Page 14 of Silken Chains
“Hey!” I snap, my voice sharp, twisting away from him. I slap his hand, but he grabs onto me even harder. I push his hands off as hard as I can. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Aw, jus’ havin’ some fun, doll,” he slurs through his clumsy lips, that greasy smirk unfaltering.
“Yeah, by grabbing me?” I snap back in anger.
He shrugs nonchalantly, the alcohol making his movements exaggerated. “Was just tryin’ to appreciate ya,” he mumbles, his words nearly blending together. “Don’t see why you gotta be so uptight ‘bout it.”
“Get your fucking hands off me!” I struggle.
He gets closer, his foul breath mixing with the ambient scent of spilled drinks and sweaty bodies. “Don’t act so stuck-up, doll. I saw you alone, figured you’d be grateful for the attention.”
I can feel my heart kicking against my ribs.
Seriously, anybody… please
As if on cue, the music cuts, and the club plunges into an unexpected quiet.
I tug fiercely, trying to escape the constricting grip on my arm. Then, a voice cold with promise pierces the stillness, “Get your fucking hands off my woman.”
I’m looking all over the dim club, trying to figure out who’s talking. There’s this exciting but kinda risky vibe in the air. Then, like the sun finally breaking through the clouds, he comes out from some shadowy spot. Like a dark knight.
Could’ve sworn he just walked out of those spicy romance books I can’t put down. He’s the living, breathing version of the dark ink and grumpy mystery guys who fill those pages.
My mouth’s bone-dry, and my armpits are working overtime. My body’s shouting a full-blown, caps-locked WOW.
My eyes involuntarily rake over him, lingering on places I’ve no business staring at. It’s like my pupils have turned into little heat-seeking missiles, targeting all the hot spots. My cheeks flare up, the heat undeniable.
I’ve never ogled someone this shamelessly. The thought hits me—maybe clothes are just doing him a disservice. I blink, surprised at my dirty thoughts.
Where did that come from?
His eyes, so intense and penetrating, seem to recognize something in me, or maybe it’s the other way around.
A memory niggles at the back of my mind. Wait, have I seen him before? Those eyes, that stance, the way he’s looking at me now… It’s like déjà vu, a scene from a past I can’t quite recall.
Gosh, that whiskey’s kicking in strong now.
Mr. Grabby Hands, still audaciously maintaining his grip on my ass, seems to shrink with every advancing step of my defender. He manages to squeak out a feeble, “F-fuck off!”
With a voice that sounds like it’s used to giving orders and having them followed, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Lethal warns, “Back off before I make sure those dirty hands can’t touch another damn thing. Especially not my woman.”
Hold up. His what now?
I must’ve been dreaming.
Or drunk.
Or both.
With a swiftness that surprises me, he snatches me away from Mr. Grabby Hands and pulls me right into his personal bubble of designer cologne and testosterone. Our faces are so close that I can almost see my shocked reflection in his eyes.
What is going on here?
Holy hell, is it even legal to be this tall? That scent of his—it’s downright sinful.
His grip on my waist tightens, pure strength radiating from his hand. It’s like getting hit with a jolt—like someone’s plugged me straight into an electric socket, and all the charge is heading straight to my core. Who knew a mere touch could make a girl feel this… orgasmic?
I mean, seriously?
