There are other ways of convincing the parties in play to sell me that land. I’ll sic my PI on them, come up with some dirt—real or perceived—plant evidence, do whatever is needed to push the issue.
Fighting dirty is the only way to fight in my opinion.
Riotous laughter sounds from the table at the end of the bar. A woman stumbles on her mile-high heels as she makes a graceless run for the restroom. A man in a crumpled suit dances alone and off-beat in the center of the dance floor.
I can’t fathom why people think a night of drinking and hooking up is a way to unwind. Waking up to pounding temples, with regret sleeping naked next to you, could hardly make for a relaxing morning.
I glare at my watch and then toward the entrance of the bar. I'm done. I can’t last the final three minutes of my five-minute commitment.
I turn to leave, but I freeze.
There’s a girl.
A girl in a lavender dress.
I note the blushed cheeks, uneasy eyes, arms wrapped around her waist.
She’s uneasy. Uncomfortable.
I hate that and love it at the same time.
Her dress is girly, not overly sexy, but damn if I’ve ever seen anything sexier. She’s got this young Judy Garland circa Wizard of Oz vibe going on and it stands out in the sea of heroin-chic females surrounding her.
She’s hips and ass and tits, with cherry-pink lips pinched together like she has so much to say and no one to listen.
I’ll listen.
The words reverberate in my head, louder than the deafening pulse of the music.
My visceral reaction upends me. She’s every bit the girl I’ve imagined in my dreams for decades. Eventually I resolved that she didn’t exist except in my fantasies. But what fantasies they were.
What fantasies they are.
She’s walking a straight line on five-inch black patent-leather schoolgirl sort of heels, which screams sober. Waves of her soft, dark-chocolate hair swirl across her cheek as she looks down.
She lifts her hand and hooks a lock of hair behind her ear, showing a delicate golden heart earring and I hate that something has pierced her flesh. I hate that it probably hurt her and I wasn’t there to hold her hand and make sure whoever was doing the job did it right.
What I hate more is the thought that someone else may have bought her those golden hearts. If that someone has a dick, unless it’s a father or brother, I want to hurt them.
I suck in a deep breath watching as her hair falls back to shield her face from me.
The music disappears. No other man, woman or business deal exists for me anymore. The girl in the lavender dress is the center of my universe.
My throat is dry, my heart thrashing in buzzing excitement against my ribcage. If she’s the last thing I ever see, I’ll die a happy man.
She reaches the bar standing just an arm’s length away. Her scent of peaches and purity fills my lungs, and I war against the urge to step closer and push my face into the back of her neck, inhaling her.
My eyes rove over the flawless skin of her arms, the snug bodice of the dress clinging to her curves. The deep V of the fabric in front, showing off the swell of the world’s most perfect tits, and as much joy as that brings me, a fury of hot anger spins inside me too.
Her flesh is exposed for anyone to see. And they have no right. No fucking right. I don’t want any other eyes on her but mine.
I want to put my jacket over her shoulders and shield her from the world. I watch, mesmerized, as she pushes her hair back again and she laughs at something the bartender says.
I see the full lips, the shy curve of her mouth. She traps her bottom lip between her teeth, and my cock twitches. My molars grind together, and I return to reality with a thud.
The sounds, the vibrations, the surroundings, all rush back to me.
“I’ll have a club soda, no ice, with a slice of lemon, please.” I listen as she places her order and the song of her voice grabs me by the balls and squeezes.
My brows furrow and I glance at my own drink. A short laugh rumbles in my chest, which makes the goddess glance my way.
I stare into her gorgeous face, under the wispy bangs. The high cheekbones are a sculptor’s dream; as are her wide, green, feline eyes.
I swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat.
She’s easily a foot shorter than me. She is innocence and fragility in a tantalizing package.
I want to whisk her off to my secret world. The world I know could ruin me if anyone found out.
My eyes dart toward the bartender who is admiring her chest.
“What are you looking at?” I bark and his smile evaporates, his eyes shift and he turns away.
Good survival instinct, my man.
“Do I know you?” she questions. Her voice is a soft jingle that reminds me of a wind chime.
The sound of it dissipates my fury. I slide my gaze back to her face.
Those green eyes will worship me, as she falls to her knees and feeds…
My balls lift and ache. The vision of her lips wrapped around my cock is making it hard to breathe. I imagine how I’d hold onto any control when I have her kneeling, her full, pink lips stretched around me.
I lift my glass in a toast to her. “I don’t think so. But, it seems like we have something in common.” I tip my head toward my drink. For a moment, she looks confused. Then she spots the club soda, no ice, with a lemon slice in my hand, and her soft giggle rippling the current between us.
Looking into her eyes, my life has renewed purpose. I know what I’m doing tomorrow, the day after, the day after…
She is my life now. She is my purpose.
Shielding this
