Page 9 of Cry, Little Dove

He points at my hand, his smile turning into an impish smirk. “If I’d like to share those potato chips with you?”

For the first time since I lost everything, I burst out laughing. “Yes,that.” I hold up the bag. “Chips.”

He clicks his tongue, faking concern. “Are you sure that’s enough for both of us?”

I gather my courage and step closer, drawing a finger along his chest. “We can make it work.”

His hand shoots out. I gasp as he clasps the nape of my neck and yanks me against him. My heart jumps into my throat. A shadow crosses his face and his expression shifts, turning hungry. Ravenous.

“Alright then, darlin’.” He lets out a low, foreboding chuckle. “You go on ahead. I gotta grab something from my truck, and then I’ll be right there with you. Hope you’re ready for the best sex of your whole fuckin’ life. But consider this a warning…” He leans down. His nose brushes mine and my stomach flips. “I’ll ruin you tonight.”

The silence inside the dim room suffocates me, making me second-guess myself. And him.

What if the truck thing was an excuse because he’s too polite to decline outright? What if he’s not coming back?

I throw my handbag and the chips on the TV stand and turn on the light on the nightstand. Next stop is the bathroom mirror to check my makeup and hair, ensuring none of my red lipstick has gotten on my teeth. Anxiously, I tug my dress down my thighs like I’m not hoping he’ll tear it off me the moment he walks in.

Ifhe ever walks in.

I return to the main room and shame hits my face like I stepped in front of a furnace. There are bottles on the bed and the nightstand. Candy wrappers on the floor like confetti. Empty ramen cups stacked on every surface.

I grab the bin by the door and sweep the trash into it, but I don’t feel any calmer when I’m done and take my phone from my bag. My fingers tremble as I try to choose some music.

A panicked thought about STDs flickers through my mind, but I disregard it.

It doesn’t matter. Not during my last night.

I knowIam clean. After my ex-boyfriend Nate disappeared with my savings I immediately got tested. I thought if he was dishonest enough to steal from me, he might have been cheating, too, and the contraceptive implant on the inside of my upper left arm wouldn’t protect me from that.

Time ticks by. With each second, my heart thumps faster.

How embarrassing would it be if he bailed?

As I scroll through my playlists for something to set the mood, I wonder what music my handsome stranger would like. Pah, he probably doesn’t care. We’re hooking up for casual sex, not getting to know each other.

I remember our conversation and pause. Whydidhe tell me about his mother? He could have brushed me off, but I found it adorable to hear him overshare. It created an illusion of familiarity that eased my nerves, and before that bout of word vomit, he was almost too intimidating.

He was still scary when he towered over me, but scary in a good way. In a toe-curling, damp panties kind of way.

I tap on my favorite Marilyn Manson album, set it on shuffle, andI Want To Kill You Like They Do In The Moviesstarts playing. On cue with the first line of the lyrics, the door opens. I spin around, and my breath hitches. The stranger’s body nearly fills out the whole frame and he has to duck his head as he steps inside the room.

A wave of wanting rushes through me.If every part of him is this big…

He locks up behind him and tips his hat, greeting me with a half-drunk bottle of cheap whisky. The predatory sting of his gaze contradicts the warmth of his smile as he strides toward me.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” he asks, his voice slick and dark as oil.

“No names,” I whisper.

His chin dips in agreement and he stops in front of me, so close I can feel the heat radiating from him. With a slow twist, he unscrews the bottle and tosses the cap onto the floor. “Open your mouth for me, little dove.”

Lightning shoots between my legs. God, his commanding tone is fucking hot. After the sweet talking and the jokes earlier, I didn’t think he had it in him, but those last words he said to me by the vending machine should’ve been a hint.

Then again, many guys talk big but can’t deliver when it counts. Does that mean he’ll fulfill his promise to ruin me?

And what about that pet name… little dove?

A strange choice for a woman he doesn’t know, but I guess he has to call me something else if I don’t want to tell him my real name. It’s more intimate than baby or honey or another generic word.

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