Hooked (Never After, #1)(26)

The back of her hands come up to rest against her cheeks. “I’m so sorry I fell asleep after…You know. I didn’t mean to.”

She shakes her head and a faint dusting of color catches my eye. My arm moves forward to brush my fingertips along the pink marks gracing her neck. “Don’t ever apologize for finding comfort with me.” I remove my hand, blood rushing to my groin as I realize she bears my prints around her throat like a collar. “Is your neck okay?”

Her hand moves from her cheek to her windpipe. “It’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Her lips turn up. “It feels perfect.”

“It looks as though it may bruise.”

She shrugs.

I lean in, tilting her head to the side and pressing a soft kiss to the prints. “I rather like the idea of you having a reminder of me on your skin.”

Her mouth parts as she sucks in a breath. I tip her chin and close her lips with my fingertips. “You can stay here if you like, or I can take you back to your car.”

“What time is it?”

“Late,” I reply.

Her fingers twist in her lap. “I think… I should probably head home. I have to work in the morning.”

I nod. “I understand, although I do wish you’d spoil me and stay.”

The car ride back to The Vanilla Bean is quiet, soft classical playing through the speakers while she gazes out the window. Again, I find myself appreciating all the ways she doesn’t push for conversation, instead choosing to find comfort in our silence. There are not many people who can do that, and it makes my respect for her grow.

I park next to her car, and this time, she doesn’t even attempt to open her door. Pleasure trickles through me, knowing she’s already doing as I ask. Once I open the door, she takes my hand and lifts herself out before resting her palms on my chest. “Thank you for a wonderful date,” she says.

“You can thank me again after our next one.” My arms wrap around her waist and pull her closer.

“You’re so sure there will be one?”

I grin, walking her back until she’s flush to the side of the car. My hand leaves her waist, gently wrapping around her neck, my fingertips ghosting on top of the bruises. I tip her head back. “I’ve told you once before that I want you for myself.” My lips brush against her jaw. “I think you’ll find I can be very persistent.”

Her breath stutters and a visceral want slams into me, my insides quaking with the need to dive inside of her. To feel her body mold around me as I destroy her from the inside out.

I force myself to pull back, my fingers squeezing slightly before releasing.

“What’s your last name?” she asks.

“Barrie,” I respond without thought. My heart kick-starts, lungs squeezing. I didn’t mean to tell her that. It’s too risky, our fathers worked together for years, and I can’t be sure she’s never heard it. Luckily, she doesn’t even flinch.

The reminder of who she is filters through my veins like poison, anger slicing through the fog of her presence, and I regain the control I felt slipping away.

Her hand rises to my face, fingers splaying under my eyes. “What was that?”

“What was what, darling?”

She shakes her head. “Something… your eyes… they changed.”

“Did they?” I rock back on my heels, ignoring the way my stomach is knotting up tight. “Just hoping you’ll put me out of my misery and agree to be mine.”

She glances at the ground before peering back at me. “If I’m yours, then what are you to me?”

Your worst nightmare. “I’m whatever you’ll allow me to be.”

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip and my thumb reaches up to release it. “Tell me you’re mine Wendy, darling.”

“I’m yours,” she breathes.

Satisfaction races through my bloodstream and I smile, leaning in and pressing my lips to hers, then helping her into her car.

As soon as she turns the corner, my smile drops, cheeks aching from the show. But satisfaction flows freely through my veins, the taste of vengeance fresh on my tongue.





16





James





Giddiness flows through my veins like pixie dust flows through a junkie, my mind racing a thousand miles a minute. I’ve been waiting for years to see Peter Michaels face to face, and the moment is finally here. Sooner than I originally anticipated, but welcome, nonetheless.

I wonder if he’ll recognize me. I was often told growing up that I was the spitting image of my father, but I’m not sure how much truth there is to that statement anymore.

Right after my parents’ deaths, I remember sitting in our empty home, strangers attempting to comfort me as they asked what I’d like to pack. What I’d like to keep. As if my entire life could be summed up and shipped off with a few cases of clothing. I stayed silent, choosing to only take a small box of mementos. An old book of fables my mother read to me every night, and a single photo of the three of us; my mother, my father, and I. I kept them hidden underneath the bed at my uncle’s, and at night, when the grief would wind its way through my insides and wrap around my throat, making me feel as though I couldn’t breathe, I’d take them out. I’d grip their still faces in my hand as I cried into my pillow, imagining my mother’s voice reading me fairy tales with happy endings.