Page 13 of Crossed
The air shifts as though it’s under her command and she spins, craning her neck to smile up at me. It’s a practiced grin, and I hate it. Almost as much as I hate the fake purple of her irises and her sparkly lashes.
I long to see her bare, wearing nothing but that sparkling green gem that’s wrapped around her neck.
“Hello,” she rasps.
She doesn’t appear to be as affected by me as I am by her.
Does she do this to all the men she sees?
I glare down at her, the thought lighting a match to my short temper, and she starts to shrink back but stops herself and stands taller instead.
“Do you not speak English?” she tries again, her head tilting.
“I do.”
Her thick, dark brows lift, and she nods slowly, her ripe plump bottom lip turning glossy when her tongue swipes across it. My eyes follow the movement, locking on to the wetness.
She reaches out brazenly, her short nails scratching against the lapel of my coat. I watch the movement, disgusted at the knowledge she’s probably done this same move with hundreds of others yet too transfixed to stop it.
“Do you want a dance?” she asks.
My spine stiffens. “Absolutely not.”
Her smile drops along with her fingers, and I blow out a small sigh of relief when she moves back, a tiny bit of logic filtering in with the miniscule space she’s created by stepping away.
She seems disappointed.
“Not used to your witchcraft failing?” I ask.
I’m not sure why the words slip from my lips, but it’s the only thing I can think of. Why else would she bewitch me in such a way if it weren’t on purpose?
Her brows furrow with concern as though being called a witch is something that hits too close to home, but then her features smooth and a tinkling laugh pours from her mouth.
A rumble vibrates through me in return.
My mind spirals along with the beat of my heart that’s stomping like a stampede through my chest because I’ve never reacted toanythingthe way I am to her.
“You’re French,” she states.
I step in closer, bending so my lips ghost across the shell of her ear.No touching, I remind myself, but I just as quickly ignore it. Maybe to see how much my control can stand, if I can survive being so close to her without ever enjoying her taste. “Oui.” Clearly, I’m a masochist.
Her breath hitches. “If you don’t want a dance, then whatdoyou want?”
“I’m not sure,” I say honestly, straightening back up. The flip- flop of control wavers between my sickness and what I know is right, making my stomach churn and my palms grow clammy and stick to the inside of my gloves.
If we were alone…if we weren’t in public, I would allow the darkness to seep from my pores like tentacles and wrap around her delicate throat, squeezing until the sultry tone of her voice ceases to exist.
My fingers twitch, wanting to do it anyway, despite the fact that everyone will see.
Her eyes flick behind my shoulder, scanning our surroundings, and just like it did when she was on stage, losing her attention bothers me. My hand snaps toward her, my fingers gripping her chin and turning her back to look at me.
A small puff of air escapes her, and my stomach cramps in fear because even through the leather of my gloves, touching her this way is what I imagine a shot of heroin would feel like swimming through my veins.
“Eyes on me,” I demand.
She nods slowly, and her acquiescence sends a bolt of lust down my spine.
“I won’t fuck you, if that’s what you’re after.”
