“Just go, Easton. I’m sure you have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon.”
“You’re right. I do. But my plans only start at the stroke of midnight.”
My cheeks blush at his insinuation.
“If you think you’ll have an encore of what happened last night, then you’re wrong.”
He picks up a loose strand of my hair, a lump in my throat forming with such a delicate touch.
“When I want you to lie to me, I’ll ask for it.”
“It’s not a lie.”
The deviant, slanted grin that always does something to me is back on his lips, turning my insides to mush.
“Tell me something. What would your uncle say if he learned about what you get up to at night?”
“He wouldn’t believe you,” I quip assertively, slapping his hand away.
“I can be quite convincing. You, for one, should know how convincing I can be.”
I turn my back to him, unwilling to continue this conversation for a minute longer, when he pulls on my elbow, forcefully pinning my back to his chest. I close my eyes as he breathes against my neck.
“What happened between us was only the start. You can’t dangle such a meal in a starving man’s face all these years and not expect him to take a bite sooner or later.”
His nose travels up to the small part of skin behind my ear, making my whole body shiver in anticipation.
“Aren’t you hungry, Scar? Haven’t we deprived ourselves long enough?”
“Easton, don’t.”
“Don’t what? You’re going to have to be more specific.”
I wish I could muddle a sentence together. One that would put the fear of God into him since this holy ground doesn’t seem to do the trick. After a long, tense pause, he lets out an exhale and takes his hands off me. Slowly I turn around. We’re so close that my breath mingles with his.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t need your gratitude.”
“What do you need?”
“To rectify something I should have done ages ago.”
And before I’m able to stop him, he pulls at my sweater, capturing my mouth in his. The shock of the tenderness in his kiss quickly dissipates as my heartbeat begins to swell inside my chest. I’m caught up in its sweetness, too much to pull away. He doesn’t try to break the seal of my mouth, but instead, he pulls at my lower lip with his teeth, making my thighs throb. I’m so enthralled with his mouth on mine that I only hear the distant high heels clicking on the floor when he pulls away from me.
“I didn’t get to do that last time, and it’s been killing me.”
I want to cry and laugh at that statement all at once, but instead, I backpedal away from him until I’ve gathered enough distance to feel safe again.
But who am I kidding?
No amount of space will ever protect me from the way Easton Price made me feel with just one kiss. He continues to hammer the metaphorical nail in my coffin, trying to kill my resolve to keep whatever pulls us to each other in its rightful cage.
He’s upping the ante at every turn, so it’s up to me to be his match.
I just pray I’m strong enough to resist him because, right now, I don’t feel like I am.
Or maybe I never was.
Chapter 14
Easton
I sit at the table, captivated by Scarlett’s voice as she continues to sing on stage. Each seductive melody that falls from her lips has me reminiscing how her body melted into mine this afternoon when I kissed her. I tried to keep our kiss as chaste as possible, but even that was too much.
Deep down, I know it should have never happened. Letting my desires get the best of me is reckless, especially considering my mind should be focused solely on The Society’s task—whatever the fuck that is. But just as I did the last time I visited this club, I got carried away in the moment. It was foolish and impulsive, yet here I am, counting the minutes until she finishes her set just so I can devour her again.
Impatiently I stay rooted to my spot, letting her whimsical words burn into the organ inside my rib cage. Her sultry voice does something to me. It always has. When I was a kid, forced to attend church with my mother, the only silver lining to the boring outing was that I’d be able to hear Scar sing. Even on hallowed ground, her voice sprung illicit daydreams in my mind. Now that she’s fully grown and singing words that mean something to her, I’m once again infatuated by every syllable that passes her lips. My hand trembles with the urgent need to draw her just like this. In her element, Scarlett is filled with blinding color. Rich light beams from within her as she pours out her soul, one note at a time.
I don’t miss how tonight’s performance is a solo act, forgoing the dancing entourage that usually backs her up in every show. But even without the dancers’ groping hands, a certain type of ugly jealousy begins to take over, tainting the beauty of the moment. A quick look around reveals men twice my age are just as mesmerized by her performance. They think she’s singing for them. That her melodic words are meant only for their ears. And maybe these fuckers are right. Or perhaps she’s just doing her job, and the songs are just that—songs. They are meant for no one in particular except to be enjoyed as mere entertainment.
I pull out a cigarette and light up, hoping the smoke will dampen my resentment of watching Scarlett give a bit of herself to men so fucking undeserving of it. Which is damn difficult since she looks every bit the heavenly goddess that she is. In a sparkling white ensemble, she truly looks like an angel sent from above, enticing every fiend here with her words.
I take a healthy swallow of my gin and tonic as more questions than answers assault me all in one go.
Why are you here in the first place, Scar?
How the fuck did you become The Brass Guild’s star performer when, just weeks ago, I had never even heard of the club’s existence?
This place doesn’t suit the shy demeanor you insist on putting up as your makeshift shield.
Here you’re desirable, making all these assholes lust over you, imagining you using your mouth in more ways than just to sing them a pretty song.
So, what the fuck, Scar?
How can you give them something so fucking sacred as pieces of your soul?
When Scarlett finally finishes her song, I’m of two minds. I either leave and wallow away in my own jealous misery or wait out her set just to ambush her back in her dressing room. When a new melody begins to play—one that talks about how all good girls go to hell—she makes the decision for me. Last night Scarlett made sure one of her songs had me as her muse, and this performance is no different. Her gaze is filled with insolent mirth as she stares into me, letting the melody of her lonely Lucifer take over. Her body sways to the music as she continues to seduce me with just her voice.
My little mouse wants to play.
I let myself be bathed by her words, letting each melody wash over me. I know that I’m falling deeper under her spell, which leaves me in a trance of her own making. When the show comes to an end, I’m hard and impatient to abuse her body just as thoroughly as she’s been able to punish my soul without so much as laying a finger on it.