Page 16 of Silken Chains
Laura
I’M REELING, backpedaling on heels that seem to have a vendetta against my balance. The corridor offers a getaway, its EXIT sign winking at me like an accomplice in a heist.
Great, just great.
Standing as tall as my wobbling stance allows, I pull in my stomach, cursing the too-tight dress that’s now an enemy of my breathing.
Maybe Mr. Tall, Dark, Stormy-eyes, and Rude had a point.
Bad choice, Laura.
But then again, when have I ever made the right ones?
I risk a glance back at him; there’s no mistaking it. Mr. Stormy Eyes is still devouring me with that gaze like I’m his last supper or something.
Wrong move, Laura.
His eyes spark with a kind of wild thrill that nearly has me doing the unthinkable—turning my G-string into a water park.
I would like to breathe in his gorgeous roguish five o’clock shadow and dazzlingly white teeth a bit more, but I’d just end up boosting his already big head.
“Stay with me, Kiska.” he commands.
Oh. God.
I clench my pussy tight.
Come on, feet, don’t fail me. March on, and don’t you dare stop.
But I do not march on.
The raw power behind those three words leaves me momentarily dazed. Has anyone ever commanded my attention—my body—with such implicit force?
“Wh-why?” I barely recognize the whisper as my own, my nipples tightening painfully against my dress.
Damnit, Laura, tear your eyes off him.
But his gaze intensifies, his gray eyes turning dark, narrowing just slightly, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. A rush of warmth floods my cheeks.
His eyes lock on mine, nailing me to the spot.
“Let’s just say you owe me…” He stops. “Stay for a drink with me. Or are you hurrying back to your… husband?”
“I… I don’t have a husband. I mean, I had a husband, but… but now he is gone,” I blurt out.
Great, Laura, just air your dirty laundry to Mr. High-and-Mighty with a stormy gaze.
Technically, I’ve got a husband, but he took off—ran off with Polly and my cash. So, yeah, married, but… not really.
Before I can answer myself, Mr. Stormy Eyes sidles up close, and his cologne just about knocks me sideways.
His stare is locked in, like he’s trying to crack a safe that is my brain.
With a casual flick of his fingers, he summons over a waitress who scrambles to hand him a glass filled with something that looks suspiciously like it could strip paint.
He offers it to me. “Drink.”
I balk. “No. I don’t even know your name,” I say, trying to sound uninterested, though curiosity is nibbling at me.
