When Clyde Parker, the wayward son and the rotten-apple of the Parker family-tree, storms his way back into Avery Fields, he sets out a flurry of butterfly effect in Dawn Marshal's life.
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SHE CAME OUT OF the shower, a towel draped around her flushed body and another wrapped around her head, starring down at her fingertips which were shriveled up like prune. The fresh purple love-bite was exposed, tainting the croon of her neck.
With twenty pairs of eyes staring at her from the posters on her wall, she loosened the towel around her body and let it drop on the stilted floor. He gulped. Suddenly his mouth felt too dry, his throat too coarse to articulate words and his eyes roaming all over her body, as much as he tried to still them on the back of her head, he couldn't.
She was humming to a song she had heard on the radio, something tightened in his pants, he was drinking in her existence, drinking her as if she were the last drop of water in a desert.
She was a vision, her porcelain skin flushed, the valleys and hills on her body, the stretch marks on her thighs, the dimples at the bottom of her spine, her plump derriere, the arch of her waist; she was fucking perfect.
His eyes, they traced her skin without ever touching her. His eyes, they danced across her bare body, imprinting their gaze on her flesh.
He licked his chapped lips, looking at her like a parched nomad gawks at a mirage of a palm spring in Sahara desert. Then his eyes narrowed down to the place where her shoulder met her neck and he realized she was wearing a hickey. She was wearing his hickey.
The green monster had crawled into his body and made it a permanent residence. Jealousy resurfaced again. He inhaled sharply, clearly when the lines between love and lust were blurred, it was like skating on thin ice. His senses were heightened lest if the erratic thumping of his heart was any indication and his feelings were on fire.
He would've blended into her postered wall, another face among her boy-band posters if he hadn't let out a strangled grunt causing her to look up at his reflection that fell on her dresser-mirror. The reflection wore a murderous glare, his oceanic blue eyes turning darker and sinister. His jaw was tensed, his fists clenched till his knuckles whitened.
He looked like he wanted to punch a hole through her wall.
But there was something buried beneath the rage in his eyes, something she couldn't put her finger to. The way he looked at her set her body on fire. Heat caved into her body and pooled at her core, red flared on the seams of her ears, crept up her neck till it colored her cheeks.
Hair on the back of her neck stood straight. She wondered how long she could keep on denying it. "Clyde!" She gasped as if somehow earning the ability to form coherent words. Frantic, she bent down to pick up her towel and her dignity that was lying beside her feet.
He was shaken from her trance and when he saw her bent down once again he found himself on the edge, his mind clouded with lust. The bulge in his pants was on the verge of tearing through the zipper. If he wasn't aroused earlier, he surely was now.
