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Her father didn't address the man, but her. "Go cool yourself down."
Misogynistic prick
"I told you," Morana insisted, prodding him. "I was having wild sex with him in the bathroom with you right outside."
Her father sighed. "No, you weren't. You're not that kind of a girl. I raised you better." Morana scoffed a laugh at that. "You didn't raise me at all." She was exactly that kind of girl.
It told her what she’d been suspecting was correct — no one pulled the gun on Tristan Caine. Yeah, well, no one dry humped him against the wall of their father’s house either.
“I don’t know whether to snap your neck or fuck the life out of you,”
fingers brushing over her nether lips,
HER NETHER LIPS I LAUGHED
“I didn’t get the memo that I’d been promoted to a prisoner,”
And then his voice, that voice of whiskey and sin, spoke in death.
“You deliver my death or you let it go.
The scent of wood and musk.
He devoured her while tasting like the whiskey and sin she heard in his voice.
Once again
