They're mine, I think as I look at them, one by one, dirty thoughts ticking past inside my head. “What the bloody fuck are you up to over there, Miss Lilith Tempest Goode?” Paxton asks as he kicks one of his expensive loafers up against the wall. “You look like you're ready to go on the hunt or something.” “So … you've never had a groupie take care of you before a show?” I ask, and I almost don't recognize my own voice. It's thready, husky, low and dripping. I sound a little like Ransom in that moment. “Did I say that?”
