Chapter 8
She’s here. The dream girl is here.
She’s on the other side of the conference room, serving drinks.
My fucking keynote speech is over. People are crowding around me, staring at me with that same cloying neediness in their eyes, like vultures getting ready to feast.
The angel looks out of place. She shouldn’t be serving people. Her hair is made of light. She shines as bright as the sun.
I need to drink in the sight of her like I’m dying of thirst. I need to shield her and protect her with my life. My need for her infuses me with a longing so feverish it surges through my veins like wildfire, scalding me.
I try to reach her but the people are holding me. They’re trying to rip me apart.
With raging effort, I break free of them.
The glittering, ethereal mirage of her is disappearing.
No.
I follow her onto Bourbon Street. She’s lit with the reflected neon of Mardi Gras.
She’s the music and the laughter. She’s my thirst and my hunger, so unbearably beautiful I can feel myself going mad with it. I want to put my mouth on her.
I need to taste her.
I’ll die if I can’t have her.
She smiles and blinks at me with those long, curved lashes. Her eyes glow with a thousand fire-branded colors.
I’m wearing jeans and a jacket but no shirt. I’m barefoot. My chest is bloody and my cock is huge and hard. The lust is unbearable. I want to kiss her mouth. I need the hot relief of her. I need to come inside her.
Dallas, she says, in that sweet-as-molasses New Orleans twang. Here. Take this. You gave it to me last night.
Blood drips from her cupped hands.
She’s holding my bloody, beating heart.