Prologue
Jensen
London
I took a long sip of my whiskey as I watched the cocktail waitress with the long, dark blond hair and the most interesting green eyes I had ever seen on anyone.
They were huge on her small, too-delicate face, standing out above high structured cheekbones. I couldn’t decide if she was beautiful or not. She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional way, but there was something alluring about her presence, something I couldn’t leave alone.
Like a scab on the knees of a seven-old-child, I wanted to pick at this sudden interest I had in her until I made myself bleed.
Her lips were painted in a bright red, and I wondered if the color would stay on if her mouth was occupied with something else. I shifted a little at the thought.
She was slender, with small shoulders, small waist—hell, small everything. And if it made me an asshole to notice her perky little tits pressed tightly against that tiny little thing they called a shirt here, then so be it.
She’d be small in my hands, no doubt about it. I would have to be careful not to squeeze too hard. I bet her nipples would be pretty. Pretty and small. My mouth watered at the thought of taking them in my mouth, teasing her.
Would she like that? Did she get off on nipple play?
Or was she the kind of girl who liked her clit touched and teased?
I didn’t know, but I really wanted to find out.
I didn’t know what it was about this woman that got to me so bad, but she did.
I was usually used to more robust women. Women who didn’t look like they’d break from my weight or rough treatment when I moved inside them, bringing us both to the brink of ecstasy.
This girl looked too fragile, too innocent… too young.
At least for me.
Then she let out a soft feminine laugh about something a customer just said, and fuck, I forgot all about that.
I wanted her.
I adjusted the hard-on I was currently sporting and took another long sip of my drink.
She was a little taller than average, but definitely not taller than my six-foot-three frame.
I estimated her to be about five foot six or five foot seven. Her hair was tied up in a high ponytail, and even still, I knew the length was long. I had the urge to pull the hair tie away so I could run my fingers through the strands.
She straightened from where she had been bent at a nearby table, talking to the two men there. A bit of irritation ran through me at the hint of interest in those men’s eyes, and I didn’t know why I was feeling like this.
What right did I have to be possessive of her?
She looked my way then, and I hated the way my heart reacted when our eyes connected. She paused for a miniscule of a second, so quick I wouldn’t have noticed it had I not been paying attention.
But I was paying attention.
I had been paying attention since the moment I stepped foot in this bar, and she came to my table, asking what I would like to drink.
Emilia.
She said her name was Emilia. I knew she spelled it with an “E” since I read it on her name tag when she bent down to take my order, drawing my eyes to the gap in her shirt.
Interesting name for an interesting girl.
She was also an American.