Page 15 of Feeding Beauty (The Lost Girls #5)

Snack Time at Work

AURORA

M y hands push on my lower belly and the flame of arousal flares a little brighter as my throat turns dry. I squeeze my eyes shut tight.

No. No no no no.

“Aura?”

My eyes snap open as I jerk up in bed. Talon stands in the doorway in nothing but his black boxer briefs.

His dark, deeply tanned muscles glisten with beads of water from the shower.

They drip down the fine, dark trail of hair that disappears under his waistline, and I force myself not to focus on the bulge it leads to.

Instead, my gaze catches on the striated muscle that flexes in his heavy thighs.

Hunger yawns in me. Then it cries out like a child about to descend into a tantrum.

Sex. Touch. Salty tasting skin.

I want it.

Catching myself in the ogle, my gaze snaps back up to Talon’s face.

Though his wet black hair hangs even lower in his eyes than normal, they see straight through me.

“You okay?” Talon asks, voice low, as if he already knows the answer.

“I’m fine,” I say too quickly. I jump up and run past him into the bathroom before setting the shower in a cold blast and dousing myself.

Shivering under the painful icy streams, it still pulses. The need. The hunger.

“No,” I whisper to myself as I wrap my arms around my body. “I don’t need it.”

I’m a Lost Girl. I go to work. I craft cocktails. I hang with my friends. I feel all the bone deep satisfaction of the life I wanted.

I force myself to feel it so completely, so deeply, and eventually, the insidious spark dims.

When I come to my senses, I’m taking deep steadying breaths and rocking myself back and forth. A shocked laugh escapes me as I realize I’ve done it. I’ve muscled the need down.

“I can do this,” I smile to myself.

In ten minutes, I’m dressed and ready to meet the girls for lunch before we go to work. With barely a goodbye to Talon, I’m out the door.

It’s not the hunger , I insist to myself.

It’s the attraction I have to Talon. Totally normal. Nothing to do with a feeding frenzy I need that leaves corpses in its wake.

But the spark persists. It grows. It throbs.

The next few days become a montage of increasingly desperate coping strategies.

Cold showers. Peppermint oil dabbed under my nose. Mental redirection. Think about cocktails, think about the mundane errands, think about how horrible it would be to accidentally kill someone .

Again.

Every morning starts the same. I wake up flushed, pulsing, too aware of the seam of my panties and the friction of the sheets. And every day, I shove it back.

The first thing I do is strip and blast myself with cold water until I’m shivering so hard, I can't think straight.

Then I suit up.

More eyeliner. Thick and jagged war paint.

More spikes. Necklaces, cuffs, rings with edges sharp enough to draw blood.

I raid Snow’s wardrobe for anything that screams look but don’t touch , because the truth is, I’m always looking. But I’m trying not to touch.

My hunger’s not a magnet. It’s a sniper scope. And every night, I’m aiming.

I clock the guy two booths down before he even opens his mouth. Tan, tatted, wearing a smug smirk like he’s a gift to the world. His body language is loud, manspreading. Everything about him is a billboard that says I know you want it .

I overhear him as I pick up empty glasses nearby.

“She was begging for it,” he brags to his friend. “I didn’t even text her after.”

My head tilts. My stomach tightens.

He’s not my type. But he’s a snack. A cocky, careless, disposable snack. And suddenly my mouth waters.

I don’t walk away. I run.

Hours later, I’m coming back from the storeroom when all of me homes in on a different target.

The tall, gangly guy has been posted up at the bar all night with two friends and a bottle of bad decisions. Halfway through his second round of shots, I catch his voice, loud and brittle.

“She’s not even worth it,” he slurs, tossing another drink. “I’m better off. Just need to get laid and move the fuck on.” He pauses and then turns and staggers into the crowd.

He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t believe his own words. The kind of guy who’s bleeding on the inside and hoping someone will lick it up.

And I’m ready to volunteer.

Unable to help myself, I follow after a few minutes.

I find him alone, returning from the bathroom. Slow. Swaggering. Vulnerable.

As we approach from opposite sides, we are suddenly on a collision course.

I tilt my chin and let him see me.

I flip the switch. Not passively. Not accidentally. I activate. My beauty goes sharp. Predatory. The energy around me tightens, until it’s a precise and honed blade. Then I aim it straight at him.

I swaymy hips just enough the leather of my skirt creaks. One hand lifts to tug the edge of my corset higher, fingers grazing the line of my cleavage.

Then I drop my eyes as if I’m letting him in on a secret.

I push my power toward him. My beauty. I wield it, cracking it right across his instincts.

His eyes go hazy, his jaw slack. He takes one step, then another. I’ve cast a reel, and he’s hooked behind the ribs. His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his breath heavy.

He’s so ripe with bitterness and need I can smell it—whiskey and want, sweat and grief, arousal tangled up in fury.

I back up until I’m against the wall, and he follows, crowding me, giving the illusion he is the pursuer.

I lean in close, just enough for his breath to catch. Just enough for my presence to wrap around his neck.

“Hi,” I whisper, letting the sound kiss the space between us.

He shudders.

He’s already mine.

My hand rises slowly. I trail two fingers down the center of his chest, over the tight pull of his shirt, the beat of his racing heart. Lower. Lower.

His cock stiffens instantly. Aggressively. I feel it straining at his zipper with a twitch that makes my thighs clench.

He groans, low and needy, his body strung so tight it might snap in half.

I flatten my palm just below his navel. My lips hover at the edge of his. And then I lean in—not all the way. Just enough for contact. Just enough for extraction.

I take a bite.

Not a full feed. Not even close.

A tiny, harmless nibble.

Just a flick of energy, a tap of power, a sip of the ache blooming behind his sternum.

And it’s delicious .

Soaked in grief and bravado, sexual frustration laced with fresh heartbreak, his energy floods my tongue, hot and biting, laced with the sweetness of regret.

I don’t even kiss him. My lips brush his skin at the hinge of his jaw as I pull. It’s so good, a shuddering noise slips free.

His breath hitches. His hands fist at his sides. His entire body jerks once, then twice.

And he comes.

Fully clothed. Right there.

A strangled cry rips free as he stumbles, hand flying to the wall to steady himself. His cock visibly pulses in his jeans, damp spreading beneath his zipper.

When he opens his eyes, he blinks at me, stunned and glassy.

I blink back.

And for a second, I almost do it again.

I almost sink my teeth into all that anger and heartbreak and suck it straight from his booze coated mouth until he’s truly empty and shaking and grateful and…dead.

He’d be dead.

I bolt. Heart hammering, breath ragged, I practically sprint through the throng of dancers, race around behind the bar, and plant my hands on the counter.

It’s safer here. With polished wood between me and everyone else.

I try to steady my breath. My thighs are slick. My mouth is dry. My hunger claws at the walls of my chest, howling for more.

I almost fed.

I did feed.

Just a taste. But I feel even more unsatisfied than before.

The hunger isn’t a whisper anymore. It’s a scream.

And I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend I’m not listening.

With a quick glance, I confirm Talon is still working the overcrowded door, trying to keep everyone in line. He doesn’t know I almost broke. I can still prove I can be more than my curse.

As I go back to work, the need is still all I can think of. Of what it would take to slake my thirst.

Fingertips brushing collarbones. A tongue dragging across my lower lips. A thigh slotting between mine in the back storeroom while my hands grip the shelves and …

I slam a glass down so hard it cracks.

Snow raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Ariel watches me a little too long.

Snow nudges me as she passes behind the bar. “You good?” she asks, her tone light, but her eyes narrowed. She taps her temple. “You’re buzzing like a goddamn wasps’ nest.”

Ariel rolls up next to us. “Whatever you’re holding in, it looks like it’s about to explode. Maybe you should talk about it?”

I want to lie.

I want to say I’m fine, but I can’t trust the sound of my own voice anymore. I shake my head and dive back into work.

Glass. Pour. Smile. Repeat.

After a while, everything starts to blur. Voices melt into sound. Faces smear. I can’t remember what drink I’m holding or which customer I’m bringing it to. My skin feels tight, my insides hollow.

I’m too aware of the way my corset presses my breasts. Of the sweat trailing down my spine.

Someone brushes my arm. My thighs clench so hard it hurts. I need…I need…fresh air.

The back door swings shut behind me, and I’m in the alley before fully realizing I’ve moved.

The jacked-up, tan fuckboy who doesn’t text women back is out here, pulling on a cigarette with his tall, redheaded friend.

He startles when he sees me. I step closer. He doesn’t move.

"Touch me," I say. Calm. Measured. Like I’m asking for the time.

Tan Fuckboy blinks. "What?"

"Touch me," I repeat, stepping into their space. My voice stays even, steady. A command disguised as a suggestion.

“Okay, whore,” he chuckles derisively, and his buddy follows suit while continuing to suck smoke.

“Oh, I’m not the whore,” I say, a sly predatory smile sliding up my face. “You are.”

Their eyes go wide, they’re dazed, unsure, but already in my hooks. Magic licks along their skin. My hunger prowls forward, impatient. Cigarettes fall from their fingers, forgotten before they hit the pavement.