A Beautiful Distraction(16)

Taking a deep breath, Rafe slowly turned and stepped away. Had he not been so worked up, he would have been proud of leaving Pretty Boy’s face devoid of blood. But instead, he was disappointed.

But then a chuckle reached his ears, and the unmistakable arrogance it held sent a hot burn coursing along Rafe’s nerves. The asshole didn’t have an ounce of remorse for putting his hands on a woman like that. He had balls, Rafe would give him that.

“Piece of advice,” Pretty Boy called out from behind, his words at the beginning stage of slurring. “I wouldn’t waste your time with that one. I’ve had her. And she’s not that good. Easy, but lousy.”

Restraint was over-fuckin’-rated.

Rafe spun and took one long stride the second before his fist connected with Pretty Boy’s jaw, sending him staggering backward. Was he satisfied? Hell no. So when Pretty Boy regained his footing and straightened his body, Rafe looked him in the eye—giving him a wordless heads-up—then went back in.

He needed to hear the crack of bone meeting bone; he needed to see flesh bruise and bleed. And he needed the fight.

This time Pretty Boy dodged his advance and a slow smile trickled onto Rafe’s face. Yes. Fight me back, you son of a bitch, he thought as Pretty Boy lowered his upper body and charged him, wrapping his arms around Rafe’s stomach, sending them both crashing backward into a table behind them. The seconds following blurred as the adrenaline took over Rafe’s body. Blood trickled from the corner of his eye after Pretty Boy landed a few lucky blows to his face, but each one only intensified the force of his own fist when it connected with Pretty Boy’s body.

A part of him—a large part of him—craved this. Always had. Passion of every form had always coursed through his veins. Whether love or hate, good or bad, it ran deep. So deep that its strength consumed him. Sometimes it was a curse, harboring a blazing intensity inside him. Especially when that blaze had formed an inferno, turning his control to ash.

Pearls of sweat beaded his forehead. He ducked, missing Pretty Boy’s weak right hook, and landed a fist to his stomach. Several pairs of hands tore at his shirt and gripped on to his shoulders, attempting to pull the two of them apart. He was acutely aware of the voices around him, some encouraging and others disapproving, but the sound of his blood rushing through his ears muffled the noise.

It wasn’t until he heard a voice telling him to stop—no, commanding him with that one single word—that his body finally stilled. Her soft, gentle voice eased over him until the essence of her intonation saturated his tense muscles. But it wasn’t just the melodic sound that caught his attention in the midst of his aggression. It was the threatening demand in her voice that snapped his mind from whatever plane it was floating on and brought him back to the present.

In a single instant, all the oxygen heaved from Rafe’s lungs as his body caught up from the fight. He looked down at the man beneath him covered in blood staring back at him with a fear in his eyes that almost made Rafe feel sorry for him. Almost. But then he remembered the fucker put his hands on a woman when she clearly didn’t want him to, then proceeded to defame her, and he was tempted to beat his sorry ass all over again.

The silence was deafening, suffocating. He searched for Amelia and found her across from him, leaning her weight against a table for support. Her hand was covering her mouth and her eyes flashed with worry and shock, but when she met his gaze, he saw her gratitude. And that was all the reassurance he needed to know that he hadn’t just lost his damn mind.

A light touch skimmed across the top of his ridged shoulder, over his tense back, and then slipped onto the other shoulder. Without delay, the heat simmering inside him started to intensify again. His body fired back to life at the same moment it went slack. He didn’t need to turn around to know the beauty that stood behind him. She had already captivated his vision when he’d first seen her on that stage. And now, with her dexterous fingers pressing into his shoulders, she enamored his body as well. It was her. The angel.

Her featherlight touch drifted down his arm, her fingertips grazing his hot flesh with a tenderness he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Come with me,” she cajoled. And again, she wasn’t asking.





CHAPTER FIVE


She’d seen the whole thing happen. She’d seen that sleazebag headliner put his hands on her girl as if she were a walking sex toy, and if that man hadn’t intervened, George sure as hell would have. But what had made her intervene was the look on the man’s face when he pulled Amelia away. It wasn’t a territorial possession. It was a protectiveness masked with anger. He hadn’t been staking his claim; he’d been defending her.