Page 19 of Sticky Fingers
Chapter Seven
Malcolm
Sonia Sawyer.
Holy fucking shit.
It’s her, no fucking doubt about it.
I’m frozen as I look directly into her eyes. They’re exactly the way I remember.
Large. Expressive. Soulful.
They suck me in and make me feel…things. And not just my hardening cock, even though that’s part of it. And if I had any doubt at all, her reaction confirms what my body instinctually knows.
She looks like a deer caught in the fucking headlights.
Fuck me.
I’ve been chasing leads for the last couple of days and all I hit were dead ends. And now…now here she is, right in front of me.
“What a beautiful name,” I say, dragging my tongue lecherously over my lips. I say her name again slowly, “Sonia.”
“Malcolm,” she throws back, flicking her tongue across those delicious lips, mimicking me.
“Sonia,” I repeat, as if in a trance.
“And I’m Dominic and she’s Daphne,” Dominic exclaims with a guffaw, breaking the staring contest we have between us.
“Can I buy you another drink, Sonia?” I ask. The air around us is electric. “French 75? They say it was a favorite of Picasso himself.”
There are some odd fucking looks going back and forth between Dominic and Daphne, but I don’t think they know exactly what’s going on. Likely, they’re just thinking it’s sexual attraction and that I’m just trying to get inside Sonia’s pants.
Which, you know, is also true.
“Picasso was a tricky one to nail down,” she whispers, her eyes never leaving mine.
Her sexy, full lips tilt into a small smile as she sets her empty glass down next to us. Her sweet voice immediately makes me think of tangled bedsheets and very loud moans.
“Positively slippery.”
What the fuck am I even saying at this point? This woman is like a fucking drug.
I extend my arm and Sonia entwines hers in mine as if in a trance.
Daphne and Dominic stare at us as we walk to the lobby bar.
I’m hard as a rock. Even a fucking idiot can see this tiny creature is sexy as hell. What can I even say?
The fact that she’s a tiny thief just makes her all the more appealing to me. I feel drawn to her. I want to peel back all her layers and discover all the secrets she hides underneath—just as much as I want to rip her clothes off her tiny frame and fuck her for days.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Are you an art lover?” I ask her as we walk to the bar.
“I think I’m just an amateur when it comes to appreciating art,” she replies. “Not like Daphne.”
“So your interests lie more in…” I trail off, staring ahead as she turns her gaze to me before finishing my sentence, “collections?”
