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He has a smooth voice.
Deep.
The kind that whispers to you in daytime fantasies and in the midnight hours of sleep.
I’m hoping he’ll say more since my voice is trapped in my throat.
But that’s all he says before walking away to round the large base of the grand staircase.
I follow him almost mindlessly, my fascination a touch out of control.
He turns, but when I think he will take the first step to ascend the stairs, he stops and looks up.
I follow the direction of his gaze and damn near fall over with shock.
There aretwoof him.
Twins.
So perfectly identical that one could easily replace the other.
The universe has jokes, it seems.
And it’s on all the poor women of this world who happen to encounter these two.
I feel part jealous and part sorry for the redhead standing in the center of the staircase. She’s glancing between the twins as if trapped … or deciding something.
Poor girl is about to become one of the many women I have no doubt have been torn up and turned upside down by twins who look like that.
I refuse to be one of them.
Nope.
Not today, Satan …. or any other day, for that matter.
Men like that are the types to rip your heart out with their teeth while smiling. I’ve seen many tough women fall for those types through the years, when what should have been a fun night turned into months of those poor women chasing after a relationship that would never happen.
But two of them?
Good fucking luck.
They’re pretty to look at but have danger written all over them.
Rather than becoming the next victim, I do the intelligent thing and head toward the exterior doors to make my escape.
The backyard is impossibly beautiful. It almost puts to shame the interior of the mansion. I admire the lights strung through the stately tree branches and the winding path that leads past fancy white tents with their crystal accoutrements.
A pretty penny was spent on this party, and it saddens me to think what just a fraction of the cost could do for my life.
I wasn’t lucky enough to be born with a silver spoon in my mouth like these folks. At best, I had a used plastic spork my mother managed to swipe from a crusty fast-food place.
It wasn’t her fault, though. Something was always wrong with my mom. I’ve just never figured out what.
Walking past a server, I place my empty champagne glass on her tray and take a full one. I have work tonight and shouldn’t be drinking, but then again, shaking your ass in a cage doesn’t require strict sobriety.
I’ve barely made it fifty feet into the backyard when a woman yells, “Oh my god, Tanner! Give it to me harder!”
Spinning in place, I gawk at the mansion like everyone around me to see a woman run out in an ombré gown, another gorgeous male specimen running after her.
