Page 16 of Wicked Spite
“Answer me,” I growl, trying to regain control of the situation. But before I can even process what’s happening, he leans in close to me.
I hate the way the gravelly sound of his voice makes me feel as he murmurs, “Nice lip gloss, by the way.”
And then, without warning, he kisses me. My mind goes blank as our lips connect, his mouth hot and insistent against mine. It’s messy and unexpected, and yet somehow, it feels like fireworks are exploding inside my head. I’m breathless, utterly bewildered, and for a moment, I forget everything else—my fear, my anger, the fact that he’s been in my room multiple times, apparently.
I bite down on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. The coppery taste fills my mouth as he pulls back with a hiss. But instead of anger, there’s a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“Well well, kitten’s got claws,” he drawls, running his tongue over the small wound. “I like a girl with bite. Feel free to sink your teeth in anytime.”
He swipes his thumb across the corner of my mouth, wiping away a smear of his blood. I jerk back, glaring at him even as my pulse races out of control. I hate that my body responds to him.
What the hell just happened?
“Fuck you,” I spit out, shoving against his chest. “You can’t just break people’s noses and then assault me with your mouth, you psycho.”
Tall, dark, and crazy chuckles, unfazed by my outburst. He leans in close, caging me against the wall with his much larger frame.
“Assault? Baby, that was just a taste. When I decide to fuck with you properly, trust me, you’ll know.” His voice is a low, seductive purr that sends shivers down my spine. “Besides, we both know you’re dying for me to put my hands on you. To pin you down and make you scream my name until you forget everything but how I feel inside you.”
“Reagan!” the head bartender’s voice cuts through my haze of confusion, snapping me back to reality. “What do you think you’re doing? Get to fucking work. This isn’t a damn brothel!”
I raise my head, the scolding from Devon still ringing in my ears. But as I look for the guy who kissed me, ready to unleash some of my anger on him, I notice he’s gone.Vanished into thin air. All that remains is an empty space where he once stood, and a lingering warmth that sends shivers down my spine.
“Where the hell did he go?” I mutter under my breath, scanning the room for any trace of him. Confusion and turmoil swirl within me, making it difficult to focus on anything else. I guess the kiss confirms my suspicions that he is, in fact, toying with me.
Despite the fear that should be coursing through my veins, I find myself drawn to him in a way I’ve never experienced before.
“Reagan, are you listening?” Devon’s voice brings me back to the present, and I nod, forcing myself to pay attention.
“Sorry, I…got distracted,” I admit, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“Clearly,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Just get back to work.”
As I make my way behind the bar, pouring drinks and exchanging witty banter with the patrons, I can’t help but feel the weight of conflicting emotions threatening to consume me. Fear, desire, confusion—they all blend together, leaving me unsure of what to think or how to act.
“Hey Rae,” one of the regulars calls out, his words slurring slightly. “You seem a little off tonight. Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I snap, my tone sharper than intended. “Everything’s fine.”
But deep down, I know it’s not. Tonight has left me reeling, and I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story—more to him—than meets the eye.
“Thanks for asking,” I add with a forced smile, trying to regain my composure. “I’m just…tired.”
“Long day?” he asks sympathetically, taking a sip of his beer.
“You have no idea,” I sigh, leaning against the bar for support. As much as I want to push these conflicting emotions aside and focus on the task at hand, I know it won’t be easy. No matter where I go or what I do, the memory of the way his lips felt against mine lingers in my head, refusing to fade away.
Chapter 7
Penn
Blood on my hands. Sticky, warm. I can taste the coppery tang just from looking at it. The dumbasses’ blood smeared all over my knuckles and rings. Reagan’s lip gloss is still a ghost on my lips, glitter stuck in the corner of my mouth, stabbing at me. Her lips felt like nirvana dipped in poison when I kissed her.
The parking lot’s dark, barely visible under the flickering lights. But I can see the frat fuck boy, crumpled against his car, clutching his nose. Blood drips between his fingers still, staining his designer shirt. How utterly pathetic. It’s just a little jammed nose.
“Hey there,” I purr, my boots appearing in his line of sight. He jumps, eyes dragging up my body like he’s seeing fucking Beetlejuice. My smirk widens; he looks like he’s about to piss himself. Not my thing, but to each their own.
“Wh-what do you want?” he stammers, voice muffled by blood and fear. No longer acting like he’s drunk.
