Page 5 of The Gift
Guilt adds to the heavy weight already hanging around my shoulders.
“You’re wet,” he murmurs into my ear. He’s closer than he should be, and I try not to flinch, but the low growl of displeasure that rumbles intimately between us means I’m not doing a good enough job in any of this.
Clearing my throat and focusing on getting my breathing straightened out, I concentrate on the clinical feel of his finger as it dips in and out of my body. Each time he coats my walls with his seed. Cold, wet, from a jar he collected earlier. But I can’t do sex with him anymore, he’d read every noise and reaction wrong. I can barely let him touch me.
A stillness, a quiet descends, as my body sucks greedily upon his finger. Another tear of regret smashes to the floor. I focus on that, the aftermath, mentally skipping to the end already. Checking out to survive.
He groans behind me, dropping the jar so it smashes on the floor right alongside my tears. The small shards of glass nick against my skin, and his hands on my waist are not soft. The room descends into a stilted and awful silence, like we’re balancing on a ledge.
“Bailey,” he grits out. His anger is as palatable as my tainted scent. The room fills; my mouth dries. He’s losing control, his voice deepening as his scent changes, as his alpha-genetics come alive and take hold. “You should leave.”
I nod my head viciously, not even checking over my shoulder to make sure he’s okay. What kind of person am I? Driving him to the edge, only to run every time I take him there.
Letting the door slam behind me, the wind pushes me faster down the dark alley urging me to leg it at full speed. The rain mixes with my tears and my hand shakes as I try the fob to unlock my car. The streets are deserted, but I feel the sting of attention. I know it’s my own instincts screaming at me to return, to let go. To accept.
My tires squeal on the wet road as I accelerate away, needing to put distance between me and my urges, and a very willing and able alpha. I’m barely at the corner, but movement behind me has me accelerating harder.
Tonight was worse than usual. He made it out to the road, made me see him and his need. He broke the rules; he’s ruined our arrangement. I hope I can trust him like he assures me I can.
Opening the windows, the fresh cold air blasts through my car as I speed back into town. The inside of my car is freezing, the cold moving past my skin and settling inside my bones, but it’s necessary and clarifying. And I let the icy wind distract me instead of getting caught up in my head as I drive too fast on the highway. By the time I’ve parked behind the bar where we’re meeting to celebrate, my teeth are chattering and my phone is full of missed calls.
This should be getting easier.
Closing my eyes, I normalise and centre myself by brushing my long mahogany hair, twisting the end, and pulling it over one shoulder, moving the fringe a little so I can hide. I’m feeling like I’ve already slid off the edge, but I’m bursting in frantic energy too. Swiping the red over my lips quickly but expertly, I rub my lips together, triple checking I haven’t left lipstick on my perfect white teeth before I dab a scent blocker behind my ear. I finish my preparations, spraying my favourite perfume until it is the only thing the whole street would be able to smell.
Pushing through the loitering crowd and finding the front door, it’s hard not to pull away from the noise, the light, the crush of everyone that all but assaults me. For, what feels like the tenth time tonight, I think of not even walking in the door, but if I don’t show, it will raise more questions. And I can’t afford one slip up. Rolling my shoulders, I smile and wave, flicking my arms up when the champagne corks sound off to herald my arrival.
One bottle quickly turns into more. I don’t bother trying to keep count, but the buzz in my head is a perfect indicator that I’ve reached my limit. I’m definitely not messy like the rest of my crew, who are busy clambering up the stage, ready to ruin the eardrums of the other patrons here. The security guards help them while the other staff start changing the area from bar to club, packing up tables and chairs.
Despite my team’s loud and messy eagerness for me to join them, they know there is no chance I’m getting on that stage. It would be my luck that someone would post it online. My terrible voice would not gel with my glittering public persona. And without a doubt, I’d be asked for a “please explain” from my boss, Donnie, or one of the D-imbos before the first rays of the new day, sparkled teasingly along the horizon.
Hopping up on one of the empty bar stools, I drape my jacket over my bare legs, cursing my decision to wear my skirt today. I know why I did, but I’m still allowed to be pissed off after the fact.
The first song they do is atrocious, but bad karaoke is their tradition. Any place serving alcohol will do. The second song brings the crowd and staff singing along with them in an all-time rock classic. The third brings someone to stand behind me.
A man’s hand passes from behind me, depositing a bottle of water on the table along with a cocktail. Even in the dimming lights, it’s not hard to see the anatomical differences between his hand and mine. Still, I look down at mine briefly to check.
“Thank you, but I don’t accept drinks from strangers,” I offer politely, turning over my shoulder, getting ready to slide my butt off the chair to put space between us.
Instead of one person though, it’s two. And bar manager Bria would never do the dirty on any of us.
“Unsurprisingly, that’s exactly what I said, and it’s also why I offered to bring it over. He definitely paid.” She scowls, though it’s not in anger at him—her forehead is dewy and she’s got bags under her eyes.
“What is it?” I ask, taking him in. Every fine inch of him in.
My eyes flick to Bria and she smirks, repeating herself by the looks, “A French Tart, so fitting, but you’re born here, so I guess not entirely true,” she replies smartly over her shoulder, leaving behind a wave, and my weakness.
It’s not him. He definitely could be. I lie, it is him.
Taller than me, dark hair, almost deep black, that is styled perfectly. Slicked back, with short, shaved sides. He’s almost as tanned as I am, although it could be because of his dark black shirt making his skin glow more golden under the flickering light. Strangely, or wisely, he’s focusing on the antics on stage, giving me the chance to watch him as he sips on his cocktail. I think bad things about the way he swallows until I catch myself.
He’s the whole package. Tailored dress pants that hug his thick thighs, rolled up at the bottom. Damn, his ankles are tanned too, although he loses points because of not wearing socks. It’s his only fault, besides a tiny scar on the edge of his jaw. But that’s not a bad thing, it adds to the ruggedness of his looks. When he drags his eyes off the stage, bringing them to mine, I swallow, snatching my water off the table, sucking half of it down to douse the sudden, unexpected warmth creeping up my throat.
“Thanks,” I croak belatedly, and then he steps past the edge of my vision, leaning back on the table, taking up centre stage better than the centre stage does.
My mouth waters and the cocky schmuck hands me my cocktail with no words, but a wicked smirk. Mr Tall, Dark and Fucking Lethal isn’t much of a talker, but Lord he’s speaking my language.
“Do I know you?” I ask, breaking the silence that doesn’t feel awkward or strained. I suppose it gives me the chance to try to figure myself out some more. I don’t need to work him out. He’s sin on a black silky stick, ready to be licked too.
