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The coke buzzing in my system, I uncork the bottle, exhaling slowly as I bring it to my lips.
I was right; it's absolute dog shit whiskey. But beggars can't be choosy.
Or, fuck it. This beggar willalwaysbe choosy. But for the time being, I'm fine with what I have.
I jab a cigarette between my lips, angrily whipping a lighter out of my pocket and touching the flame to the tip. I suck greedily, letting the nicotine calm the raging beast inside my veins as I glare at nothing.
And yet, all I see is her.
Pink hair. Great ass. Sharp, no-bullshit blue eyes. And a mouth that infuriates me as much as it makes my dick hard.
I frown. Back on the mainland, when I was devouring her with my eyes from behind, I pegged her for half my age.
But now, I’ve had a closer eye-full of her. And now that I’m lecherously and vividly imagining the ways I’d wrap that pink hair in my fist and see how hot those lips would look stretching around my cock…I’m questioning how old sheactuallyis.
My eyes narrow. Okay, she said she’s a reporter. She works for a national magazine, for fuck’s sake. Somehow, I don’t get the impression that print media is so hard up these days that they’re hiring high school kids.
But maybe I’m wrong.
I groan and exhale smoke, doing my best to drag my mind away from the X-rated thoughts of all the depraved, illegal-in-some-states ways I’d like to absolutelysullylittle-miss-pink-hair. Instead, I try and focus on another task.
Writing is out of the question, as having fuck-all to show from last night’s frustrating attempts have proven.
Instead? Bikes it is.
I stalk to the front door, with every intention of spending the next hour or ten drowning in bad scotch, cigarette smoke, and engine grease. But when I get to the door itself, I stiffen.
I just caught a flicker of something through the peephole.
My mouth thins.
No fucking way.
I step closer to the door, and peer into the tiny hole in the center of it. I go still as my gaze focuses on the dripping wet girl standing on the pathway at the edge of the trees, looking dejected.
Andpissed.
But even pissed and soaked to the bone, I growl to myself, my eyes slicing into her. She’s looking at the door between us so dejectedly. So angrily. So… unrelentingly. She takes a deep breath, stretching her shoulders. And for the first time, I truly drink in exactly how…bedraggled she is.
Truth be told, it looks like she fuckingswamhere. Those jeans aren’t just tight, they’re soaking wet and clinging to every single—and I do meaneverysingle—curve of her hips and her ass and her thighs.
She pulls at the jacket that she’d previously been holding shut, and when it opens, my breath sucks through clenched teeth. My pulse jangles. That fire I’ve spent ten years ignoring burns hotly in my veins.
The white shirt she’s got on under that jacket is soaked through. Whether she’s wearing a bra or not is irrelevant. Not when I can see the dusky pink, hard pebbles of her nipples poking through the cotton, even from here.
Enticing me. Goading me.
Shattering my resolve to keep this door shut.
I shake my head, wincing and frowning as I suck in another breath.
What Iwantto do is open this door, drag her inside, and have my goddamn way with her like a caveman. Or not even inside. Just put her on her knees right there on the front porch—as I suggested before—and seeexactlyhow fuckable those lips really are.
My pulse hums hotly. Gripping the doorframe, I force myself to look away from the temptation on the other side of it.
I need to get my shit together. There’s a chance I’ve been away from society atouchtoo long.
I take another breath, sliding my gaze back through the peep hole. Outside, she slips her bag off her shoulder and reaches inside, pulling out a Ziplock bag containing a phone and a wallet.
