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White and in soft lace. A short little dress that enhances her larger-than-a-handful-breasts—it’s tight and revealing—displaying the sweet little tips that constrict under my perusal. She isn’t wearing a bra, and my mouth waters while my cock gives a harsh jerk inside my pants.
Below her bust, the material flows out a tiny bit, but not enough to hide the flat of her stomach and wide hips. Her legs are long and toned, and her tiny feet bare.
This girl is petite, yet curvaceous. A tight little body meant to be fucked. Taken roughly.
Tilting my head, I watch her nervous habits take hold. How she leans most of her weight on her right foot. How she keeps biting that juicy bottom lip the closer to me she gets.
“Stop.” At once she does as I ask a few feet away from me, eyes wide and staring into mine. Motherfuck, her shyness is delicious. Heady. “Twirl for me.”
“As you wish, sir,” she says, taking in a deep breath before letting it out slow. Her nipples are hard, pushing against the lace that leaves very little to the imagination. The sinuous curve of her body is tempting, so delicate, and I watch, enthralled, as she closes her eyes and performs a simple pirouette to please me.
“Again,” I demand, voice rough and hands clenching. “Slower this time.”
“Of course.” Once more, she rises onto the balls of her feet and lifts one leg higher in what looks like a flamingo’s stance. Her body holds this position for a few minutes, head held high to elongate her neck, before she slowly begins to spin. This turn is slow, a controlled move that shows off every inch of her flawless form.
The way she moves, every minute shift, shows me that this woman is a dancer. A trained one, at that.
What the fuck is she doing here?
Once more, that question floats through my mind and I know the answer will not please me. Something about her is throwing me off, and it’s not my desire to own her soul. It’s the sudden worry—that gut instinct that I follow blindly.
If anyone’s hurting her, not even God himself will save them.
“I’m going to own you, beautiful. Destroy what you know and become your everything,” I mutter low, rubbing a hand across my jaw. Watching as my little beauty turns three more times before I hold a hand up. “Stop.” Again, she does, eyes shining bright and cheeks looking flush. “Come pour me a drink. Three fingers’ worth will be enough for now.”
A nod is all I get as she walks to me, hips swaying with each move. She tries to step around my parted thighs, but as soon as she’s within my reach, I stop her. Fingers on her hips, I guide her closer—to take her rightful place between my legs—while reaching over for the bottle.
And fuck me if the feel of her pliant flesh beneath my fingertips doesn’t cause me to shiver.
Limbs shaking, too, she follows my command. The bottle clanks against the glass table as it almost tumbles from her grasp while I lean forward. Pressing my nose against her midsection, I inhale deep, pulling her sweet floral scent into my lungs and groan.
Fuck, I throb. Both hate and love how I react to her mere presence.
Her quick intake of air lets me know she isn’t unaffected by me. Not that it matters much. I’ll train her—overthrow her senses—into craving me.
“You smell like sin,” I grunt against the fabric of her dress, nose skimming a tiny bit lower as my hand holds her in place. “But do you taste as decadent?” She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t so much as breathe. “What’s your name, little Twirl?”
“My name?” she croaks, and it’s hard to keep in my amusement. I also don’t miss how she doesn’t question the nickname.
“Yes. Your name…” I nip the fabric but keep myself from marking her “…full name.”
Slightly shaking, she pours my drink and then sets the bottle down. “It’s London—”
“London what?”
“London Foster.”
That last name isn’t very popular around here, but I do know one family with it. One that has been living in my city for eight months. Same one whose head of the family is an egocentric asshole who’s made some bad investments as of late. Stuck his nose where it doesn’t belong, and that idiotic decision will ruin him.
All of them. Her.
However, she might be the one to pay the biggest price. She’s just become even more precious to me. London is collateral, but I’ll take care of her. This doesn’t diminish my hunger; if anything, it multiplies tenfold.
But I don’t say any of this as my mind runs through different scenarios. No, instead, I give her a smile and a tap to the back of her thigh. “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Call me Malcolm.” Something I’ve never done before, but I need to hear her say it. Say my name. Not “sir” or “Mr. Asher.” I find myself wanting this to be personal. Comfortable.
