Read Online Wild Hyacinthe (Crimson Romance) by Nola Sarina, Emily Faith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nola Sarina, Emily Faith
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She glanced at my bedroom, raising her eyebrows in approval at the double-king-sized captain’s bed with drawers on each side of the base.
I reached for her injured temple. The bleeding had stopped, but she had dirt smeared beneath the small wound, so I took her fingers in my own and drew her to the bathroom where I scooted her up onto the Italian marble counter, facing me. I touched her knees and pushed her legs apart, positioning myself between them, ignoring the sensation of forbidden intimacy that curled through me at her proximity, her gentle smell. I pressed a corner of a drawer to my right and it popped open, revealing a few toiletry items. I poured some peroxide onto a cotton ball and dabbed at her injury. Aria flinched when it fizzed and bubbled, and I grunted in approval of my own decision to disinfect the wound. She held her breath in reaction to my sound and the heat of our bodies so close to one another.
When the wound was clean, I tossed the cotton into a wastebasket and wrapped my hands around Aria’s shoulders, inspecting her pupils for signs of concussion, though she tried to avoid my gaze. She still trembled, which I suspected was also because she was so unexpectedly in the lavish apartment of a billionaire.
“You’re very minimalist,” she said.
“Nah, just hate to shop.” It was true, shopping was torture for me. Sales clerks in malls wore far too little clothing for my comfort level, and even mannequins, dressed in fine lingerie, triggered the incubus’s thrashing within me. There was a time when I had so little restraint over my urges, I feared I’d assault a sales clerk while shopping at Macy’s with Gypsy, and I had run out to the parking lot in the middle of shopping to escape. After I calmed down and Gypsy finished picking out shoes—I don’t know why the hell she invited me with her in the first place—she and I had a good laugh at the clerk’s astonished face when I bolted from the building at top speed.
“Hungry?” I asked Aria. She nodded but still wouldn’t look at me. I slid her down from the marble counter top by her hips and led her to the kitchen where I sat her at one of two barstools along the edge of my island.
In the fridge were four leftover club sandwiches from the ridiculous meal she’d served me. I pulled out two and smirked as I passed the food from the Styrofoam onto white, oval plates and slid one in front of her. She hesitated until I bit into my own.
“I was going to eat with you tonight anyway, at the Teacup,” I explained between bites. “But I like dinner here with you better.”
She dug into her food. “You don’t have many dates, do you?”
Dates. My mood darkened a bit as I remembered the last girl I dated. What would be the point of trying with anyone else, for me? To torture myself more, to get attached, and then the pain of her death would punch me in the gut with the force of a freight train? Not an experience I wanted to repeat.
Of course, if I were able to date someone, Aria . . . I shook the idea off. Indulging a fantasy like that could be dangerous to the hardened conscience that allowed me to keep going with life despite my guilt. “No, none,” I said. “Nor do I allow anyone but Gypsy into my apartment. And my housekeeper, who comes twice a week.”
“Gypsy?” She looked up from her sandwich.
I couldn’t help but grin as I reached to smooth her concerned brow. Her skin was so soft. I never took time to notice the subtle niceties of the women I briefly courted before slaughtering them with sex, or perhaps none were as notable as Aria. Either way, I enjoyed touching her, and even though I knew I had no right, I wanted more of her. More of this: casual talk, casual touch. The skin of her face was soft beneath my fingertips . . . and in her eyes was some insecurity I didn’t understand as she met my gaze for such quick moments. She didn’t trust herself to look in my eyes, and I wanted to know why.
Oh, shit, I do want to
I reached for her injured temple. The bleeding had stopped, but she had dirt smeared beneath the small wound, so I took her fingers in my own and drew her to the bathroom where I scooted her up onto the Italian marble counter, facing me. I touched her knees and pushed her legs apart, positioning myself between them, ignoring the sensation of forbidden intimacy that curled through me at her proximity, her gentle smell. I pressed a corner of a drawer to my right and it popped open, revealing a few toiletry items. I poured some peroxide onto a cotton ball and dabbed at her injury. Aria flinched when it fizzed and bubbled, and I grunted in approval of my own decision to disinfect the wound. She held her breath in reaction to my sound and the heat of our bodies so close to one another.
When the wound was clean, I tossed the cotton into a wastebasket and wrapped my hands around Aria’s shoulders, inspecting her pupils for signs of concussion, though she tried to avoid my gaze. She still trembled, which I suspected was also because she was so unexpectedly in the lavish apartment of a billionaire.
“You’re very minimalist,” she said.
“Nah, just hate to shop.” It was true, shopping was torture for me. Sales clerks in malls wore far too little clothing for my comfort level, and even mannequins, dressed in fine lingerie, triggered the incubus’s thrashing within me. There was a time when I had so little restraint over my urges, I feared I’d assault a sales clerk while shopping at Macy’s with Gypsy, and I had run out to the parking lot in the middle of shopping to escape. After I calmed down and Gypsy finished picking out shoes—I don’t know why the hell she invited me with her in the first place—she and I had a good laugh at the clerk’s astonished face when I bolted from the building at top speed.
“Hungry?” I asked Aria. She nodded but still wouldn’t look at me. I slid her down from the marble counter top by her hips and led her to the kitchen where I sat her at one of two barstools along the edge of my island.
In the fridge were four leftover club sandwiches from the ridiculous meal she’d served me. I pulled out two and smirked as I passed the food from the Styrofoam onto white, oval plates and slid one in front of her. She hesitated until I bit into my own.
“I was going to eat with you tonight anyway, at the Teacup,” I explained between bites. “But I like dinner here with you better.”
She dug into her food. “You don’t have many dates, do you?”
Dates. My mood darkened a bit as I remembered the last girl I dated. What would be the point of trying with anyone else, for me? To torture myself more, to get attached, and then the pain of her death would punch me in the gut with the force of a freight train? Not an experience I wanted to repeat.
Of course, if I were able to date someone, Aria . . . I shook the idea off. Indulging a fantasy like that could be dangerous to the hardened conscience that allowed me to keep going with life despite my guilt. “No, none,” I said. “Nor do I allow anyone but Gypsy into my apartment. And my housekeeper, who comes twice a week.”
“Gypsy?” She looked up from her sandwich.
I couldn’t help but grin as I reached to smooth her concerned brow. Her skin was so soft. I never took time to notice the subtle niceties of the women I briefly courted before slaughtering them with sex, or perhaps none were as notable as Aria. Either way, I enjoyed touching her, and even though I knew I had no right, I wanted more of her. More of this: casual talk, casual touch. The skin of her face was soft beneath my fingertips . . . and in her eyes was some insecurity I didn’t understand as she met my gaze for such quick moments. She didn’t trust herself to look in my eyes, and I wanted to know why.
Oh, shit, I do want to
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