Page 8 of Wicked Vile King
What the hell?
"Suicide attempt?" he suggests.
What is going on?!
"No," I lie, tripping as though his words landed right in front of my feet.
I swear I hear himtsk.
"Why are you here then, Willow Cadelle of Charleston, South Carolina?" he demands, louder this time.
Why do you care?
"It was just a . . . a miscommunication," I say.
"Liar." The word slithers past his lips and bites when it hits.
I stop walking.
"What is your prob—" I start before I am snatched, his large hand capturing my forearm before he abruptly yanks me into a room. He closes the door behind us with one hand.
It's dark in here, and that eerie feeling I'm learning to associate with this dream slinks up my spine. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, and when I blink away the shroud of darkness, I find that this guy—thisman—isin my space, crowding me, breathing on me.
All I smell is him—dying smoke and patchouli. All I feel is him, the warmth radiating off of his body and the teasing shave of his dress shirt against my sleeve.
"What are you doing?" I ask, slowly, carefully.
Inside my brain, I scream, trying to wake up.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he leans in, devouring the space between us, and inhales deeply as if he's savoring a scent. I freeze, my fingernails punching into my palms, as his nose kisses the side of my cheek.
"Mine," he murmurs a heartbeat later, his breath hot fire against my ear.
My heart hammers so loud I wonder if he can hear it battering against my sternum before he shifts, moving his hands to my waist and moving me with him. The door to the room presses at my back, and the cool wood chills my shoulder blades.
Wake up, Willow!
The guy—the dream—leans forward and presses a hand flat against the door on either side of my shoulders. He's not even touching me, not anymore, but it's intimate—too intimate for strangers. And when I look at him, I don't find blue butterflies in his irises anymore, only arctic ice.
"Fuck," he hisses between his teeth, the word guttural and low, far deeper than his previous words. All traces of sweet tea and spring showers evaporate.
What happened to his accent?
He breathes, slow and deep, before he moans. The sound chars me, raking over my skin and corkscrewing heat low in my belly, burning my breath away.
Wake up!
"I am going to enjoy breaking you," he says.
My brain stutters, trying to catch up.
Where's the southern gentleman?
And why is hestillpressing against me as he sniffs my hair?
WAKE THE FUCK UP, WILLOW!
A second later, he pulls away, just enough to peer down at me, and catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. His grip is ironclad as he forces me to meet his gaze.
