Page 11 of Mine for 24 Hella-Hours
“Here’s your chance to.” We are in a trance, gazing at each other like we are in our own world until I wiggle uncomfortably and he takes the cue to step back. Allowing me space to breathe.
“Why?” This time the words come out strong and questioning.
He sighs, looking around us until he locks his eyes with mine. “I saw you putting yourself out there, signaling your boredom with sheer grace I might add. The poor idiot was too blind to catch it. What do you want?” A smirk flashes across his face. “Really desire?” Maybe it’s his signature feature.
“I want someone who will satisfy me. Swarm me with pleasure and make my fantasies come alive.” The words escape my mouth before I have a chance to stop them.
Why am I telling this to a stranger? I can’t stop. I’m curious and his presence is intoxicating, leaving me wanting more.
The euphoric sensation of his erotic woodsy scent hits my nose, giving me a pleasantly lightheaded feeling. I fight the urge to moan like an idiot to an absolute stranger.
“Sounds good,” his deep voice reverberates through nearly vacant streets. “You were bored out of your fucking mind in there. You came out looking divine for one thing and one thing only which we both know.”
Sex.
Yeah, I planned to get fucked into oblivion. And if done right, maybe, see where we went from there. I’m tired of the regular dates. The normal routine that traps me in a bubble I’m dying to puncture. I need someone who can satisfy me sexually as well as carry a conversation. Someone who isn’t afraid to explore our desires.
The thing is by the time we get to the deal breakers—which is a conversation two people should have before they move forward—it’s over. Usually, we both know by then that it’s not what we’re looking for. I know it is not.
His eyebrows lift in suggestion. It’s like he can see through my crafted façade.
“Women want the kind of men they read about in books. Men like that are hard to come by is what most tell themselves. It’s all but a fantasy.” He closes the gap between us. “Well let me tell you,” his tone is gentle, almost caressing. “They come when you least expect them. They’ll dominate you and make all your fucking fantasies come to life. On top of your body. Underneath. Behind.” He coaxes a side-grin at me.
I feel exposed. Naked whilst being fully dressed.
“You’d forget how to breathe while your pussy is being devoured and when your breath builds too long for your body to contain, a scream so loud will burst from your chest and it will stay in your memory forever.”
Oh fuck.
A pool of desire stains my panties.
That’s how heroines feel in books and why they always end up with dangerous-looking strangers. “Into screamers,” I state.
“I like my woman like I like my bikes, loud.”
My brain screams fuck yes.
My cheeks flush and I feel the burn decorating them. The pulse in my neck throbs rampantly. Along with the one between my thighs.
He reaches behind him, taking out his wallet from the pocket of his black jeans and handing me his license.
“Take a picture and send it to your best friend, your mum, your dad. Whoever you trust.” My curious eyes browse over his details.
“Luka Birmingham.”
“Yes.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“And a half for accuracy purposes,” he adds with a tiny curve at the corner of his lip that matches mine.
“You own Hella Club,” I state. Matter of fact.
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re also a tattoo artist.”
“I am.” He nods once, “So you heard of me?”
