monster, right?
What, a day over eighteen? Like that makes a difference? Or a month?
She’s still a girl, even if someone has disguised her as a woman with all that makeup and high heels, and a designer gown that probably cost thousands.
But, behind that makeup, she’s sweet. Even in the dim light, I see her blushing. I see the way her eyes widen with each of my approaching steps. Her cheeks are high, aristocratic, but still plump with the roundness of her youth.
She surely knows she drives men wild, but there’s nothing about her that is overt and I am maddened by the thought that other men, or boys at her school, may have jerked off to thoughts of her.
Because she’s mine. No other man should think of her in that way, lest they be subject to my wrath.
She gives me a hard look, up and down, then turns back toward the piano keys and starts playing again, harder now, each note carving itself into my heart.
“I had a piano just like this,” she says, her fingers still moving on the keys. “My step—” She catches her breath, missing a note, and I notice the glint of a tear in her eye. “I had it taken away from me. How old are you?”
I lean in closer to take a long draw over her head, identifying the sweet scent as a mixture of vanilla and cherries. “Old enough to know better,” I answer, the cliché out of my mouth before I can stop it.
She stops playing, spins back around, and tips her head to the side.
Her eyes trace over me again, her tongue coming out to wet the seam of her lips before she speaks. “Know better than to what?” Her lips curve upward, exposing her perfect white teeth, and I love that she’s not intimidated by me in the least.
Or if she is, she’s not showing it.
Which is pretty impressive, considering I’m intimidating as hell—even to grown men. As a matter of fact, when she pokes her tongue into her cheek, I know she’s not only being cheeky, she’s flirting with me.
All my thoughts turn to how I could grab her by the hair, spin her around and push up that slinky dress to rut into her like the animal I am quickly becoming.
I try to remember the last time I wanted a woman, but I can’t. It’s been years, not for lack of opportunities. But for lack of interest.
Now, in a manner of minutes, I’m desperate. My cock is miserable without her wrapped around it. I’m lightheaded and there’s a ridiculous pounding in my entire body. I think it’s that so much blood is being diverted to my erection, my major organs are having trouble functioning. Thoughts of slipping my tongue into that soaking gash between her legs, of letting her know it will be me and only me that will touch her ever again, run rampant through my lust crazed mind.
What if someone has touched her before?
I shake the thought away. Even if it is so, no one will ever have her again. If I have to do horrible, illegal things to get rid of anyone else, anyone deluded enough to think they stand a chance with her, I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever it takes.
“Guess the cat got your tongue.” She says finally, and I realize I never answered her last flirtatious question. It hardly seems relevant now. The only thing with any meaning is what’s going to happen next.
“It’s not the cat that’s going to get my tongue,” I growl.
Chapter Three
Damon
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” I gather a strand of her hair between my fingers, bringing it forward to draw a deep breath of that scent, letting it make my head spin all over again. “Or should I just call you Songbird? Your voice is enchanting.”
“Doralee.” She pauses, pressing her lips together for a moment, then, “Hinson.” She bobs her head back and forth, squishing up her perfect button nose, then puts the two together. “Doralee Hinson.”
It’s the most beautiful, perfect name, and the only problem I have with it is it doesn’t have my last name attached to it. There’s no part of her that isn’t sexy; from her voice, her hair, her smile, the way she’s sassy and sweet at the same time. Even her hands, tiny and almost childlike, fluttering around, trying to find their way…which in a way it feels like she is trying to do as well.
That thought paralyzes me. I wonder if she’s one of the models with the agency, if she’s gone out into the world with them—or anywhere, for that matter—without me. I want to be the force that separates her from all the horror and sadness of this world, to filter it all through me so she knows only joy and laughter and peace.
