The moment Naomi's eyes met his, she was toast. Burnt toast. The kind that sets off the smoke alarm and has the neighbors wondering what fresh hell you've gotten yourself into this time.
He was a kingpin, a power player in a world hidden beneath the...
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"More," I demand, my voice a ragged gasp. And he gives it to me, his mouth moving from my lip to my jaw, biting, sucking, marking. His hands are rough, possessive, gripping my flesh like it's his to claim, his to own. And right now, it is. I am. And I fucking love it.
His grin is like a neon sign advertising a shady roadside bar, flashing a warning that only promises trouble—the kind of trouble that talks like it's been watching too many late-night reruns of Netflix's darkest offerings. It's a sin all on its own, a temptation that whispers delicious promises in the language of the fallen—who, let's be real, probably had a killer sense of humor too.
And me? I'm not just your average garden-variety Eve. I'm the heroine of every coming-of-age movie that made you want to scream, 'Just kiss already!'
I've spent my life playing it safe, following the rules, but tonight, something inside me has shifted. I'm ready to take a bite of that apple and fall headlong into the wicked, wonderful abyss of his creation.
And you know what? Fuck it, I've always had a soft spot for a good serpent. Not to mention, if the serpent looks like him, who am I to say no?
"Mmm, where?" he drawls, like he's asking where I want my Amazon package delivered—as if this isn't the most loaded question he's asked all night as if my answer won't set off a chain reaction of seismic proportions.
His thumb traces the curve of my bottom lip like a piece of ripe fruit, ready to be devoured. My breath hitches, a sharp intake of air that mingles with the scent of distant car exhaust and the faint aroma of his cologne, which is probably called 'Trouble After Dark,' a fragrance that promises late-night sexts, sweat-soaked sheets, and decisions that'll leave you aching in the best possible way.
But then, that's the thing about trouble—it's never been quite this tempting before.
"Here, perhaps?" he suggests, his thumb pressing roughly against the corner of my mouth, like he's testing the waters. His eyes lock onto mine, gauging my reaction, daring me to say no.
I part my lips with a soft gasp, and he takes the invitation, his thumb slipping inside, slick with my saliva now, gliding in and out in a filthy mimicry of what I really want, of what my body is screaming for. The rough pad of his thumb is calloused from years of who knows what—playing the guitar, maybe? Gripping a motorcycle, perhaps? Or maybe just opening too many beer bottles, who knows?—but right now, all I can think about is how fucking good it feels as I suck on it, swirling my tongue around the tip like it's the most delicious lollipop I've ever tasted.
