Little Dove, Little Dove.
Thank God she walked away because after that kiss, I don’t think I would have been able to push her away again.
Clichés are stupid. Fairy tales don’t exist. But when she kissed me, I felt an actual spark between our lips. I’m going to chalk it up to static electricity.
I usually don’t send women away from me unless I want the chase. Which is fun in its own way.
As she walks away from me, I want nothing more than for her to turn around. But it’s better for her if she doesn’t. Nothing good would come from her being with me.
Good-bye, Little Dove.
“When’s the wedding?” Kos asks as he approaches me with Laura on his arm.
“Fuck off, Kos,” I growl, hating how affected she left me.
He and Laura disappear into the crowd as they try to morph into one person. And soon, I’m alone—my favorite place to be.
I scan the crowd. The place is packed. Eerily, it’s almost set up the same as the one back in Duluth.
When I first met Laura, I’ll admit that I thought we were going to be something special. We clicked right away, and we had fun. But we are so much better off as friends. I saw a girl burdened by so much pain. It’s weird, you know? Like attracts like. Laura has had a lot of loss in her life, but we aren’t as alike as I once initially believed.
She’s experienced pain and loss, but she’s never begged death to take her because dying would be the only release.
The pull I once felt toward Laura is long gone. I love seeing her and Alec together. I truly think they are meant to be together. I haven’t felt drawn to someone since Laura.
But the pull I feel to Little Dove is much different from the one I had with Laura. It’s almost primal. To others, those doe eyes look innocent, like a girl who has never seen trauma or pain. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.
I saw her scars, ones many people probably miss. But not me. I’m much too familiar with what scar tissue looks like. It almost glistens in the flashing lights, looking slightly translucent. It’s absolutely beautiful.
There had to be at least twenty to thirty small scars on her forearms, rough and jagged. Mismatched, different thicknesses. I don’t think it was from a blade of her own. They were all the same shade, meaning they had happened a very long time ago and they happened all at once.
Who is this girl?
My eyes haven’t moved off the pink-haired golden goddess since I found her a moment ago. She and her blonde friend are heading toward the bar a mere ten feet away, and I track them the entire time until they reach it.
My body drifts toward her of its own accord, being drawn to her like a magnet. She crosses her arms and leans against the counter, causing the thin gold material to rise up the backs of her thighs, stopping right below her ass.
She looks like she was molded by the most delicate hands, made to be the most beautiful creation in the world. Part of me thinks she knows it too.
This little brat shifts all her weight to her right foot, and her hips adjust, lifting the dress even higher, teasing the hell out of me. And she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I slam my heel into the ground to stop myself from walking over there and showing her exactly what teasing gets her.
I want to smack her ass until my hand stings and her cheeks redden. And then I would run my fingers between her legs, and I know I would find her soaking wet for me.
It has been a long, long time since I had such a visceral physical reaction to a woman. Or ever really. Which is surprising, even to myself, considering how many women I’ve slept with since signing with the Nighthawks. And, well, long before that.
Slamming my eyes shut, I grab my hardened dick through my slacks and adjust myself so I’m not riding the zipper so hard. I blow out a slow, steady breath as I open my eyes.
My pants are immediately too tight again when my gaze adjusts to the flashing lights and locks with the eyes shining behind a white-and-gold mask. Little Dove licks her lips before sucking the bottom one into her mouth before spinning back around to the bar.
As much as I try to resist, I take a step toward her, then another and another. When I’m almost in reach of her silky skin, her friend drags her away. She watches me the entire time, smiling, until the crowd fills our vision.
Good.
I hope she stays out of sight, far away from me. Because she and I are not ingredients for a fairy tale. We’re a recipe for a fucking disaster. And I’ve never wanted to be ruined so badly in my life.
Running my hand down my face, I sigh and spin around, looking for the group.
They aren’t hard to find. This group of guys, all six foot or taller and built like Captain America, tends to stand out in any crowd.
I walk over to them, instantly regretting not getting a drink or taking ten shots at the bar.
“You good?” Reed asks, leaning away from Charlotte and toward me.
I nod once. “Yeah, I’m good.”
So fucking far from good. But I know whatever feelings are coursing through me are probably better left untouched and unexplored.
The song comes to an end, and thankfully, my group needs another drink, and we head to the bar. Kos buys us two rounds of shots, which I quickly down, hoping to get Little Dove off of my mind.
But my eyes can’t stop scanning for her, looking for her, and it’s starting to piss me off. I don’t even know this girl.
Why the hell am I obsessing over her five seconds after we met?
I order two more shots for the group. They can handle it—well, everyone, except Laura probably. She’s the world’s biggest lightweight.
Slamming the shot glass down, I turn around and lean back against the bar on my elbows, again looking for that pink hair in the bland sea of everyone else. Immediately, I find her, spotting swishing gold fabric. I have a direct line of sight to her, which doesn’t help me not to stare.
It looks like Little Dove is a woman of her word. She did exactly what she’d said she would. She found a good, nice boy. A boring and inexperienced boy.
I watch them, swaying, grinding, reacting to the music. She hasn’t caught me watching yet, so I enjoy my view unabashedly. Her body is free, weightless, moving with no care in the world. It’s breathtaking. She’s breathtaking.
I can’t help but chuckle at Mr. Nice Guy’s moves. He’s not the worst dance partner in the world, but he’s got to be a close second. I know she isn’t enjoying herself—at least not in the way I could make her.
He isn’t changing his rhythm, isn’t teasing her in any way. Not running his fingertips over her bare skin, blowing hot breath into her ear while whispering how amazing she feels against him.
And she is well aware of his shortcomings. Her back is barely arched, not craving his touch against her ass. She isn’t flushed, no red speckles on her chest or neck.
I wonder how red she would turn if I whispered into her ear how perfect her ass was, how good it felt to have her pressed against me. I wonder how she’d react if I slid my hand under the side of that dress and grabbed her breast in the middle of the dance floor.
Would she be too embarrassed and run? Would she look at me with hooded eyes and bite that plump bottom lip? Would she let me show everyone in this room that she was off-limits to anyone but me? Would she beg for more?
Fuck, I shouldn’t have worn jeans tonight. But I never get this hard without even touching someone. Let alone just thinking about her and watching her while she dances with someone else.
But if I had worn anything less constricting, then every person in this room would have had a perfectly clear idea of exactly what Little Dove was doing to me.
I can’t help the smirk that breaks free, forming on my lips, as I watch him grab her hips a hair too low, awkwardly low. My body is vibrating, needing to go to her.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.
I almost gain my willpower back, but then she rolls her eyes at Mr. Nice Guy’s attempt at a hip roll. And her irritated gaze lands directly on me.
Even in the dark room with sporadic lights, her eyes drop to my straining zipper, and her lips fall slightly apart.
My restraint snaps, and I’m stalking over there almost pathetically fast.
Unfortunately for Mr. Nice Guy, the clock has run out on his ability to touch Little Dove.
Grabbing his shoulder, a bit tighter than needed, I pull him hard, backward and off of her. He trips, and I let him fall to the ground right as my hand steadies a stumbling Little Dove.
“I’ve got you,” I coarsely whisper into her ear.
Mr. Nice Guy shouts something, but with one sharp look from me, his lips seem to magically seal shut.
Sliding behind her, I run my left fingertips across the crisscross back and settle them on her hip, squeezing gently but sharp enough to shock her. She gasps.
“I couldn’t stand by and just watch that. Watch you settle for the feelings he was giving you. You should be bathed in pleasure, Little Dove, worshipped,” I moan into her ear, feeling her tight ass push back against me.
She rests her head against my chest, turning her head to the right, and I lean down, giving her my ear. “And you think that’s supposed to be you?”
I groan, “I have no doubt in my mind that I could make you feel things you never have before.”
Lightly, I trail my right fingers across the top of her shoulder, working toward her collarbone. Her chest is heaving, and I wonder if anyone has ever paid this much attention to the little things about her body. I continue to trace my fingers across her bare skin.
By the way she reacts to my simple touch, I know the answer to that.
The scars on her arms and shoulders dance in the flashing lights. They are all relatively small, except for the one on her neck. I lightly sweep my fingers up the side of her neck, paying extra attention to the stark white scar a couple of inches long, right below her jaw.
What happened here, Little Dove?
I run my thumb over her bottom lip as she looks straight up, the back of her head falling back on my chest, and stares into my eyes. I push my thumb into her mouth, resisting the urge to wrap my other hand around her throat. Her tongue immediately flicks against my thumb, sending a jolt straight to my cock.
This image—her staring up at me with my thumb in her mouth—gives me way too many ideas that I want to thoroughly explore.
“Fuck,” I moan into her ear, watching her pupils blow as lust overtakes her. “Stay with me tonight, Little Dove, and I promise I’ll show you what real pleasure is. Over and over again.”
She sucks hard on my thumb at my words, and my eyes roll into my head. Mentally, I take a picture of this moment, of the moment I see her say yes in her mind. Her eyes relax, and the suction in her mouth loosens. A moment of perfection.
An explosion of, “Fuck,” fills the room as piercing white light floods our vision, ruining this perfect scene in front of me.
Little Dove leans forward, but I secure her in place with my left hand so she doesn’t lose her balance.
“Shit, I gotta find Chloe!” Little Dove shouts, and the sudden bone-chilling fear in her voice scares the living hell out of me.
She is panting, and I can’t tell if it’s from my touch or the fear that has taken over her. She hastily searches the room with her gaze, scanning every person so precisely and carefully. Only looking at them when they aren’t looking at her. That small detail doesn’t go unnoticed by me.
I pull her tighter against me, afraid that if I let her go, I’ll never see her again. I just got a taste of who Little Dove is, and I’m not ready to give that up. I need more.
Suddenly, her posture is straighter as she finds her friend. Who is heading right toward us, almost jogging.
“Hey, we gotta go, love. Paps are on their way here. I got a tip.” Her friend’s eyes are wide as hell as she grabs Little Dove’s hand.
A voice blasts through the speakers as the light goes back off. “We are so sorry for that, everyone. Technical difficulty. Next round is on the house!”
The crowd erupts in cheers and deafens me to Little Dove’s conversation with her friend.
What was her name? Chassis? No, Chloe—that’s right.
My ears finally settle with a slight ring, and I hear Chloe say, “We have to leave now if we are going to get out before they’re parked around the whole building.”
Little Dove nods frantically as she steps away from me and toward her.
“W-wait. How can I see you again?” I desperately ask her, gently grabbing her wrist.
She smiles, reminiscing about the small time we had together, but her eyes are somewhere else entirely. Slightly too wide, strained, scared. I want to kill whatever is making her feel this way.
She whips her phone out and shouts over the music, “What’s your number?”
I give it to her in one breath and watch her walk away—or practically be dragged away by her friend.
The second she’s out of sight, my phone rings, and I answer, “Little Dove?”
“Now, you have my number too. Call me when you miss me, Blue Eyes.”
