“Plan B it is.”
Before she can question me, I’ve thrown her over my shoulder. “Which room?”
“Mr. Bristow!”
“Jason. Which room? You’ve got three seconds to tell me before I start kicking in doors.”
“This is outrageous!”
“Three, two…”
“Second floor. The one in the corner! There’s a potted plant. O-or there was before it died…some time ago, by the look of it.”
I head for the staircase. “You tried watering it, didn’t you?”
“I am not having a conversation about horticulture while you’re carrying me over your shoulder, Blackbeard.” Her ribcage expands on a huff against my shoulder. “Did you even mean that whole speech about wanting to fix and protect or—”
“Don’t say things I don’t mean.”
“You lied about disliking my Sauvignon Blanc,” she grumbles.
“Is that what it’s called?”
“Yes. It’s my favorite. I never order anything else. Ever.” For some reason, talking about her choice in drink seems to be upsetting her. Even more than me carrying her over my shoulder like the fucking lawless ogre that I am.
Getting her to the top of the stairs costs me no effort—until she starts to wiggle. Holding on to her is the easy part. It’s ignoring the way her sexy backside shifts under the thin cotton of her dress that drops the hammer in my pants. It takes a single instant for my throat to grow dry as dust. My hands, which were holding the backs of her thighs to keep her steady on the upstairs trek, are now fighting with the hem of her dress. To keep it down. What I’d really like to do is lift the airy, blue thing to her waist and run my palms over the smooth hills of her ass cheeks. I bet she wears no-nonsense, white cotton panties, just waiting to be torn off in my bare hands. Bet she’d gasp and press those thighs together to hide her pussy.
I bite back a groan when we reach her door. She’s still shifting around, trying to get down, and I let her slide off now, steadying her in front of me. Those blue eyes are spitting fire and she’s preparing to unload on me when she stops. She stops, clearly interpreting the unchecked hunger on my face. It has been there since she showed up on my doorstep and grown in power every time I’ve been in her company. Now we’re standing outside a motel room in a clandestine part of town, and that alone calls sex to the stage. The thought of it. The possibility of it. And Naomi is thinking about it now. With me. Can’t tell if she finds the idea off-putting or appealing, but at least I have her looking at my mouth, my chest, my hands, which have moved of their own volition to grip her elbows.
“You want to be kissed, beauty queen?”
A sound wells up in her throat. “I don’t know,” she breathes, letting me ease her toward the door. “I-I’m supposed to be mad.”
“We can work on that.” I drop my mouth to the curve of her neck, letting her feel my breath, a hint of my teeth. “Or you can stay mad. Call me every name in the book if it’ll help you stay a good girl afterward.”
Her heavy-lidded eyes fly to mine. “Are we still talking about kissing?”
I suck the smooth skin of her neck into my mouth, growling as she sobs and falls against the door. “What do you think?”
Need to get Naomi into the room. Now. I’m too distracted by her taste to keep her safe out here in the open. No cover. Without taking my mouth off her neck, I reach into her purse and close my hand around a key, sliding it into the rusted, brass lock. One wrist flick and we’re inside, Naomi flattened against me as I walk us backwards. It goes against my nature to enter a room without searching for threats, though, so as I drag my mouth toward hers, already anticipating the kiss I need more than life right now, I scan the room.
And find a wedding dress hanging in the open closet.
“What the fuck is that?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
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Username: LittleMissMorbid
So, okay. Guys. Not trying to be weird or whatever. At all.
But has anyone explored the possibility that Runaway Bride was actually sacrificed in a pagan ritual by her bridesmaids?
Naomi
What is…what in the world…is happening?
When I was a child, my mean cousins on my mother’s side used to blindfold me and spin me around, laughing as they watched me bump into walls. Of course, they were perfect angels as soon as the adults walked back into the room. Ma’am this, sir that. As the youngest cousin, it was explained to me that a fair amount of hazing was par for the course. As an adult now, I recognize what a load of horse hockey it was—and those cousins are still mean as snakes.