Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 21

Chapter 21

She’s doing it again. Speaking to me like I’m a naughty child. In front of another man. A man who is, obviously, a plebeian.

And that smile, that saccharine smile she’s directing at me, makes me want to put her over my lap, spank her gorgeous ass till it turns red with my hand print, and then fuck said ass until she screams my name and begs for my forgiveness

I do none of those things, though. Again, submitting to her whims, I turn my attention to Michael, reach out with my hand, shake his once, and answer with only, “Hi”

k you, Thane,” she singsongs at me, before turning her attention back to Michael, Fucking brat.

“Thank

Feigning nonchalance, I stare off into the distance as if I’m not intently listening to every word they say as they talk like old friends.

First, about mundane things, like the weather, and how her date went last night. Date? What fucking date? My attention sharpens, needing to

But I keep my mouth shut, hear her response so I know who to rip apart. She doesn’t give him a definite answer, though, making me suspicious

for now.

Then, with his next question, my blood boils and I’m ready to commit first–degree murder in front of her, consequences be damned.

While scratching the back of his neck, he asks, “So, would you like to still go out for coffee sometime?”

Harley shuffles on her feet, as if nervous. Why is she nervous? “Uhm, can I get back to you on that? With this shipment of books you just brought me, I will be busy for at least the next week.”

Why is she not telling him no? Why is she not throwing him out of her house?

“Of course,” he says with a hint of disappointment, but then adds with a genuine smile, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Harley smiles at him but doesn’t elaborate on his comment. She then says, “Thanks for this though, as she points to the box, “but it could have waited until Monday. Now your whole Saturday is ruined because of me.”

Then this motherfucker seals his own fate with his following sentence, “It was no trouble at all, and getting to see your pretty face could never ruin something for me,” while smiling at her sheepishly.

She blushes, fucking blushes, and then replies with a simple, “Thank you.”

Michael then leaves, looking at her like she had hung the moon for him. Even shouting, “Bye, Thane, over his shoulder before she shuts the front door behind him.

When she walks back into the living room, I’m still sitting in the recliner, my arms again crossed over my chest, and looking unimpressed.

“He smells…off,” I say.

“You mean like…Axe body spray and broken dreams?” she taunts me, and my lip almost twitches. Almost. What the hell?

“No, like he drinks too much and has high cholesterol. You should stay away from people like that,” I say, secious as shit, because I picked up on it the moment he walked in. Heightened senses, remember.

With that, the

that, she does something that

at shatters my whole world and ruins me forever.

She bursts out laughing. And it is the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my entire existence. It’s tinkles like windchimes on a breezy day. It’s light and airy like a hot air balloon chasing a sunset. It’s sweet and tantalizing like the finest Swiss chocolate.

I

I would kill for that sound. I’d die for that sound. It is the first thing I have ever craved beyond blood,

As the calms down, there’s a rosy blush to her cheeks, and her eyes are watery with unshed tears of laughter. And she’s never been more beautiful to me than in this moment of unguarded emotion.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, laughter still in her voice as she heads over to sit on the couch and open the box Michael delivered.

Then she starts unpacking book after book after book, her smile growing wider with every

ry cover she reads, excitement building within her.

“Oh god no, nothing so tedious and dreary,” she replies, unable to pry her eyes from the unpacked colorful covers. “These, my friend, are works of art by wordsmiths who know the inner workings of a woman’s mind.”

“You mean feminist literature! Like Simone de Beauvoir’s ‘The Second Sex?” I ask seriously because that’s all that comes to mind when she

“Just how old are you?” she asks conversationally, still not making eye contact with me, “What, were you around when Shakespeare wrote his

“He had a filthy mouth when he was drunk,” I reply, dead serious, but she thinks I’m joking by the way she chuckles.

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