Too bad I’m going to make her face it anyway.
25
Echo
The moment I stepout of the hotel room bathroom, Crew’s gaze drags my body.
“Are you trying to fucking kill me?” he asks, drawing his joint to his lips and taking another hit. Looking too damn good in dark gray jeans and a solid black T-shirt.
He pauses at the short hem of my dress.
Even if I usually wear casual shorts and nostalgic Tees, I know how to get attention when I want it. And here, in Oakland, far away from eyes that could catch us, I want Crew’s full attention no matter how bad it is.
Which is why, when he said we’re going out tonight, I stopped by a little shop on the corner and bought this outfit.
The dress is short, made entirely of black lace. The hem barely covers my ass, leaving a gap of bare thigh between my thigh-high nylons and leather boots. The dress is a halter, which wraps my neck with a leather choker.
“You deserve it for being an asshole.”
I walk over to Crew, and the moment I’m within reach, he snakes an arm around my hip and pulls me to straddle his lap.
“Careful.” He brushes his lips over mine. “Pissing me off makes me hard.”
He grinds me down on his lap, and he’s not lying.
“You ready?” He skates his fingers over the back of my neck, watching me.
I nod but can’t help biting my lip. As much as I want him to fuck me right now, the idea of walking around the city with Crew at my side, and not having to pretend his brother’s in the picture, is far more enticing.
Climbing off him, he helps straighten the hem of my dress before running his thumb and forefinger along the edge of the front of it.
“You and your fucking outfits.” He shakes his head, putting out his joint and standing up. “I’m going to enjoy making you pay for this later.”
I can’t help the shiver that climbs my spine. Anticipation he inflicts like a form of punishment. While he knows I’d gladly let him fuck me right now for testing him, he won’t. Crew would rather have me begging before he gives me what he knows I want.
Like he’s reading my mind, he smirks at me, grabbing a jacket off the chair and shrugging it on.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask as he opens the door to the room and waves me through it.
He catches my wrist as I pass him and draws his hand to my jaw. “To Hell, Goldilocks. Where your destructive little soul belongs.”
I figured Crew was joking.
He wasn’t.
Hell is actually a place, and the booze is flowing as sex practically bleeds from the walls.
The bouncer lets us skip the long line, nodding at Crew like they know each other. And Crew leads me into a crowd so thick, their bodies throb with the screaming coming from the band performing.
I don’t recognize them, but they sound like all of Crew’s favorite music—angry, unhinged. I can’t make out a word, and my ears are already nearly numb.
Crew leads me into the madness, zipped to his side. His grip tightens on my hand the more people there are, and it’s protective—comforting even—from a man who should probably scare me.
The dance floor is packed with people, elevating the temperature in the room as they pulse to the beat. For a moment I think Crew’s taking me to the center of it. Instead, he tightens his hold on my hand and continues to weave through.
He glances back at me over his shoulder, and for a moment the light catches his gray eyes. A shimmer that holds the line between devious and downright wicked.
When we make it past the dance floor to the bar, he props himself against a stool and slips out of his jacket, widening his legs so he can cage me between them. One tattooed arm is wrapped around my waist while he waves for a bartender.
