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  • Home > Chelle Bliss > Men of Inked > Without Me (Page 3)     
    Without Me(Men of Inked #7) by Chelle Bliss
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    “I am, but you can call me Kitty Meow.” She grinned and arched an eyebrow.

    “I love petting a beautiful pussy,” I purred, moving a little closer to her, “cat.”

    “You’re truly a sick fuck, man.”

    “Anthony,” I responded, wanting to hear her say my name.

    She moved closer, just as I had. Our bodies were close enough that I caught a whiff of her perfume. The muskiness with a hint of flower made my head a bit dizzy. I wanted to inhale her, fill my senses with her, but I thought that would be pushing the envelope. No one ever said that I was a pansy.

    “Thanks for the drink, Anthony.”

    I didn’t waste the opportunity. I moved my face close to her neck and inhaled deeply. Closing my eyes, I let the scent fill my lungs. It was heavenly and made me want to see if she tasted as good as she smelled.

    “You’re welcome, Kitty Cat.”

    She drifted away just as my lips were reaching for the flesh of her neck.

    “Fuck,” I mumbled, missing the opportunity to lick her bronzed skin.

    “Not happening, Tony.” She shook her head, grabbed her drink, and polished it off. “You have a good night.” Then she set her glass down on the bar and picked up her purse.

    As she turned to leave, I grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward me. I felt the jolt of electricity that passed between us at the simple touch.

    “You can’t leave yet.”

    She looked at my hand and then to me. I couldn’t tell, but I bet she felt it too. That lightning that rarely strikes, the thing we all search for. A spark.

    “Give me one good reason,” she said, her eyes drifting back to where we were connected.

    “I’m not done with you.” It wasn’t the best line I’d ever given, but I had been thrown by the unexpected zing I’d felt when touching her.

    “Well, I’m done with you.”

    But the funny thing is, she didn’t pull away. When a woman was truly not interested, they’d try to get away or slap me in the face. It had happened once. Only one time in my life had a woman turned me down. I chalked it up to the fact that she was probably into pussy more than cock. Why else would she have said no?

    “No, you’re not.” I brought my lips within an inch of hers. “You know you’re not. Don’t you feel it?”

    “You’re delusional as well as an asshole.” Her eyes sparkled. The hint of possibility wasn’t lost on me.

    I tightened my grip, but not enough to hurt her. Then I pulled her close enough that I could feel her breath on my face. “Tell me you don’t feel it?”

    “I don’t.” She glared at me and lied through her fucking teeth.

    “Why aren’t you pulling away then, Kitty?” I asked, knowing she felt it every bit as much as I did. I didn’t want to be with another human being on this planet, and I’d bet neither did she.

    As soon as I asked, she tried to tug her arm away, but I kept my hold on her. She didn’t make me believe she meant it.

    “I don’t know how you’ll react if I do.”

    “Liar,” I teased, releasing her wrist but keeping my body close. “Let me buy you one more drink, and if you still think I’m an asshole, I’ll leave you alone forever.”

    She didn’t answer right away, looking between the door and me. When her eyes locked on to mine, she finally answered, “Okay. If that’s what it takes to get you to leave me alone forever.” Then she shrugged, set her purse back on the bar, and sat down on the stool. Raising her hand, she motioned to the bartender, holding up two fingers.

    She wasn’t going to make it easy on me. I’d have to work for it. My mother always told me that the best things in life needed to be earned and not given.

    “So, what do you do, Kitty?” I asked, genuinely interested in more than her body. I wanted to know the woman. What made her tick? More importantly, why was she so damn pissy when it came to me?

    “I’m a personal stylist,” she replied, keeping her eyes focused on the bartender.

    “So, like, you pick out clothes for other people?” I asked, surprised at her answer. It wasn’t that she didn’t look the part, but jeans and a T-shirt weren’t the attire I’d think a stylist would be caught dead in.

    “Yes. I help with their entire look.”

    As the drinks were set in front of us, I slid a twenty across the bar and settled the bill. “You shop for a living?”

    “Yes,” she answered as she lifted her drink.

    I’d hoped for more than curt answers, but felt that nothing would be easy. Maybe the more liquor I got into her system, the easier it would all become.

    I must’ve looked surprised, because she asked, “Shocked?”

    I tilted my head and studied her. “Not entirely. You have the look of a fashionista, but I wouldn’t expect you to be caught dead in jeans.”

    “Fashionista? I hate that word.” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re not gay, Tony?”

    I closed my eyes, and inhaled before opening them. I wouldn’t let her get me worked up. She was baiting me, and if I weren’t careful, she’d accomplish her goal.

    “Honey, if you give me the chance, I’ll prove how wrong that question is.”

    She chuckled. A full-on laugh bubbled out of her as she tipped her head back. The sound was magical. When she let her guard down and showed happiness, she was even more beautiful.

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