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THE WORLD SHIFTS WHEN SHE’Snear. I can’t see her. I can’t hear her, but I sure as fuckfeelher. And I don’t mean the blonde pushing her tits into my side, hoping for a ride on my cock.
We’ve been in Lyndale for months. I’ve had my taste of the local pussy. It’s good; it’s clean and about ten shades of slut lighter than Vegas. But this chick grinding on my thigh has me feeling like I need a sanitizing shower. I’ve done nothing to encourage her, except maybe breathe and ignore the fact she exists. She’s made her rounds with the guys. I’m guessing they’ve had their fill, and she’s set her tits on me. She’s feeling brave. MyI’ve-got-no-fucks-to-givestare hasn’t scared her off. Yet. But she’s shit out of luck.
The jukebox in the corner that’s been blaring since the band went on break switches tunes. I know without even looking who selectedthatsong. Who’s dancing in front of that damn box like it can make her deepest desires come true. I swivel in my chair, my dead eyes landing on her like the sway of her hips, the tilt of her chin, and the curve of her ass isn’t a siren song to my cock and creates an ache I’ll never understand in the middle of my chest.
She’s pickedthatfucking song, but all I hear when I look at her is “So Hott” by Kid Rock, pounding out a rhythm, making me want to fuck her like I’ll never see her again.
Francesca fucking Angelique—Frankie to her friends—the bane of my existence and my best friend’s woman. My best. Fucking. Friend. Yeah, you get the idea. I’m royally screwed and not in the pleasurablegetting-my-rocks-offkinda way.
Her raven black hair cascades down her back, sweeping across her ass as she sways back and forth, lost in the words of “Tennessee Whiskey.” I feel every syllable she whispers to the heavens like a prayer that seems to fall on deaf ears and stream down her hotter-than-hell body to puddle at her feet like used dreams that have been reheated to death. For a woman who’s supposed to be in love with my best bud, Austin, she sure as shit looks like heartache and broken promises.
And to stoke the flames of my own personal hell, the words aremine. The words I would say to her every fucking day if she were my woman. I would never let her dance alone looking lost and vulnerable in such a public display of despair. If she were mine, I’d grab her ass, pull her close, and tell her with my body and my mouth how adored she is—how perfect she is.
She’s my hell on Earth. My temptress. My Angel. It’s even in her fucking nameAngel-ique.
Does she know what she means to me? No. Fuck, no.
She thinks I’m an ass, and I work every day to prove her right.
“How ‘bout you and I get out of here, Gabe?” Tits to my left has the nerve to butcher my name while stroking my cock through my jeans. She thinks my hard on is for her. I wish it were.
“It’s Gabriel.” My eyes dart from Frankie to the guy approaching her. She’s oblivious, still dancing to her damn song, and he’s ready to pounce. “Austin.”
Like the command it is, his head snaps up. His eyes on me, I tersely nod toward the jukebox.
Austin lazily scans the situation and shrugs. “She’s fine.” He downs his beer.
The fuck?“Man up. Your woman needs you.” I stand as the asshat, looking to lose a limb, closes in on Frankie.
Austin rises to his feet slower than molasses, his jaw taut, his teeth clenched. “I said she’s fucking fine.” He shoulders past me. “Mind your own damn business, Stone.”
I don’t even bother to see where he’s going. All I know is he’s not heading toward Frankie. Slipping out of Blonde Tit’s hold, my six-and-a-half-foot frame covers the distance from the bar to the jukebox in mere steps.
“Beat it,” I growl at the predator seeking a Frankie-meal. I slip my hand around her waist. “She’s taken.” Just not by me.
I wish death upon his dick, and I swear I can hear it shrivel as he squeaks some excuse and toddles off.
“Gabriel?” My Angel with the wolf-gray eyes frowns up at me.
The pang in my chest deepens. I take a second to revel in the feel of her in my arms against my chest. A moment is all I get, all I deserve, before my asshole ways make a stand. “You can’t dance like slut meat and expect not to attract flies, Francesca.”
Hurt flashes in her eyes before she covers it with a scowl. “What does that make you?” She pushes me away like she could if I didn’t let her. I tower over her by a foot or more, but her backbone makes her deceptively taller. “And don’t call me that.” Her anger slips. She hates that I don’t call her Frankie—at least to her face. It’s another wall I’ve erected to keep her safe from the likes of me.
I ignore the latter. “An asshole.”
She laughs. The sound has my cock twitching. I sneer my regret, holding the wall.
“That’s for damn sure.” She lifts to her tiptoes, leaning in, giving my chest a push. “I can take care of myself.”
Her scent fills my nostrils, and I can’t help the deep breath I suck in to selfishly capture it all as I step back. “Clearly.”
With a brow raise and a quick study of my face, she looks for proof that I’m not the asshole I appear to be.
Keep looking, Angel. You may find it.My heart pounds as I hold my breath, waiting for her to see past my walls to my true feelings. I want her to know as much as I don’t.
Thankfully she doesn’t. She elbows past me with a brisk, “Goodnight.”
I let out the breath—the scent of her—I was holding.
