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She’s beautiful in a timeless way, fresh-faced and innocent. Her big blue eyes and pouty lips are straight out of the old black and white movies my sister loves. She’s captivating, enchanting. I can’t pull my eyes away from her. Unlike most of the women here, she isn’t reed thin but big and beautiful. Her stomach isn’t flat but round, her hips and thighs wide. She’s the kind of woman you sink into and take your time with. The kind you ride bare just because you can’t fucking resist.
The blood in my veins heats like metal in a forge at the thought, desire screaming through me. I don’t know who she is, but I decide immediately that she will be mine. There is no other option. It’s been years since I was last with anyone. Hell, it’s been months since I got myself off. But I need this woman beneath me more than I need my next breath. I need to know what she looks like with those dark curls spread across my bed and those thick thighs wrapped around my head.
I take a step in her direction.
“There she is,” Brant says.
I whip my head in his direction, unsure what he’s talking about or who. Marnie? His kid? His boat? I stopped listening as soon as the mystery woman appeared on the patio.
“Come here, baby girl,” he calls. “I want you to meet someone.”
My mystery girl turns toward us in slow motion, a sweet smile overtaking her face.
Ah, fuck.
My stomach knots up, my balls churning.
There’s no way this is his kid. This woman isn’t a girl or anything remotely close to it. She’s a full-fledged goddess sent down from Mount Olympus.
“Hi, dad,” she says, moving in our direction. Her hips sway with every step. And that voice. Christ. If she sings half as sweet as she speaks, she really does sing like a fucking angel.
I tip my beer back, draining the bottle.
Her gaze shifts to me as Brant gives her a one-armed hug. Those big blue eyes widen almost comically when they lock on my face, her pouty lips parting slightly. Jesus Christ. I want to slip my dick between them while she stares at me like that.
“Raven, this is Rhys Flannery,” Brant says as we stare at each other in complete silence. “Rhys, this is my baby girl, Raven.”
“Hi, Rhys,” she whispers, looking up at me through the longest lashes I’ve ever seen. A blush stains her cheeks, her tits shuddering as she says my name. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
Brant moves back to the grill.
“Raven,” I growl, cursing God and all His saints for putting this sweet little thing in front of me and making her utterly untouchable at the same time. I may be an asshole, but there are some lines even I won’t cross. She’s my best friend’s daughter, the light of his life. I can’t—won’t—put my hands on her. But God, I want to.
“Um, my dad says you’re a detective? That must be interesting,” she says, her gaze eating me up. I don’t have to ask to know she likes what she sees. It’s written all over her face. She wears the truth like she does her innocence, right there for the whole world to see.
Brant hasn’t seen it yet. He’s busy flipping steaks. But any minute now, he’s going to look up again. He’s going to see how she’s looking at me, and he’s going to know that his baby girl has a thing for me. I have to shut it down now. I owe him that much.
Forgive me, songbird, I think regretfully, wishing like hell she was anyone else. If she were, I’d answer any question she wanted to ask, tell her anything she wanted to know. But she’s Brant’s kid. That’s a line you don’t cross.
“I am,” I say, arranging my face into a disapproving frown. “But I don’t think your dad would appreciate you asking about my job, Raven. You’re way too young to know about the kind of shit people in this world do to one another.”
Her face falls, hurt channeling through her expressive eyes.
“I need another beer,” I mutter, feeling like the world’s biggest asshole. But I don’t take back the harsh words.
For her sake, I can’t.
