His message isn’t what I expect. You and Catherine at home?

Huh. That’s weird.

I pause my movie and text back, Why?

A minute passes. Two. And a video comes through.

I’m dragging on my jeans and boots, stumbling around the hall as I try to type one-handed, Where?

***

Tom’s tongue is a little too slimy on my neck. At least his kiss as he takes the lime from my lips is pretty good. Our little group cheers him and he holds up his closed fists in triumph.

I fake a happy cheer and try to laugh as he hugs me. The magazines are full of shit. Body shots are no fun for the girl. Well, especially if the girl has tiny boobs and has to tuck the shot glass into her bra. But at least Robin’s backed off and Tom’s getting into our date. Even if the feel of Tom’s lips on mine doesn’t rock my world, I am beginning to think he might be into me. Unlike Dally—

Tom is ripped back from me. My gut pitches when I see my enraged saviour.

Did the mere thought of that name actually conjure him?

Tom doesn’t know what hits him. Too bad I do.

‘What are you doing?’ I demand as Dally shakes out his fist and glares down at Tom’s moaning form.

If I didn’t know him, I might be scared of Dally in this moment. He’s a towering pillar of tattooed fury, tank top showcasing his bunched muscles, stained jeans stretched taut over thick thighs. I’m opening my mouth to protest again when he pins me with a glare that could melt flesh from bone.

I shut my mouth.

Dally grabs my elbow and hauls me toward the exit. I snag my purse from my chair and call an apology to the bartender and my group as I’m dragged away. The only shining moment of this debacle is the utter shock on Robin’s face. Yeah, bitch, he’s mine. Too bad that confidence doesn’t extend outside the bar.

As soon as we hit the sidewalk, Dally lights into me. ‘Jesus, Cat, what the fuck were you thinking?’

His motorcycle is by the curb and he heaves me onto the seat. I accept the helmet he holds out without making a peep. I’m not sure whether what I’m feeling is disappointment or relief. Maybe it’s just tequila.

Dally paces, short, angry bursts of movement. ‘If I didn’t have the bike …the traffic was absolute shit getting here …’

‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask.

His lips are a hard line as he pulls out his phone. ‘Felipe texted to say you were here. I didn’t believe him since you said you were just going out to dinner.’

‘What convinced you Felipe wasn’t lying?’

He does something and holds up his phone. I wince as the video plays.

He won’t let me escape it. ‘Take a good look, brown eyes. That would be you doing body shots with the dick who’s lying on the floor in there.’

‘It really wasn’t as cool as the movies make it look,’ I mumble as I take his phone and examine the evidence more closely. Wait, do I really do that weird chicken head bob every time Tom gets close to my boobs?

Dally looks heavenward, raising his hands in supplication. ‘I don’t have the strength to deal with this crap,’ he complains.

‘Are you talking to God?’

He looks back at me, furious. ‘Would praying keep you from doing stupid shit? Because if it would, I’ll become the frigging pope.’

‘I don’t think popes can have tattoos. And as for it stopping me, it probably wouldn’t.’

I’m pissing him off more. He closes his eyes, clasping his hands in front of his face, and takes a slow breath. I delicately slide his phone back into his pocket. His hands are trembling. When he finally looks up at me, a frisson of apprehension skitters down my spine. His eyes are cool, calculating, controlled fury under a veneer of civility.

‘You are not going to give this up, are you?’ he asks me quietly.

Tags: M.A. Grant Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net