Page 3 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

“Have a seat,” I say, slipping my hand from his and looking back over my shoulder. “Should I call for some drinks?”

He sinks into the leather bench, and I’m surprised when he shakes his head. “Maybe later. Got a pretty good buzz going on and don’t want to fuck with that.”

Right, because he plans to keep me for a while. I could think of worse ways to spend an evening. Besides, when guys get too drunk, they can be hard to manage.

He relaxes onto the couch and gestures me forward with his fingers. I step toward him slowly, my knees pressing into the leather as I straddle him. He groans as I sink my hips onto him, and he reaches forward to grab my thigh but stops.

“What are the rules in here?” he asks. “Can I touch you?”

I smile. Yeah, he won’t be any problem. “Such a gentleman to ask.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing gentlemanly about the intention.”

He grins, and I smile. Okay, so he’s funny. Funnyandgood-looking. Damn.

“Yes, you can touch me. Everything but between my legs.”

“What happens if I do? You got a bear trap hidden in there?”

I narrow my eyes. “They’d kick you out.”

He snaps his fingers. “Damn. Okay. But just so you know,” he says, looking me up and down, “I’d happily lose a finger for you.”

A laugh bursts out of me, and he grins. “Just one?” I pout.

“I need the others for my extracurricular activities.” As if to prove his point, he grabs my thighs, each finger pressing deliciously firm into my skin. Usually, these guys just grab enough skin to fill their fists while I dry hump them to a three-song time limit. But there’s something about this guy. And while he doesn’t seem to take life too seriously, there’s something reverent about the way he looks at me. I grind my hips and feel his fingers tighten sharply. I gasp. He’s stronger than he looks.

“Sorry,” he mutters, relaxing his hands.

“It’s fine,” I say, and start to make deliberately slow circles, dragging my center against his thighs. “What’s your name, sugar?”

He swallows. “Joel.”

“Hmm, I love that name.”

“You say that to everyone, don’t you?” He cocks a brow.

Busted.“Of course, but I don’t always mean it. I do today.” That part is true.

“Why’d you blow off Von Douche for me?” he asks, catching me off guard.

I shrug. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”

“Fuck no!” he insists. “I guess I’m just surprised. Most girls would look between the two of us and go for the clean-cut guy in a sharp suit over ripped jeans and leather cuffs.”

I press my breasts against his chest and lean in toward his ear. “I like my men in leather.”

He laughs. “I’m sure you do.” He leans his head back on a sigh, and I can feel the hard length of him between my legs.

“Cherry . . . that your real name?”

I drag my fingers along the hard ridges of his chest and smirk. “Do you want it to be?”

“I’d rather know your real name.”

My hips grind against him a little harder, and he groans. “Sorry, darlin’. No one here knows my real name.”

“Occupational hazard?”

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