Angel Blood

12- Not Drunk Enough (18+)

((Spice warning - 18+))

For a moment, I think he's going to grab me and chain me back to the bed. His forehead ticks, jaw clenched so tightly it looks painful.

But he doesn't. He closes his eyes for a moment, seemingly gathering the willpower to keep his cool. When he opens them again, his face settles back into its perpetual state of lazy wickedness.

He leans his hip against the sink, taking his time looking me over in the tiny black dress, and then picks up his glass and downs the rest of his liquor with ease.

"I'm not the only monster here, angel. You go out there and you'll be surrounded by them."

I almost laugh. I doubt there's anyone more fearsome than Sinclair Black, but I nod as if I'm considering his words. "I'll keep that in mind."

He says nothing, looking oddly intense as his eyes glare into mine. I turn before he gets the urge to stop me, tensing as he calls out one last time, "Angel."

My fingers still around the doorknob. "What?"

"For fuck's sake, don't get shit-faced this time."

...

I don't have a plan for tonight. If anything, partying was far from my mind until I saw Amber all over him and couldn't decide if I wanted to strangle both of them or take her place.

God, I need to get laid. At least to wipe the memory of Sinclair from my mind. Create a clean slate.

That's why when a blond-haired man slides into the spot next to me at the bar, I flash him a flirty smile.

He returns the favor. "Hey."

"Hi."

"You're hot."

I laugh, unsure if I should be flattered or disgruntled. He's alright looking as far as human men get. Fair-haired, blue-eyed. Square jaw, cleft chin. From his aura of arrogance, I'm guessing girls usually fall over him—girls that haven't been hypnotized by a certain brooding set of steel-colored eyes at least. "You're forward."

"I usually am when it comes to getting the things I want."

My fingers tap around my vodka as I hold back a grimace. I take a sip, reminding myself of what matters—the dangly bit that hangs between his legs.

I never thought I'd lose my virginity to a douchebag at a bar, but I guess life throws you all sorts of turns you never expect. Like getting kidnapped by a demon and craving his touch with the depravity of a middle-aged housewife that hasn't been fucked by her husband in years.

I smile around my glass, hoping I don't look as tense as I feel inside. "Is that so?"

He grunts, glancing at my nearly empty cup. "Can I buy you another glass of that?"

It's another brand I've never heard of. I asked them to give me a glass of their most expensive liquor. I shrug, smiling crookedly at him. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. "Sure."

Once I'm nursing my second glass, I notice he's transfixed on something behind me. He notices the way I stiffen, throwing me a small smile.

"Have a boyfriend?"

"Um," I glance behind me, half-expecting Sinclair to emerge from the sea of bodies and throw me over his shoulder "No?"

"Huh," he says, drumming his fingers on the bar. "That guy's been staring at you since you sat down."

I turn my head, frowning. Sure enough, a man sits at the far end of the bar. He smiles as his eyes meet mine, entirely unapologetic and drool-worthy as hell. His short brown hair is slicked back on his head, hazel eyes framed with lashes so dark I can make them out from several chairs down.