Page 9 of Wraith
Leena stands abruptly. She glides over to her sister. Ami looks up, and the relief in her eyes is obvious. Leena bends down, her auburn hair nearly sweeping the tabletop as she exchanges a few words with Ami.
I shove back my chair just in time to hear something about a woman’s greatest power lying between her legs. Yeah. Good advice. Probably the best Ami ever gave to her sister. Fuck, is she right. Because I’m sure that Leena’s cunt is so beautiful it would bring me to my knees. A position I’d be happy to stay in for hours if it meant my face was buried between her creamy thighs.
Without any further ceremony, I sweep Leena into my arms. She lets out a shocked protest but has no choice but to wrap arms around my neck and hang on. The dress is tight at the bottom, restricting her legs. I carry her through the hall, ignoring the shouts and cheers that send us off, outside to the parking lot. She weighs nothing at all and even when she starts thrashing, her tiny body is no match for me.
My dick, on the other hand, stands up and salutes all that protesting.
I set her down roughly beside my bike, trying like hell not to notice how her skin is so fucking petal soft or how she smells good, like fresh air and rain and the open road, vanilla and flowers, and everything else that is sweet and fucking intoxicating.
The frustration welling up inside of me, twisting and churning at my stomach and compressing my throat makes me want to find a wall and put my fist through it. Instead, I take it out on her dress, because there is no way in hell she’s getting on my bike in that thing otherwise. Grabbing her dress, I rip it roughly along the small slit in the leg. The fabric and lace tears, giving easily against the onslaught of masculine brutality.Yeah. This shit was made to be ripped off.
“You know, this could work,” I say roughly, as I tear the other side of her dress. She won’t be needing it again anyway. “It works out all the time in romance novels. Arranged marriages and whatnot.”
Leena snorts indignantly. “Romance novels? Because you’ve read so many?”
I grab the extra helmet I brought with me, off the handlebars. “Actually, I have. My mom used to leave themaround the apartment all the time. She liked to get lost in them. It was better than her own life, I guess. At least for a while, she could escape.”
Leena goes completely rigid, like a rod was just jammed up her spine. Finally, she reaches out and takes the helmet from me. “That’s not stuff you should share with a stranger,” she says, and it’s impossible to unravel the emotion in her voice, and not just because I’m shit at trying to decode that type of stuff.
“You’re not a stranger,” I correct, refusing to lose the levity in my tone. “You’re my wife.”
“Yeah, well those stupid books are just romance novels. Dumb shit. I’ve never read one. I wasn’t allowed to waste my time with garbage like that.”
“Sounds like you read some pretty boring shit then.”
Since she makes no move to put the helmet on, I take it from her hands and plunk it down on her head. She goes to protest, but I cut that off too. Gripping her by her hips I set her down hard on the back of my bike. I get on after, rolling out of the lot and giving her no choice but to wrap her tiny arms around my waist as I tear off into the night.
My cock loves her death grip. I just wish she’d move her hands down a little lower, maybe give a few good strokes while she’s at it…
Leena doesn’t scream. She doesn’t make a sound. She clings to me like a second skin and maybe it’s actually a good thing her arms ride high up on my chest or she might get more than she bargained for, because my cock really enjoys having herat my back and I’d like to do more than last for all of five seconds with my new wife. That would hardly be impressive.
When we get to the house, a little one-and-a-half-story war time construction that’s definitely seen better days, one I bought for next to nothing and spent a hell of a lot of time fixing up, I don’t give her time to admire or judge it—probably judge it. I sweep her up in my arms and cart her to the front door. I’m not terribly romantic, I really did read those novels for lack of something better to do, an escape of my own, but I’ve done little more than straight upfuckingin the past, nothing romantic about it.
“Abby will be so happy to meet you,” I grind out roughly, right before I throw open the door and carry my new bride over the threshold, helmet and all.
To be greeted by a house full of shit.
Literal. Actual. Stinking. Shit.
Chapter 6
Leena
The yellow one-and-a-half-story house with a quaint little porch, and a red door on a quiet street lined with houses that look just like it, wasn’t what I was expecting. Or rather, I had no expectations for the house.
I just wasn’t expecting to be carried across the threshold of my new house by my new husband and be greeted with a stench that is straight from hell. I’m trying to figure out who Abby is, when I realize that the smears covering the walls, the hardwood floors, the furniture inside, aren’t some random chocolate meltdown.
I nearly gag and, despite how annoyed I am that the Neanderthal thought he could rip my dress in half, drop me on his bike, and manhandle me into the house, I turn my face into his broad, warm chest to escape the smell.
Wraith turns right back around, a full-on pivot with that long stride that would have made my high school basketball coach proud. He stalks silently into the warm night and then his arms shift and he sets me firmly down onto the porch.
I whirl and catch sight of his burning dark eyes. “Stay here,” he commands, but his lips edge up at the corners.
He slams his way back inside, leaving me standing there, open mouthed, in a strange neighborhood, after the most horrendous day of my life.
The lost little girl part of myself, that scared, insecure being that lives inside of me, urges me to wrap my arms around myself protectively. I do, rubbing my arms like it’s cold out, even though the humidity is so thick that it nearly unravels my curls. It plasters my hair to my forehead and my skin feels damp, like I’ve just stepped from the shower.
The house is kind of cute, even though I don’t want to admit it. At least from the outside. The little porch with the overhang fronts a symmetrical building—two windows, one on either side of the door. It’s actually quite picturesque, as though a young, artsy woman was responsible for the choice. I mean, the place has a red door. What guy picks out something like that?
