Page 58 of Dance of Devils

That fucking mouth.

Brooklyn shivers, a breathy little sound tumbling from her lips. Her pulse throbs erratically under my fingers brushing against her throat, and when her eyes lock with mine…

God help me.

All I want to do is pin her to the locker, rip the fucking towel away, and bury my swollen cock in her cunt until all she knows is the feel of my claim on her.

But I can’t do that.

I won’t.

My hand drops from her jaw. Slowly, with the concentration and focus of a fucking Zen monk, I back away, trying not to focus on her chest heaving under the towel, her flushed cheeks, or the tempting way her full lips are parted.

“To answer your question,” I growl, “I’mnotbeing a dick because of the other night.” I look at her coldly. “I’m just kind of an asshole in general.”

I turn and leave. Because if she says another goddamn word or looks at me for one more second with those sinfully innocent eyes, there’s no power on Earth that will keep me from her.

13

KIR

I ignorethe low whistles and “sweet ride” comments from a couple of guys sitting astride Harleys as I step out of the Aston Martin and glare murderously up at the neon sign: “The Mirage” in 1980’s Miami pink and turquoise, with “GIRLS GIRLS GI-LS” flashing underneath it.

Inexplicable fury at this development surges inside me. But I do nothing to tamp it down. As if I could, anyway, with the rage every flicker of that fucking sign brings out.

She works at a fuckingstrip club.

“I just waitress there.”

I take in the whole sleazy dump—the men smoking and drinking beers outside, lecherously discussing the girls inside. The shady characters on motorcycles or leaning out of muscle or street racing cars.

She could be this place’s fuckingaccountant, and I’d hate it.

My anger isn’t directed at her, of course. Just at the circumstances that would force a girl like her to work at a place like this.

A meat market. A place for men to come and let out their inner predator. A place that swallows up girls in tough situations and spits out the bones when it’s done.

An overly muscled bouncer with long hair and a ludicrous tribal tat all over the right side of his face and curling around his eye nods to me as I approach the front door.

“Twenty bucks cover charge. Two drink minimum?—”

“I’m looking for a girl who was here last time I came in,” I say with a tight smile, cutting him off. “Blonde, blues eyes, about yea tall...”

I frown, remembering the night I took her home, when I saw…well, everything.

“A tattoo of ballet slippers on her ankle,” I add, remembering the ink I spotted when I cleaning her up.

I fucking hate the guy's lascivious grin of recognition.

“Oh, you mean Cherry.”

I scowl. “Cherry.”

“Cherry Pie,” he grunts. “That’s her name here.”

Why the fuck does that sound like a goddamn stripper name…

“Her, yes,” I growl, biting back savage blackness.