Page 14 of Virgo Queen
And me?
I’m definitely no stake-wielding Buffy. I’m as wide-eyed and hapless as Sookie inTrue Blood.
Draco’s ice-blue eyes sweep down my body, spread before him on the table among the colorful scatter of my birthday gifts like a midnight buffet. His lids drop and his gaze hoods.
“Fokk.”He nudges his big frame between my skinny knees and circles my ankles in his hard hands like manacles. “These shoes are a menace.”
“Ah, leave them on her,amou,” Jae purrs like a swamp panther. He crawls onto the table behind me, braids slithering loose around his bare shoulders. “With legs like that, she’s a vision,oui?”
When we were growing up, Cousin Cletus used to call me a giraffe. (Until my overprotective big brother made him stop.) My height has always made me stick out, which isn’t a good thing when you’re an endangered species whose literal survival depends on hiding.
Suffice it to say, I’m not used to anyone calling mea vision.
I release Draco’s shoulders to give my skirt a covert tug, just to make sure my prim Academy panties stay discreetly covered. Draco lets loose a snarl that sounds like a protest. But it’s hard to hear (even with my enhanced senses) over the low throbbing beat that’s pulsing from the battery-powered ’80s-era boombox grinding out something sexy and vulgar from Nine Inch Nails in the corner.
A hasty glance around the basement tells me I don’t need to worry about drawing attention I don’t want.
Because literally no one is watching.
Zara and Ronin are half-naked and sex-drunk from screwing, and that Russian dragon Maxim is dragging them both into the privacy of the psychedelic den with the lava lamps where my dorm mates like to sneak off to smoke weed and make out. (I never do, partly because I’ve never had anyone to make out with.Plus any kind of drug use is against the Academy Codex and a conduct infraction.)
As First Girl on the Dean’s List, I’ve always been a model of deportment.
Until tonight.
Zara’s roomies, Dez and Racetrack, are wrapped in each other’s arms, making out like crazy up against the bar. Normally the sapphic spice between those two girls (plus my own situation) would be garnering some attention.
But not tonight.
Right now, my House Hadrian dorm mates are all hooking up in various pairings on the scruffy couches and bean bags scattered around the fringes of the dance floor. I catch flashes of discarded clothes, some random boobs and butts, someone’s hot pink lace lingerie draped over a low-hanging rafter. The pockets of darkness in this shadowy dungeon offer the illusion of privacy. But the flaming oil drums and clusters of candles shed a ruddy light over the whole scene like the fires of Hell.
And—holy cow—most of that Tiberius crowd are having a literal orgy on the dance floor. Those witches and warlocks from our rival house are a writhing tangle of limbs and torsos, sweaty skin and sexed-up faces and thrusting hips.
Oh my gosh. My eyes must be sticking out of my head on stalks trying to drink in all that action.
Crap.
It must be Zara, our sexed-up queen, who’s setting the vibe in here. I wonder if maybe she’s going into heat. A witching queen’s superheats, especially if she’s a shifter and powerful like Zara, can be enough to trigger her whole court.
I wonder if maybe we’re all on the edge of a mating rut.
Anyway, it’s safe to conclude no one notices me spread out over this table—Mallory McSnicker, the birthday girl, the lastremaining virgin in the Icarus Academy—having her first-ever three-way.
Not to mention her first-ever hookup.
Ofanykind.
When Jae’s clawed hands slide up my back, the last awkward flicker of my self-consciousness dissolves. My clenched shoulders loosen and my chest lifts as I breathe in deep. His primal scent of patchouli and bayou fills my head. His talons trace the span of tattooed wings across my shoulders, then sweep my long hair to one side. Goosebumps cascade down my arms and I shiver under his touch. All my skittish awareness anchors in my body.
On the way my skin tingles when he drags his wicked fangs down my neck.
On the way he licks along my jugular and kisses my racing pulse.
On the sharp slice of his talons through the fragile spaghetti straps of my borrowed dress.
“Hey.” Barely in time to prevent a major wardrobe malfunction, I clasp an arm over my practically nonexistent boobs to hold the bodice in place. “Easy on the dress, okay? It isn’t mine.”
“I’ll buy you another.” Draco smirks down at me, like the rich Scandinavian mob boss enforcer the Mars clan males have always been. “Shit, I’ll buy you a dozen. Better than those plaid skirts and baggy cardigans you try to hide behind.”
