Page 43 of Dirty Lyrics
Her amber eyes catch the light, warm and glowing, like liquid honey.
Her curves—my curves—are lush and womanly, all soft edges and tempting valleys, the kind of body a man could drown in and call it heaven.
She’s real. Flesh and blood. Beautiful in ways those fake plastic women could never touch.
And she’s mine.
“What are you wearing?”
The words rip out of me before my brain can catch up, rough and hungry.
She falters, frowning, her hand going immediately to her bump like a shield. “Oh, is it, um, is it okay?”
I hate that she has doubts about her looks. That she doesn’t see how perfect she is. But that’s my job, and I’ll make damn sure she knows it by the time I’m through.
“Do you look okay? Nah, Maya. You don’t look okay,” I growl, already stalking toward her.
My chest feels like it might crack open from how fucking gorgeous she looks.
“You look like a fucking goddess, Mami.”
“I do?”
“You do. And I’m thinking I’m gonna be knocking some heads together before the night is over.”
“What are you talking about?” She shakes her head and grins, smoothing out the fabric of her dress.
Maya thinks I’m joking.
I’m not. And if any of those pricks there tonight even glances at my woman for one second too long—I won’t be responsible for what I do to them.
She is stunning.
The way the dress clings to her, then flows free, skimming over her belly, flashing glimpses of her legs—it’s like it was made for her and for me—but just to test every ounce of my control.
I can’t stop myself.
I cup her throat gently, my thumb brushing along her jaw as I tilt her face up to mine. It’s a possessive move, but that’s just how I feel about her.
Possessive. Obsessed. Unhinged.
She shivers under my touch, those perfect lips parting just enough, like she’s begging me to kiss her.
So I do.
I drag her into a kiss that’s messy, greedy, hot enough to smear her lipstick all over both of us.
I don’t care. That’s the point.
Because this is a claim. My mark.
She’s mine, and I want every single person who lays eyes on her tonight to know it. To see her walk into that club glowing, stunning, untouchable—and to understand that she belongs to me.
Because she’s walking temptation, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone forget who she belongs to.
The SUV slows, then jerks to a stop at the curb outside the club. My stomach knots tight before the door even opens.
The second my boots hit the concrete, I’m blinded.
