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I’d probablygiveit to her if she wasn’t such a stubborn, prideful little shit.
But this stubborn, prideful little shit looks good tonight. No messy pigtails and make-shift cropped tops and fishnets in sight. Tonight, her hair is pulled back in a neat bun, so smooth it shines like black lacquer. Ornate crosses of silver, diamond and pearls hang from her ears—a blasphemous contrast to her wicked ways.
She’s wearing all black, but the smokey charcoal of her eye make-up has a hint of green in it, the same rich, poisonous green as her eyes. Her black dress has a stiff bodice, a square neckline, and sleeves down to her knuckles. A surprisingly chaste outfit for a woman like her, but the thought of the silver scars and purple lovebites she’s hiding is more exciting to me than if she were naked.
Nothing new here. Willow has always been far more interesting to me for the things that are wrong about her.
I watch her surreptitiously. She’s quiet, looking out of the window. She’s completely still, aside from the tapping of a finger on her wrist. It’s the most nervous I’ve ever seen her.
What a rare sight that is—Willow nervous. I’ve seen her in the grip of a raging fever, with the meat of her leg hanging over a butcher’s display window. I’ve seen her fight for her life with the breath being crushed out of her throat—but I’ve never seen her nervous.
Until now.
She looks up, catching my gaze on her, and smiles. “Nervous, Luca? Her voice is low and barbed with sarcasm, as if she’s plucked the thoughts right out of my head to sling them back at me.
“What possible reason could I have for being nervous?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Maybe you’re nervous about seeing your mummy and having to give her a big fat kiss on the lips in front of all your rich fancy friends?” She punctuates this question with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows.
I have the sudden urge to grab her by her shoulders, throw her back against the ivory leather of the limousine, and bite a hole into her neck. For the sake of propriety, I refrain from doing so.
“I’m not nervous.”
“Your body language says otherwise.”
I watch her in silence for a second. Is she bluffing? I know for a fact I’ve been sitting as still as a statue, just as she has. She answers my silence with an execrable little smirk and throws a pointed look down at my hand, resting between us on the raised armrest.
“Your hands, Luca. You tap your fingers when you’re nervous.”
A sparkle of annoyance flares inside my chest, burns brief and bright, like magnesium being set alight. I swallow it down, snuffling the emotion as quickly as it appears.
“And who exactly put you in charge of inventing the dictionary of my body language, Lynch?” I ask her. “Stop projecting your own insecurities.You’rethe one who’s nervous.”
“What’s there to be nervous about?” she says with a little flap of her hand. “I love a good party, don’t you know?”
“This isn’t the kind of party you’re used to,” I say with a scornful smile.
“What kind of parties am I used to, Luca?” She leans forward conspiratorially. “Parties where rich men get choked out by girlsin club basements? Does your mum not throw the same kind of partiesyoudo?”
“If this is your clumsy attempt at blackmailing me, it’s not going to work.”
She laughs and sits back. “Relax, I’m not going to rat you out to your mummy, Luca. Wouldn’t want to get you cut out of your inheritance. You wouldn’t last a day if you had to work for a living.”
“Work for a living? Is that what you call pouring drinks while coked-out hedge fund managers leer at your chest?”
“I would never have taken you for a jealous man,” Willow says, covering her mouth with a prim gesture. Her nails are long and sharp, the rich red of venous blood. “Calm down, Luca. You’ve had plenty of chances to leer at my chest.”
I think about her chest, those small breasts, those pale pink nipples, so delicate and feminine, an odd sight on the battlefield of her bruised and tattooed body, like sweet new blooms in a garden of black thorns and red roses. I’m not one of the coked-out financiers at her pretentious bar; I have no desire toleerat her.
What I would like, though, is to pinch and pull those pretty nipples until Willow has no choice but to stop running her mouth like she’ll die if she stops. Willow has never been quieter than when I fucked her, and I can’t wait to silence that barbed tongue once more.
“This evening is exactly what you need,” I murmur thoughtfully, half to myself. “A healthy dose of humiliation is going to be a great remedy for that smart mouth of yours.”
“Humiliation?” Willow says. “I’m not the one walking into a place where everybody knows my rich daddy paved the way for my entire existence.”
“Why this fixation with my parents, Lynch?” This time, I’m the one leaning across the space between us to smirk in her face.“Would you like me to apologise for having loving parents when your own father didn’t want you?”
She tilts her head ever so slightly, like an animal that’s sensed a sudden change in the air.
