7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
LYNX
Asick obsession has sunk its teeth into me, poisoning me with its venomous bite. And it’s only made worse by the deep-seated curiosity that’s eating away at the remnants of my self-control like maggots on a rotting corpse.
If I’m not careful, those remaining threads are going to snap. And I’ll be sent barreling toward the temptation I’m fighting with every fiber of my being.
It’s all her fault.
Harlow.
She’s sending me into a fit of insanity that I’ve never experienced before in my entire thirty-five years of wandering this godforsaken planet.
And fuck if I’m not loving every minute of it.
I want her. Desperately so.
I want her in my bed, her legs wrapped around me as I fuck whatever demons she’s harboring out of her. I want her in the morning when she’s still half asleep. Late at night when I come home, exhausted from a job and still coming down from the adrenaline high of taking a life.
I want her right fucking now.
But that’s not the part that’s truly concerning.
What’s truly concerning is that I want more than her body.
I want to see the sides of her she doesn’t show the rest of the world. Like her smile. I bet it could bring an entire army to its knees.
Severo is going to kill me for this. And he won’t have a goddamn choice because if the buyer of Harlow’s hit finds out the contract killer assigned to end her life is lusting after her, shit will hit the proverbial fan.
We don’t know who that person is. We don’t know if they’re some government official or law enforcement or someone else who has the power to wipe me from the face of the earth.
I remind myself of these facts all the while lounging in a chair, watching my target sway her hips beneath the black light, expertly swinging around the pole in the center of the room and making my stomach clench with need.
Christ. I’m off my goddamn rocker.
And she’s never looked more beautiful, glaring at me like she’s plotting my death while flipping her glossy black hair around and teasing me with those soft curves I want to run my hands over every inch of.
“You’re killing me, pretty girl,” I tell her.
She cocks a brow when she responds, “You promise?”
I nod once and her mouth hooks into a smirk. It’s the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen yet.
Willing away my erection, I grip the arms of the chair until my knuckles bleach white.
It’s the only way I can keep from touching her. And after seeing the fear on her face when she locked eyes with that pretentious prick out in the lounge, I can’t bring myself to touch her beyond what it takes to restrain her.
I already know she won’t tell me who he is and how she knows him. Or if he’s ever hurt her.
But she doesn’t need to because I have resources, ones I wholeheartedly intend on using the second I know Harlow is behind closed doors, safe from whatever threat he poses to her.
I’ll get my answers.
Later.
But for now …
The song switches and Harlow’s feet come to a standstill. She straightens her posture and stares at me in question, silently waiting for me to order her to take off her top.
My teeth threaten to crack from how hard I’m clenching my jaw.
She takes my silence for an answer and blows out a rough breath, a look of defeat softening her expression.
And when she reaches back to untie her top, it takes every ounce of strength in me to stop her.
“No. Leave it on.”
Her brows furrow in confusion. But there’s relief there too. For some fucked-up reason, that pisses me off.
“Keep dancing.”
She presses her mouth into a firm line and continues on with her performance, every seductive move she makes causing my dick to lengthen in my jeans.
I wonder briefly if she understands how fascinating she is. How beautiful and capable and fucking irritating.
Then I remember she flaunts it for a living so she must. It takes a certain level of confidence to work in a place like this. Stamina and self-control and grit.
And now I’m thinking about how many other men have been in here alone with her, wagging their tongues and flashing their money at her. How many she’s flirted with under false pretenses. How many have had their hands on her.
The thought makes me itchy and hot.
Murderous.
When the third song starts, I cop hold of myself and approach the podium, stopping in front of Harlow. She pauses mid-dance and stares down at me, wide-eyed and sinfully gorgeous as I reach up to brush a strand of hair off her face.
This time, she doesn’t flinch at the contact, her eyes fluttering shut briefly before her shoulders relax a fraction. The caveman in me beats his chest at that small victory.
Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I resist the urge to touch more of her and take a step back.
“Dance like that for another man, pretty girl, and his body will never be found.”