Her eyes widen slightly at my words, and it’s her only show of weakness. Her breathing is controlled. Her pulse is steady. And I wonder if she’s trained herself to keep her composure, or if she’s not affected by me at all. When I run my tongue up the side of her neck, and she shivers, I get my answer. Tilting her head, I shake the salt onto her velvety-smooth skin and lick. Then, I kiss her.
The tiniest of moans escapes her and I catch it with my mouth, moments before I pull away. I release her wrist and hand her the shot, then grab my own. And her fight for control is lost as her pulse beats heavily against the hollow of her throat.
I lift her legs before standing, then lay them back across the empty stool. I throw a bill down on the bar and give Mick a nod. Before I leave, I can’t resist making her head spin one last time. She might be good, but I’m the best.
Rubbing my thumb across her bottom lip, I pull it from between her teeth. She’s still breathless and reeling. I can only imagine what she’ll be like when she’s beneath me. “See you around, pretty girl.” I walk away, and it takes only three steps for her to call my name. I smile because she can’t see me, but when I turn, my face is void of every emotion.
“You never asked me my name.”
I want to smirk, but I hold it in. “That’s because I already know it.”
Her brows draw together in confusion. I watch as she fights hard to remember when it was she told me. Before she says anything else, I put her out of her misery.
“Good night,” I say, finality in my tone. My voice drops slightly before I add, “Diem.”
The last image I have of her is with her mouth slightly open, shock on her face and a flash of heat in her eyes.
And my newfound knowledge was worth every dime I paid Mick.
* * *
“There’s not a fucking thing to eat in this house,” Rookie told me the last time he was over. He and Tank had been slamming cabinet doors in my kitchen, looking for food. I guess they thought the more noise they made, the more likely they would find something. Dumb-asses.
“I mean you ain’t even got a loaf of bread or a can of beans,” he’d continued. “Beer and water. How do you survive off that shit?” It was late and there’d been nothing open within fifty miles. I’d felt guilty about my brothers going hungry. I’d been there before.
So today, I’m at the grocery store, shopping for what is probably only the fifth time in my entire life. I usually live off of takeout. Mostly because nothing makes a man feel more like a domesticated pussy than pushing a buggy alongside a shitload of soccer moms.
I’m in the cereal aisle, grabbing random boxes and tossing them in my cart, when my knees nearly buckle from the impact of a buggy hitting me at my ankles. Turning slowly, I expect to see some snaggletoothed, snot-nosed kid with a Kool-Aid ring around their mouth. What I see is Diem.
“Oops,” she says, giving me an apologetic smile that I know is fake. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Really?” My eyes center on her blue mouth. Well, I got the Kool-Aid stain right. She’s leaning on her elbows, holding a blue snowball in her hand. When she wraps her lips around the ice and sucks the juice from it, I suppress the urge to groan. A part of me wonders if she did that shit intentionally. “What you buying?” She walks up to me, leaning over and surveying the contents of my cart. “Cereal, bread, peanut butter, and canned beans. Hmm. Sounds delicious.” She flashes me another blue smile and my lips twitch. Although she’s annoying, I find her interesting.
Turning, I glance into her cart. “Juice boxes, nabs, NyQuil, frozen pizzas, and Popsicles. Well,” I say, with a smile. “The kids will be happy.”
She gives me a disgusted look. “No kids.”
“What about a husband?” I ask, in my shitty attempt to pry into her personal life.
Shaking her head, she takes a bite of the blue ice before answering. “I killed him.”
“With your cooking?” I smirk, and her eyes narrow on me.
“I’m actually a really good cook.” Sure she is.
With challenge written all over her face, she smirks at me. “Let’s make a bet. If you can guess what my favorite dinner is, I’ll cook it for you.”
Well, that’s hardly fair. “Don’t I get a hint?” I ask, wondering why in the hell I’m playing along with her silly game in a supermarket. Not to mention, I’m actually enjoying it.
“It’s on that aisle,” she offers, waving her hand toward the next aisle over. I look up and see the sign that reads “Pasta.” Judging by the items in her cart, I’m sure her skills are limited—leaving only one possible answer. Well, that was a little too easy. She must really want to cook for me.