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Why is he wearing the damn sunglasses? It’s already hard to read his eyes without the added camouflage.
I search our surroundings for anyone who might be able to help, but I realize we’re in a small nook in the corner that most people don’t even notice.
Landon releases my shoulder and reaches a hand to my face. I tense, my body getting ready to fight, claw his eyes out and drink his brain through the sockets if he as much as hits me—
He strokes my cheek and I freeze, all my murderous thoughts coming to a sudden halt.
My breath catches and my lips part.
That’s about the last thing I expected the psycho to do.
His long, lean fingers glide from my forehead to my brows, over my eyelashes, then swipe down the bridge of my nose. As I watch with a completely stupefied expression, his exploration continues under my eyes, over my cheeks, and down my jaw before lifting my chin.
Every stroke leaves a burning fire in its wake. No, it's an avalanche of tingles, goosebumps, and pent-up euphoria.
Like a blind person trying to discern someone’s features, he lingers and strokes gently. Too gently, even.
My thoughts scatter when he slides his fingers over my upper lip, his middle finger swiping down my Cupid’s bow, then moves to my bottom lip. This time, his thumb presses on the flesh with a breathtaking firmness.
I’m entranced, absolutely taken aback by the sight in front of me and the overwhelming feelings blazing through me.
It’s like I’ve been transported to a different dimension where everything is bizarre and the merest touch provokes an extreme reaction.
“Stunning.” His deep voice, the sound of dark lullabies, chains me further to the alien feelings.
I’m no different than a fly caught in the web of a spider, completely paralyzed as life is sucked out of my limbs.
“Five out of five,” he whispers in words that have no business being so destabilizing. “As expected of my little muse.”
He flexes his hand into an open palm and swipes it down my throat. The touch is intimately explorative and breathtakingly stimulating. His fingers latch onto the leather choker and he uses it to pull me flush against him.
I have to keep the Frappuccino to the side or he’d crush it between us.
A sly smirk lifts his sinfully gorgeous lips as he toys with the leather, his fingers skimming my skin as if he has every right to.
As if he claimed me in a different lifetime and is currently taking me back.
“I knew there was a wild side to you. Tell me. Do you fancy being strangled while a cock rams inside your soaking wet cunt? Or do you prefer having a cock choke your pretty little throat and fill it with cum?”
His crude words, delivered in the most sophisticated manner, snap me out of my drug-like haze.
And the worst realization is that another part of my body mourns the loss of that haze. There must be something freakishly wrong with me. How could I go so still when he touched me with the sensuality of a lover?
I push against him with my free hand, my face heating and my mind thinking of a thousand curses I can use to send him to the afterlife.
My attempts to free myself only manage to amuse him to no end. So I scratch at his hand, but that doesn’t erase the provocative smirk from his face.
He releases me, though he doesn’t give my space back. “My, my. You’re supposed to be a harmless tiny mouse, but you’re fast upgrading to a kitten with claws. Such a feisty little one.”
I hug the Frappuccino against my chest and sign, “I’m not little, you psycho asshole. Go fuck yourself.”
“Calling me names won’t stop me from referring to you as little. And I would rather fuck a hole instead of doing it myself.”
My lips part.
No. He couldn’t have understood every word. It’s just impossible.
This prick can’t possibly—
