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Wrath was six feet, six inches of pure terror dressed in leather. His hair was long and black, falling straight from a widow’s peak. Wraparound sunglasses hid eyes that no one had ever seen revealed. Shoulders were twice the size of most males’. With a face that was both aristocratic and brutal, he looked like the king he was by birthright and the soldier he’d become by destiny.
Sigh.. here we go, lol..
Some bridges you crossed on your own, no matter who drove you to the edge.
Vishous came into the room. The goatee he’d recently grown made him seem even more sinister than usual, although the tattoo around his left eye was what really put him into ominous territory. Tonight his Red Sox hat was pulled down tight so the complex markings on his temple barely showed. As always, his black driving glove, used to keep his left hand from inadvertently making contact with anyone, was in place.
Rhage was a towering male, big, powerful, stronger than all the other warriors. He was also a sex legend in the vampire world, Hollywood beautiful with the drive to rival a barnful of stallions. Females, vampire and human alike, would trample their own young to get at him.
Rolling my eyes
Phury was the last, walking through the front door with his limp barely noticeable. His prosthetic lower leg had recently been updated, and he was sporting a state-of-the-art titanium-and-carbon composite number now. The combination of rods, joints, and bolts was screwed into the base of his right shitkicker.
Z was one giant, violent fuck-you to the world. A walking, sometimes talking, usually cursing SOB who took hatred, especially toward females, to new levels. Fortunately, between his scarred face and his skull-trimmed hair, he looked as scary as he was, so folks tended to get out of his way.
That female was dangerous to him. If she could affect him like this without even being in the damn room, she might just be his pyrocant.
Welcome to the wonderful world of jealousy, he thought. For the price of admission, you get a splitting headache, a nearly irresistible urge to commit murder, and an inferiority complex. Yippee.
“You don’t know this yet,” he said grimly. “But you are mine.”
This would piss me off
It was the receptionist, the jacked woman who had arms big as a man’s and no breasts to speak of. Her contradictions never ceased to amaze him. In spite of the fact that a raging case of penis envy caused her to take steroids and pump iron like a gorilla, she insisted on wearing makeup. And doing her hair. In her cropped T-shirt and leggings, she looked like a bad drag queen. She disgusted him.
Well this certainly wasn’t necessary to add??
You freak of nature, he added to himself. Still, Mr. X had to laugh as the door shut behind her. Him. Whatever. Here he was, a man with no soul who killed vampires, and he was calling her a freak?
Why the random transphobia?
“Do you want to know what you taste like?” he said against her breast. One long finger dipped into her body. As if he wanted her to know he wasn’t talking about her mouth. She gripped his back through his silk shirt, scoring him with her nails. “Peaches,” he said, shifting her body, moving downward with his mouth, kissing the skin of her stomach. “Like eating peaches. Silky flesh on my lips and tongue as I suck. Smooth and sweet down the back of my throat when I swallow.”
Oh give me a break!! Nobody tastes like fucking peaches.
