Page 3 of Wicked Spite
“Please,” The pretty little redhead begs, but it’s not him she’s talking to as her eyes drill right into mine. The guy glances at me, catching my eye with a smirk before focusing back on the girl.
“You’re missing out, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening. “We could’ve made it real fun for you.”
“Trust me, I’m having plenty of fun just watching,” I shoot back, my tone dripping with sarcasm. But there’s no denying the heat pooling in my belly, the way my breath hitches every time she gasps or he groans.
Their movements become frantic. The girl’s cries turn into screams, her body shuddering violently as she comes. The guy follows soon after, his muscles tensing as he spills into her, a low, satisfied grunt escaping his lips.
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything settle back onto my shoulders. The show is over, and reality starts to creep back in. The couple disentangle themselves, panting and sweaty, casting glances my way.
“Enjoyed the show?” the girl asks, her voice still breathless.
“More than you know,” I reply, pushing off the wall. “But I’ve got places to be.” I pull my hair up into a bun before slipping off my flannel and tying it around my waist. I rip my shirt off so I’m only in my black push-up bra. That should be enough of a change just in case the three musketeers are still lurking. Here’s hoping they just gave up.
“Let me know if you want a repeat performance,” the guy tells me with a wink.
“Count on it,” I say, flashing a grin that’smore wolfish than friendly. I turn and slip out of the room and back to the bar’s main area.
I push through the crowd, ignoring the leering looks from drunken patrons, and step out into the cool night air. The chill bites at my exposed skin, but it clears my head.
I walk quickly, keeping my head down, my thoughts a jumbled mess of lust and violence. By the time I reach my apartment, I’m exhausted but wired, nerves frayed. I lock the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment, letting the silence wash over me.
I really need to get a better fucking hobby, but first let me go pull my rabbit out and give myself an orgasm thinking about that deviant fucking bastard.
Chapter 1
Penn
I’m just about to leave the house when I hear the annoying sounds of my older brother and his girlfriend arguing. Before I can sneak all the way out, Mr. I’m-the-only-level-headed-one-left-in-this-family catches me.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going now?” Graham, the youngest of us shouts from his perch in front of the TV, eyes glued to Sports Center.
“Time to go get my facial obviously Grammy,” I smirk, not bothering to turn around. Iris snorts, her eyes flashing with mischief.
“Facial, huh? Bringing your weird bag along?”
“Only if they’re as dead inside as you are, Legal Eagle,” I shoot back. Her grin widens; she loves this game.
“Nice duffle. Bet it’d look better in pink.”
“Cherry coke red suits me just fine. Matches the color of the blood you leak every month. Or, you know, if I decided to stab you.”
Lincoln growls, his dark eyes narrowing. “Watch it, Penn.”
“Relax, Linc. I’m just making conversation.” I sling the bag over my shoulder, adjusting my cap. “Besides, what’s family for, if not a bit of sibling bonding? Or are family members only allowed to bond when you’re banging your sister on the football field and carving your name into her back?”
“You’re fucked up, Penn,” Iris says, shaking her head but still smiling.
“Yeah, but you love me for it, sissy. Tell you what, Iris. Maybe tonight I’ll find someone who’ll scream louder than you do when Linc rawdogs your ass without using the special Crisco blend I had made.” My laugh is loud and harsh, even to my own ears, as I slam the door behind me before they can respond.
Going tit-for-tat with them will keep me here all night, and I have a date with a ray of fucking hellfire.
Well, fuck me in the ass with my Crisco, I wanna bend this chick like a piece of origami paper. There’s something about her that’s sharper than my best blade, Naomi, and sexier than sin.
I sit in the grimy bar with their penny pitchers, and I feel my ass sticking to the fake leather of this booth. This booth has been my nightly home for the last four nights, perfectly angled to keep me mostly in the shadows but with direct eyesight to hellfire in black combat boots, fishnets, and long black hair.
Reagan Smith.
That’s what her boss called her before he left for the nightand finally, I was graced with this slippery little snake’s name. I roll the syllables around as I mouth the name. Reagan fits but Smith…too basic, too fucking vanilla, especially for someone who’s a hurricane slinging shots and vices.
