Wild Hyacinthe (Crimson Romance) Page 2

  Relationship? I thought this was about getting laid. I mentally slapped my own hand. I pushed off my stool, stood, and crossed the dance floor to the door. When I stepped outside I drew deep breaths of fresh, spring air, washing away the aroma of alcohol and sweat. Even in the warm, humid breeze, that burn still ignited my nerves. I wanted to go back in. I wanted that man to touch me.

  I broke into a sprint across the parking lot, desperate to shake the urges. He was too good for a homeless girl and I knew it. The vigorous motion of running pressed back the disappointment of total failure to flirt in my months away from home. But halfway down the rows of slanted white, painted parking spaces on pavement, a voice tugged me back and I skidded to a stop.

  “Hey!”

  My heart rate picked up again, though not from the cardio. I knew the face to which that voice belonged . . . I knew it without ever hearing him speak before. I turned around slowly, my arms tense with nerves. “Uh . . . what?”

  It was him, as I’d suspected, feared and hoped all at once. The dark eyes and the chiseled chin, and oh he was even more solid-looking than he appeared from the balcony inside. I pressed my lips together as he slowed from his own jog out the door of the club and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark cargo pants. He cracked a grin at me and shrugged. “Hi.”

  I gulped. Hi? Hi from lips on the body of a Greek god?

  “Hi,” I whispered, and I hoped I only sounded out of breath from running, and not from the urge to strip off my clothes and straddle his flawless face. I mentally slapped my hand again, ordering myself to behave. Acting like a whore wouldn’t get me anywhere with a guy like this.

  Or would it? It didn’t matter. I couldn’t manage more than one syllable around this one, much less hike up my skirt and show some thigh. Er . . . more thigh. I resisted the urge to tug it down and hide.

  He extended his hand, his expression curious. “I’m Asher.”

  I glanced at his hand and back at his face, wishing I hadn’t suddenly reverted to the vocabulary of a toddler. “Okay.” Two syllables. Good job, Aria.

  He frowned and pulled his hand away, tucking it into his pocket. “Asher Chain.”

  I blinked. Then the realization hit me: this was Asher Chain, the man who inherited his parents’ billions when they died six years ago, the Asher Chain who could get any woman he wanted. From the tabloids and TV, playboy, personal trainer, male-model billionaire Asher Fucking Chain.

  Panic seized my throat. If I thought I had little chance of scoring a guy who looked like him before, I was certain of it now: I wasn’t even close to his league. Hell, I was such a nothing beside him I didn’t even have a league. And here we stood in the parking lot, his gaze wandering over my silver-hooped earlobes and cartilage, my black-lace-wrapped arms and bare legs beneath my miniskirt, and even down to the neon socks tucked into my running shoes.

  Asher cocked an eyebrow with interest and stepped closer. “And your name is? Since you already know mine,” he said.

  His voice slipped through my alcohol-lubricated body and I wanted to punch my hormones down into submission as I smelled the faint odor of rum on his breath, and some expensive shampoo or other rich-guy-product wafting off his skin. I met his gaze and was spelled by his eyes: they looked darker than I’d realized, his pupils dilated.

  Is he high? I peered closer. No. His pupils weren’t dilated. They exploded into the white-streaked blue of his eyes like starbursts, the streaks extending through his irises as though a bright, many-pointed star shone behind a smaller, black one. I shook my head, nerves overtaking desire. “Look, I’m not . . . you’re Asher Chain.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. I’ve been aware of that since I was born, I think.”

  Of course he was. “No, I . . . ” I stammered and fought back the urge to run the hell away or pee my pants. “I’m not interested, okay? I’ve got shit to do.”

  “Shit like what?” He raised an eyebrow, challenging me.

  “Shit like run home.”

  “Or,” he held up a finger, “and this is just a thought: I could drive you.”

  I glanced around at the vacant parking lot and Asher did the same.

  “Uh . . . my garage is just a few blocks away, beside my gym. I can go get a car and be back in a flash.”

  I hesitated, so he shrugged. “I’ve only had one drink. I’m good.” He grinned again.

  That grin made me want to leap on top of him and lick his pearl-white, perfect smile until he convulsed against me. Hand slap. “Or,” I held up a finger to mimic him, “and this is just a thought: I could run home.”

  Asher paused, his eyes tight at the corners, as though my refusal confused him. Women probably drank up his words like water in the desert. Hell, I do. But I couldn’t do this, not with him, no matter how badly I wanted to inside.

  “Okay,” Asher said. “Moonlight walk at midnight it is! A little cliché for a first date, if you ask me, but that’s alright.”

  A first date? His candor disarmed me completely, and I didn’t know what to say, so I spun around and broke into a jog, ignoring his advances, racing away as fast as I could.

  “Wait, wait!” Asher called, his feet pounding the pavement behind me. Jesus, how heavy is that muscle he packs around him?

  I stopped and planted my hands on my hips, turning to face him once more. I didn’t want to reject him, especially when he was hotter than any of the many men who had shown me interest in the bars as I sought something I knew I needed. What could I say to a man like Asher Chain, though? Sure, I’d love to come home with you tonight, but in the morning I’ll have to take a cab back to my fucking car where I live like a hobo? To be in his bed would be something of which I’d never dared to dream, something from the books—a fantasy, not real life. But to be the woman Asher regretted having in his bed in the morning . . . well, that was a humiliation too thick for me to swallow.

  He looked genuinely confused as I caught my breath, staring at him again. It was as though he didn’t understand why I said no, why I didn’t melt into putty in his hands, though not for lack of wanting to.

  “Can I get your name?” he asked. “Number? Anything?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry.” My voice caught in my throat with shame. “I can’t . . . I’m not interested, okay?”

  His arms bulged against his shirt as he flexed his fists, angry at my rejection. For a moment, my heart iced with fear. But that fear was replaced by a need so hot inside me I could hardly bear to keep the distance between us. This glorious, beautiful man, every woman’s object of longing and every man’s envy, wanted me. And I refused him.

  He raised his chin, tension rolling off his shoulders in waves and crashing into my defenses, and nodded sharply. “You’d better go, then.”

  Was that a threat? I couldn’t tell. So I tore my gaze away from his hungry eyes, swallowed the tears that threatened my cool exterior and turned around, sprinting across the parking lot. I ran down the orange-lit street and into the night, away from the one thing I’d ever seen that I actually wanted, the man way too amazing for a girl like me.

  Chapter 3 - Asher

  Morning coffee was always a pleasure. I only entertained four affluent customers in my gym, each three days a week for private, two-hour sessions. Exercise kept my need for sex at bay, as did the occasional, casual touch of my clients during workout. Gypsy suggested that the release of endorphins—both mine and that of my clients—during exercise was similar to that during sex, so the profession suited me nicely. I sat at my table at the Lacy Teacup in between clients, the nicest café in the touristy town. It was my table because I paid well for it, tipping my waitress double the tab amount every day. They kept my preferred table open for me at all hours.

  “Mr. Chain.” The café owner’s voice startled me from my newspaper.

  “Yes?” I pressed, irritated by the bother.

  “Forgive me,” the balding man muttered, “but Lisa was offered a sudden internship in Wisconsin. Your waitress will be Aria toda
y. She’s taking over Lisa’s section.”

  “Fine.” Lisa was a cute but harmless lesbian who tended to my coffee needs every day without fail. I didn’t have any sexual attraction to her, so the news did not sit happily. I didn’t want distraction here, in the one place of calmness in my life: my daily coffee ritual.

  I waited a few minutes, the itch to return to the gym and burn off my irritation nagging at my skin. I scratched beneath my watch as I checked the time, rubbed the back of my neck and shifted. Minutes that felt like hours later, feet entered my field of vision beside my own, clothed in bright green socks and adorned with white running shoes.

  I looked up. The nametag over her full breast read “Aria H” and her hair was short, spiky black with a longer streak of blue over her right eye—just long enough to tuck behind her ear. I blinked and swallowed, taking in the sight of the girl who escaped my approach last night. Earrings decorated the rim of each ear: studs and silver hoops from the lobe to the cartilage. Her eyes were bright blue, laced with white throughout. She peered at me with an intense gaze full of intelligence, shaded by long, black lashes.

  The incubus urges within me swelled at the sight of one so full of life. I felt constriction in my chest, the need to charge my body with her life. My pants tightened as I realized how deeply I wanted to fuck her into lifelessness. Wanted to but didn’t want to, all at once.

  “Hi,” she said, her hands folded in front of her midsection. “What’ll you have?”

  I cleared my throat, still stunned by the effect her atypical beauty had over me, and then smiled at her with my usual, winning charm. Well, not always winning, I supposed. Her rejection of me last night was an unprecedented event in my life, and I tucked my hands beneath the table to hide my scabbed knuckles. Rejection made me angry. I had burned off the alcohol and irritation on a freestanding punching bag in my gym last night with bare, bleeding fists.

  “Like my name tag?” Aria asked, taking note of the fact that I hadn’t managed to tear my eyes away from her chest the whole time I sat there and drank in her appearance.

  I cleared my throat and stopped blatantly staring at her cleavage, embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s very . . . uh . . . letters.”

  What the hell? Where was my charm and finesse? I scrambled for something else to say and came up with nothing.

  She giggled. “You wanna try that again?”

  I chuckled and leaned forward, grateful for her good humor with my stumble. “Yes, I do, sorry. I’m Asher.”

  She bit her lip and I wanted to bite it, too. “I think we covered that much last night.”

  She was totally right, and I was being a fucking moron. “So we did. And you’re Aria, as I failed to coax out of you when we last met.”

  She nodded. “So, Asher, what would you like?”

  The list ran through my head at a ridiculous rate. You, naked. Me, naked with you. Your mouth in my lap. Oh, the list went on and on. But that list led to death, darkness, and disgust. No.

  Aria shifted nervously, and then leaned on the table to speak beneath the earshot of her manager. “Look,” she said, “I know who you are, and I’m sorry I don’t . . . Mr. Chain . . . but I need this job, so can you just order something and get it over with, without expecting me to eat your charms out of your palm?”

  I laughed, surprised by the insult in her dismissive tone but nothing close to offended. You don’t eat out of my palm only because I haven’t asked you to yet, sweetie. I couldn’t think of an answer for that, because my mind was still stuck on the idea of sleeping with her. To want the kill this much . . . I couldn’t want it. I was still a man, not just a monster. Right?

  Aria narrowed her eyes at me—cool blue with fine, intricate white lacing through the irises—and licked her lips. “I asked you what you will have,” she repeated.

  “Oh, I will have many things. For me, it’s usually just a matter of when I will have them.”

  “Let’s just stick with food for now, shall we?” she said, her eyebrows lifted with a no-nonsense attitude.

  I stared back at her coolly, surprised she seemed so unaffected by my good looks.

  “It’s rude to stare,” she said. “And it’s rude to wear your sunglasses indoors.”

  I chuffed once and snatched the sunglasses from my face, boring my gaze into hers. She gasped. I rarely exposed my eyes outside of the dark nightclubs where my true colors stayed hidden, and I knew the parking lot had been too dark for her to get a clear look last night. As the incubus part of my soul was functioning at half-strength, hungry and eager, my eyes were lighter around the edges and only dark in the centers . . . fairly normal, I figured. My last kill, Kellie the journalist, was four months ago. My urges started to really kick up this long after a charge. But women found my eyes captivating to stare at, regardless of how recently I’d had sex.

  Aria took a slight step back and averted her gaze. She cleared her throat and refused to meet my eyes again. That was unusual. Unusual was good. My pants grew tighter with each moment she stood, shifting nervously before me.

  Alright, I conceded, she’s hard to get. Could be fun.

  “I’ll have two eggs, sunny side up, two strips of bacon across each, whole wheat toast with no butter, a skim latte with one sugar, and one quartered kiwi fruit on the side.”

  “Very particular,” Aria said, spinning on her heel and retreating to the kitchen without writing a single word down on her pad of paper.

  “I prefer the term ‘selective,’” I corrected her as she strode away, hoping my tone conveyed my flirtatious mood rather than the bossy arrogance I knew I let show sometimes. She ignored me.

  I watched her walk. Her tight, short, black skirt framed her athletic backside. Abs and ass, tits and an attitude. What more could a guy ask for?

  I frowned, realizing that if I could ask for one more thing, it would be to not kill her when I eventually fucked her. I shouldn’t be close with any woman I liked. I’d gotten close with a girl once before. Really close. And the fallout when I ruined it all was enough for a lifetime.

  Aria returned with my coffee and later with my food, giving me a perfect view of her ass both times as she walked away. I ate ravenously and tipped her the usual, doubling my own bill for her benefit. As she stared, shocked at the amount written on my credit card slip, I winked. She was fit, fucking sexy and seemingly unaffected by my charms. A tantalizing challenge.

  That afternoon was rough. My gym was a few blocks from the Lacy Teacup. I was agitated by the disruption of my routine with a new waitress who triggered my lust in ways I didn’t want to indulge just yet. But as my last client for the day left and I climbed the back stairs to my spacious loft for dinner, I glanced in the direction of the café. Streaking out from the back of the building, across the parking lot and down the street was Aria. I could see far from the height of my balcony and I watched her run down the street until she disappeared from sight. Puzzled, I retired to my well-furnished apartment and basked in the comfort of my double king- sized bed.

  I stared at the white wall as I fell asleep, soothed when the white melted away and revealed black streaked with blue like Aria’s hair. Then, as I dozed off, the blue dissolved into black streaks like the hateful reflection of my murderous eyes.

  Chapter 4 - Asher

  I woke with an unusual excitement about the day ahead. I was eager to head to the Lacy Teacup to see Aria again and frowned when I found myself rock-hard and crazy horny in the shower as I thought about her lean, lithe frame. I knew that most normal men would simply jerk off and be done with it, but as the act of intercourse was vital to my survival, the incubus side of me, my sexual side, was immune to masturbation. I could jerk it all day long—and I tried once—and still receive no release, no orgasm, no fuel for my burning need to fuck and kill. I toweled off and stuffed my erection into my boxers and then my khaki cargo pants, slipped on a dark gray t-shirt and headed out into the summery morning, silently begging the sunlight to keep my usual depression away. Excitement was new, a
nd I wanted more of it.

  The drive to Gypsy’s office was short, but every moment of it precious in my Lamborghini. Cars were always a welcome distraction from the stress of my life, the guilt I wore around my shoulders like a heavy backpack of bullshit. I knew my mood could shift dramatically in social situations, and thus I failed to keep many friends. Or any friends, really. Too often, the topic of sex arose in conversations with peers, so I steered clear and allowed the arrogant shield of wealth to protect me in public settings, like clubs and bars. People didn’t often approach me if I didn’t approach them first, and that was best—to keep my demons hidden behind my self-control.

  Cars, though . . . cars didn’t judge. They didn’t randomly blurt out sexual jokes, or invite me to the movie theater where I’d be taunted by unlikely heroines in leather on the screen. I supposed my escape through fast vehicles was a bit similar to Gypsy’s avoidance of social settings, though her reclusive lifestyle was rooted in our shared history as orphans rather than my ghastly truths. But deep down, she and I were not so different from each other.

  Gypsy’s office security patted me down, as always. My parents’ office building did wonders for cooling my obnoxious libido. My sister sat at her desk, looking lovely and all-business as ever. She cocked half a smile when she saw me as I passed through the giant wooden archway to her office. She looked so much like my mother, sitting at my mother’s old desk, that I sighed and strode forward to embrace her.

  My twin hugged me back, stiffly, as was her way.

  “Nothing to report?” Gypsy asked me, and I knew what she meant. I shook my head. No new killings, she would read from my negative gesture.

  “Good.” Gypsy nodded and shuffled forward some papers. “Sign.”

  “What am I signing?” I took up a pen and signed all six sheets before she answered me. I trusted Gypsy with my life, so it didn’t really matter. Hell, she could tell me to sign my own crucifixion order and I’d comply without hesitation. She mattered that much to me: the only person who understood me, who knew of the internal demons I battled and loved me regardless.