“Yes. Thank you,” I found myself saying. Her eyes found mine. Her lashes looked incredibly long against her ivory cheeks, and a small darkening of shadows graced her skin, as if she’d been having trouble sleeping. Those green irises were like gentle pools of brilliant meadows of sage and green-envy coneflowers swaying in a warm breeze.
HOLY fuck. What the hell sort of poetry was that dribbling out of my twisted brain?
Her brows knitted together as she stood in front of me, handing me a full glass of the blood-red wine. I tried to imagine it splattering across her face, trying to think of the words that I could twist onto a clean crisp white paper, words that would slice the life from those eyes, but I could think of none. None.
This bitch was giving me writer’s block.
The man who pawed her ass held out his hand to me and smiled. “So, you’re Dylan’s infamous brother? Glad to finally meet you, I’m Fran,” he said, shaking my hand weakly.
The only thoughts in my mind were at that very moment were first, that hand was just touching Lainey’s ass, second, what the fuck kind of name was Fran? And third, his fucking hand was just touching Lainey’s ass. I squeezed his hand more than I should have. He grimaced.
“Fran?” I asked, curious to the femininity of the name and why a parent would hate their child so heinously that they would name him that.
“Short for Francis,” Lainey uttered, a little above a whisper.
“Ah,” I chuckled darkly, “that makes it so much better.”
She rolled her eyes at me. Fuck, it was as if I was in high school again. No, high school was bloodier. Francis smiled then, a full mouth of white shiny teeth and I wanted to knock each and every last bright ivory enamel-coated structure out, maybe the whole damn jaw too. That would be a great scene; my fingers began curling into tight hard fists.
My brother strutted in then. Man of the hour. Wearing thirty like it was some sort of trophy he competed for and won. His eyebrows shot straight up, as if he was actually shocked to see me. I guess he might very well have been, since I had only seen him a handful of times in the last few years.
“You actually came?” he asked, stunned.
“Nope. Not here at all,” I replied, a bit too harshly. Dealing with people wasn’t my thing. “Happy birthday.”
A blonde woman, whom I recognized as the other waitress, and could only assume was my brother’s new girlfriend, Bree, bounced out from the back of the trailer and she and Lainey pushed us to sit as they placed food on the small table. Morgan didn’t help, I noticed. She sat herself down next to me, tall and regal, waiting to be served. For some reason, that messed with my head. I wanted it the other way around, with Morgan serving Lainey, and that messed with my head even more. I drank my wine in one enormous gulp, almost embarrassingly vomiting it right back up. When Morgan’s French manicured hand reached down into my lap and cupped my balls, I pushed away from the table to get the bottle of wine I had left on the counter. I was going to need a few more bottles to get through the night.
Lainey was standing next to the tiny sink holding a steaming bowl of something. My mind tried to make it a bowl of wiggling maggots, but all I saw was fluffy delicate curls of pasta. Her eyes traveled over me and landed on mine. One beautiful soft eyebrow arched up at me questioningly.
“So, Francine seems sweet,” I said. I was incapable of having a healthy normal conversation, wasn’t I? I wanted to goad her, and to bicker and fight with her. I wanted to get her angry and outraged. To offend her so harshly that her beautiful sweet features would show some sort of fucking expression other than the complete control that I lacked.
Her eyes remained soft and delicate. Fuck, was that pity? Was that fucking pity she was looking at me with? “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Grayson. I haven’t tasted him yet. However, if I do get the pleasure of that, I will let you know how sweet it is.”
I wanted her to be one of those characters I killed off in the first chapter; the stupid innocent beauty that follows the clichéd killer down his rabbit hole. I held the scene in my head for a mere second, before it blurred and changed into me bending her over my knee and spanking her bare creamy ass until she was pink and wet.
The thought made me dizzy with want.
Dinner was deplorable. Not only was the food absolutely unnaturally the most delicious thing I had ever eaten, I could not stop myself from staring at Lainey’s mouth the entire time she ate. The pure shade of pink was the natural hue of her lips. The full flesh of them as they pressed against her glass of wine. I tried to focus on a figurine that was sitting alone on one of the shelves. It was a sculpture of a human brain. Who the hell would keep that in their home? The need to walk over to it and crush it in my hands was so strong that I could taste the dust of the ceramic pieces as they floated past my own lips in my mind.
Lainey’s green eyes kept meeting mine. Each time, her eyes would narrow and hold my stare. She didn’t fear me, didn’t back down. She was a complete contradiction to anyone I had ever met before. I smirked to myself thinking of her underneath me, the smooth skin of her legs wrapped around me, the burn of her nails as she clawed them down my back. Climbing over my body, riding me deep and fast, until my body convulsed inside her.
My hand gripped my fork so firmly against the plate it bent at an awkward angle. Fuck. How was I going to explain that?
Lainey gently pushed her chair back from the table and dabbed a napkin to her lips, “Anyone need more wine?” she asked, walking into the kitchen area, swaying her hips so sensually it could have killed me. Maybe it did, maybe it did kill me and this was my hell. My brain fogged up, hearing everyone around the dinner table talking but not being able to understand a word of it. My focus was completely concentrated on Lainey’s subtle movements as she went about pouring more wine. With her back to her guests, she filled her goblet and pressed the edge of it against her lips, sipping softly. Placing her glass back down, she reached up and swept all of her thick dark hair into a wild sexy bun at the nape of her neck. I was drowning, lost in a twisted sea of darkness.
The smooth creamy curve of her neck against her dark skin made me clench my fists tighter, almost snapping the damn fork in half.
Jesus H. Christ, what the hell is wrong with me?
Then the darkness of her hair slipped over her shoulder as she turned her head, laughing at something somebody had said. And there, against the nape of her neck, hidden beneath the tumble of her hair was a dark tattoo. Give me your hurt. The tattoo above the elegant dress, against her ivory skin was an erotic mix of good and bad, heaven and hell, and I wondered what her story truly was. How had she come here? Why? Who hurt her? What was she running from? And, why the hell do I care?
I wanted to hate her, break her, and keep her the hell away from my sick, twisted mind. But, there was no point in lying to myself, was there? Because I wanted a taste of her even more. I wanted her.
I didn’t like not being in control. That wasn’t me. I needed out of here.
I grabbed Morgan’s hand and yanked her up from the chair she was sitting on, still eating, apparently. She gave a little choked yelp as I tugged her to the door. “Well, thank you for a lovely evening. We have to be off now. Happy fucking birthday.” I slammed the ridiculous excuse for a door behind me and walked through the icy night to my truck.