Page 16 of Auctioned for Her Blood
The gate crasher isn’t doing anything physical or intimidating, he’s smiling as he talks to Henry, and yet…everything about him reads danger: his long hair, partially tied up in a messy man bun, the well worn leather jacket that looks like it’s from another time—another place. He’s probably from New York or Montréal, somewhere way more fashionable than Philly.
I step up behind the table that Henry’s guarding and see more of the man.
His pants are leather too, a dark grey that perhaps was once black, and his boots are heavy, out of place but oddly stylish. Whether or not he has a ticket, he’s certainly not dressed for the occasion, not even close. Is there a motorcycle club gathering in another part of the hotel? Or a pirate costume party? I grin to myself.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
His head swivels toward me, his eyes flashing interest, and then a smile breaks onto his face. “I can think ofmanywaysyoucould help me.”
My ankles wobble.
Light glints off his bright blue eyes, gleaming like a beacon and drawing me forward, my body reacting before my brain catches up. The beacon is more likely a warning than a welcome.
The man shifts until he’s across from me, his body projecting confidence and strength as he leans onto the table that separates our bodies. Even his hands broadcast danger. Laden with heavy rings, some gold, some silver— one has a skull—his thick, powerful fingers also sport tattoos, a series of stars and dots in a seemingly random pattern, all black against his skin.
My focus drifts behind his hands, where his thick leather pants stretch over powerful hips and thighs, molding around a very obvious bulge.
My mouth goes dry.
It’s not like I haven’t seen male genitalia—well, in photos—but this is my first time exposed to such an obvious display. I can’t look away.
“My eyes are up here,” he says.
Cheeks heating, I snap my gaze up to find his eyes laughing, and his grin even wider than before.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, then I shake my head, realizing I’ve probably made the situation worse, all but admitting my illicit ogling.
“No worries, luv. Looking’s free.” He winks, but then his expression softens. “But my joke embarrassed you. I apologize.” He puts one of those scary looking hands over his heart.
“That’s okay.” I laugh, shocked at how quickly he’s set me at ease. “I embarrass easily.”
“I can see that.” His eyes study me intently, and I can’t figure out whether the glint I see there is kindness or mischief. Maybe both?
Stepping back from the table, he bows. “Ryker Stewart Stone, at your service.” He reaches forward toward me. “And you are?”
“I’m Ember. Ember Cross.” I reach out to shake his hand, but turning mine in his, he kisses my knuckles.
An electric shock races from his lips to settle deep between my legs. I suck in a ragged breath.
Holding my hand, he presses his lips against my skin longer than seems necessary—or proper—all the while looking up and into my eyes—even while straightening as he finally lets go.
I’m left breathless and more than a little unsettled. “What can I do for you, Mr. Stone?” I stammer.
“Ryker. Please.” He smiles. “You must call me Ryker.”
I nod.
“I live in the hotel,” he says, “and thought I spotted a friend of mine coming in here.” He looks past me into the ballroom.
“Oh?” I say. “Who is that? We can look him up—or her?—on the guest list.”
“I might have been mistaken,” he says. “But now that I’m here, your party seems festive, your cause worthy. Might as well attend.”
“He doesn’t have a ticket,” Henry interjects, and my eyes snap to the burly young man I’d forgotten was there.
“With your permission,” Ryker says bowing slightly, “I’d very much like topurchasea ticket. And of course I’ll also make a handsome donation on top of the ticket price to apologize for my tardy arrival.”
“We don’t actually sell tickets at the door.” I drag my teeth over my lower lip, wondering why I didn’t make a plan for same day admissions. “We don’t typically get walk-in traffic. Plus—” I gesture behind me “—dinner is over. You’ve missed everything except the live auction.”
