15. Wilder #2
I can tell from the look in his eye, that he has definitely worked out that something has happened between me and Prescott, not that it was hard.
The guy is fucking beautiful, we’re in close quarters, and he’s wearing bruises in the shape of my damn fingers around his neck.
Matteo didn’t exactly need to be a genius to figure us out.
Still, I find my defenses rising, as I glare between my past fuck buddy and my new obsession. “It’s okay, I tend to prefer something a little rougher.”
I hate that Matteo nods in understanding and agreement, but I hate even more that Prescott blushes. Fuck he looks good, too good, and all it does is piss me off. How am I supposed to resist him, when he is looking at me with ‘fuck me’ blue eyes and ‘pull on me’ blue hair?
“It feels good to be myself,” Prescott replies with an easy smile, and it’s so flawlessly perfect that his words almost don’t affect me.
This is how he should look every day, with this careless smile and his head held high, but his homophobic prick of a father keeps him chained in the dark instead.
He better hope I don’t ever meet him, or he will get a piece of my mind in the shape of my damn fist. Cursing inwardly, I neck the rest of my drink, savoring the burn as it trickles down the back of my throat, while pretending he isn’t slowly ruining me.
“Don’t worry, Reed, we will get you laid tonight,” Beck cuts in, collaring him with an arm. “You’ll have your pick of the crop when they see you in this slutty little top.”
That thought hardens me completely, and I slam my glass down hard. “Are we going or what?” I don’t wait for any of them to respond before I am walking toward the exit, already wishing this night was over.
It took almost thirty minutes to get to Tabu, the exclusive night club that Matteo has apparently been to before, and of course he has booked us a table in the VIP area.
It’s filled with deep maroon booths and sleek black tables, all of which come with table service.
I’m now four drinks deep, which brings my total so far for the night to six, and I wish I could say it was because I’m having a good time, but in reality it’s to stop myself from smashing my fist into our waiter's face.
“Here are your drinks,” he purrs, stopping too close to Prescott as he drops them off, and my jaw tightens. “Just let me know if there is anything else you need.” His words are drenched in innuendo and lust, as he lingers for as long as possible.
He’s a beautiful Greek God of a man, because of course he is, and every time he takes our order, he only has eyes for Prescott.
A fact that shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, but every time he flashes his flirty smile, lingering a little longer than he should, I think up more creative ways to cause him pain.
I’m half-tempted to call Caden and ask him to fly here as soon as he can, so he can make him disappear, but that’s probably a little too far.
Still, my stare burns into him until he walks away.
Prescott seems to be relaxed though, and doesn’t appear to mind the attention, which only pisses me off more.
There is no way that guy is the kind of hookup he is looking for, he’s not good enough for him, and I won’t fucking allow him to hook up with some mediocre random just to get his dick wet.
A part of me thinks I won’t let him hook up with anyone at all, anyone that’s not me that is.
It’s just the two of us sitting here now, since Matteo is sandwiched between a couple at another booth, and I’m not sure if they are using him to piss one another off, or if he will find himself in a cuckold situation.
Either way he looks happy to be there, and isn’t paying us any attention.
Beckett and Knox have somehow found twins who look more than keen to spend the night with them, and when I spy one of their phones I groan internally.
I’m sure my cousin is being teased with footage of the four of them as we speak, to fan the flames of whatever fucked-up game it is they play with one another.
There have been a few people, both male and female, who have flashed their stare my way with keen interest, but I have ignored every single one of them, I’m in no mood to entertain them tonight.
I’m praying the alcohol I’m consuming is enough to dull the ache inside of me, one so heavy it feels like I might explode, until Prescott turns to me.
I feel him watching me, the weight of his stare becoming so familiar that it should make me feel uncomfortable, but instead I feel grounded.
“I should probably thank you,” he starts, swaying in his seat to the music, as he sips on his own cocktail. “I didn’t even think about dying my hair for tonight, but it really does make me feel better, so thank you.”
I fucking hate how he is so enthralled by such a simple gesture, but what’s worse is his words lessen the ache inside of me. “It was nothing,” I reply, with a shrug of my shoulders, not letting myself look at him for the hundredth time tonight.
Except then I feel the heavy weight of his palm against my thigh, it pulls my attention back to him like a damn magnet. “It wasn’t nothing to me.” The five words are said with so much conviction that I feel them everywhere, and suddenly my focus is back on his lips.
I’m trying to remember why it isn’t a good idea to kiss him again, but I’m coming up empty.
He looks good every day, with his pretty boy blue eyes and practiced smile, but there is something about him when he’s dressed like this.
When he doesn’t have his walls up and he is letting himself just be, it’s fucking sexy as hell, and I can barely even think straight.
And it was all brought out because of a fucking cheap pack of hair dye and some nail polish.