Envy (Seven Deadlies MC Book 1) Page 9

  “I’ve had a change of heart,” He said blandly.

  “Fine. Give me a glass of whiskey.”

  “You got it,” He said.

  “Esmeralda Quinn, you’re looking delectable tonight,” Green said.

  “You sure do know how to compliment a lady,” She giggled as she looked at him.

  He slammed his palms onto the bar and shrugged, his smile handsome as hell.

  “I’m what the people would call a modern Casanova,” He said as he laid one hand over his heart.

  Esme snorted.

  “I’ve literally never seen you with a woman.”

  Torch slid a glass her way and she took it gratefully.

  “I’ll have you know I’ve had tons of women!,” Green argued.

  “Giving your hands different names every night does not classify them as ‘tons of women,’” Limit said from behind Green.

  Esme laughed so hard she almost spilled the whiskey in her glass, but Green started laughing right along with her.

  “Touché, ass hole. Come on, Esme. Let’s go see your man fight.”

  Esme winced at the mention of Axel, and she rushed to tell Green, “He’s not mine.”

  Green slanted her a look that told her he knew that.

  “Woman, I was only joking.”

  “Joking, right.”

  Esmeralda worked double time to swallow the whiskey in her cup as she pressed Prettyboy’s note against her bare thigh.

  “You feelin’ any better?,” Green asked.

  Esme shrugged.

  “How many times can I lose it before there’s nothing left to lose?”

  “That’s a damn good question that only you know the answer to.”

  “I think everyone else is right, and I do need to move on…I just don't know how to do it,” Esme said.

  Green wrapped an arm around her shoulders as he led her through the crowd, closer to the cage.

  “Take some advice from Casanova, okay? Life is fuckin’ short. If Wilder’s death taught you anything, it should be that. Living every day in his shadow is a disservice to his memory. Nobody here is judgin’ you for losin’ your shit, sweetheart. You just gotta remember that whether you want it to or not, life will go on.”

  Esme understood what he was saying, and Green was right.

  They all were.

  Living her life inside of the same four walls dedicated to a marriage that was no longer relevant was doing Chris’s memory and herself a disservice.

  Fuck, she was wasting away.

  The onslaught of memories that she’d been assaulted with since she left Axel’s clubhouse, her home, were brutal.

  Losing Chris, was brutal.

  Yet, here these people were, offering her an alternative solution: happiness.

  She could either wallow in misery, or she could take what the fuck they were offering her, and be happy.

  “You’re right.”

  Green tightened his hold on her as they neared the cage.

  “I know I am.”

  Esme leaned into his warm side as she pulled her note up toward the waning sunlight.

  Her name was written across the front of the small square, just like all the other notes he’d left her.

  Excitement bubbled up inside of her as she began to unfold the letter, but as soon as she realized it was an actual letter, she looked up at Green.

  “Hey, I’m gonna head inside and go to the bathroom. Let me know who wins.”

  Green rolled his eyes as he pointed towards Fury’s end of the cage.

  “Fury always wins.”

  Esme couldn't help but laugh as she called back, “Where have I heard that before?”

  Esme was careful as she headed inside and found the access hatch to the roof. The clubhouse wasn't a tall building, but she could see everything from the fiery sunset to the crowd below as she settled on edge of the roof.

  Prettyboy’s note was practically burning a hole in her hand, so she hurried to unwrap it.

  Esme,

  This one’s a long one.

  I know you like to read, so I didn't think you’d mind it. I hope these notes don't seem juvenile to you, but I never have been good at communicating.

  This note is a little different. At first, I was sure I’d have the courage to tell you this face to face, but alas, I couldn't find the right words to say. Honestly, I’ve been sitting here for hours trying to figure out just what the hell I wanted to tell you, but nothing came to mind…

  Until I thought about your smile.

  It’s amazing how something so simple can change the entire inflection of a conversation, don't you think? For instance, if you knew how often you make me smile, you wouldn't have to wonder about what my intentions are with you. As a man, I should be confident enough to tell you exactly what I want from you, but I guess just like you, I’ve been lost for a while.

  I didn't know what I wanted, until Fury pointed out that maybe, I could have you.

  I understand that you’re hurting. I know how that feels, too. I know how lonely it can feel, even when you’re standing in the middle of a crowded room. Are you ready for my secret, Esme?

  Here it comes: I was there the night of Chris’s wake. I saw you there, in your pretty black dress. I didn't know who you were at first, but I wanted to talk to you that very second. Something inside of me shifted the second my eyes fell on you, but then I realized you were his widow.

  You instantly became untouchable to me, and could I even blame the universe?

  The chances of a woman like you falling for a man like me are slim to none on a good day, and I’m no stranger to that fact.

  Even as you read this, I want you to know that you don't owe me anything. You don't have to respond. I don't expect a damn thing of you.

  But, I thought you deserved a little honesty.

  You asked me the other night if I’m a good man?

  I don’t think so.

  I’ve done a lot of bad in my life, I’ve hurt a lot of people, including people I care about.

  Karma got me good though, it burned up half of my body with it’s fury.

  So, back to the point of this letter-my intentions with you.

  What I want, and what I can have are two very different things. In fact, they depend entirely on you. What I want is to learn you, explore you, memorize every inch of you. What I want is to show you every corner of my soul and know that sharing myself with you will be enough to convince you of my affections.

  I may have done a lot of bad in my life, but I can promise you that the last thing I ever want to do is hurt you.

  I would never hurt you, Esmeralda Quinn.

  Yours if you’ll have me,

  Damon Michael

  Esme stared at the letter in her hands for a long time before she found the energy to fold it back into a perfect square and tuck it into the pocket of her leather jacket.

  Prettyboy’s words were on repeat as they scrolled through her head.

  He knew who I was?

  He remembered me?

  He wants to keep me?

  It was a lot to take in, honestly.

  Damon Michael was a lot to take in.

  Esme’s head was on overload, and for the first time, all she wanted to do was follow her heart.

  Sure, Chris still had a large hold over that particular part of her- why wouldn't he?

  But, would it really be so bad if she let someone else in?

  He wouldn't want her to turn down every man that looked her way, she knew that. But, was it too soon? Did the timing of it all really matter in the grand scheme of things?

  The reality of the situation wouldn't change.

  Chris would still be dead.

  She’d still be right where she was.

  As she sipped her whiskey until the very last drop was gone, she imagined many different ways she could proceed with the information she’d just inhaled like it was the only oxygen she had left.

  She could sink, or she could swim.

  Th
e question was: could she survive Prettyboy’s current?

  Chapter 16

  “Found you.”

  Esme had no idea how long she sat in the dark on the rooftop before she heard Prettyboy’s gritty voice behind her. She didn't bother getting up from her spot at the edge of the roof.

  “You found me.”

  Prettyboy’s heavy footfalls sounded behind her as he neared her, and those damn butterflies were back.

  She felt his fingers weave through her hair as he caressed the side of her face, a gesture she hadn't expected.

  So, Esme stood and turned to face him.

  It was completely dark now, so she could barely make out the lines of his face as he stepped nearer to her, like her own twisted version of Zorro.

  “Did you mean it?,” She found herself asking.

  She knew she sounded vulnerable, wide fucking open, but how could she deny him a glimpse of what he claimed he wanted?

  “Every word.”

  Esme pushed some strands of velvety soft hair out of his face.

  “Why me?”

  Prerrtyboy gently placed his hands, wrapped in fingerless leather gloves, around her waist.

  “Why not you?”

  Esme tried to look into his eyes as she stepped deeper into the circle of his arms.

  He ushered her closer, like he was just as affected by her as she was by him; they were suddenly breathless.

  Breathless, weightless, and standing on the edge of a metaphorical precipice that would take them to a place neither one had traveled before.

  “I’m nothing special,” Esme muttered as she reached for his bandana.

  Prettyboy stopped her at the last second, right before the material fell away and bared to her his biggest secret of all.

  “You haven't figured it out yet?”

  “Figured what out?,” She whispered.

  “You’re everything special, Esmeralda Quinn.”

  His words had her whimpering, her lower lip trembling, her heart skipping a beat: how can one man be so fucking sweet?

  How can one man make me come undone so easily?

  The darkness seemed to crowd around them like a storm cloud as she reached behind his head and undo the knot to his bandana. His long hair fell into her face, wrapping around them like a curtain, as the thin material bunched between her fingers.

  “Can you see me?”

  Prettyboy asked this question hesitantly, and Esme rushed to comfort him.

  “I can barely see anything, baby. I just want to touch you,” She whispered.

  They were so close now, she could practically feel his lips through the bandana.

  His fingers tightened around her waist and Esme slipped from the confines of her shoes and she aligned her body with his.

  The wind whipped around them as she slowly lowered the bandana and let it fall to the ground between them.

  The silence seemed to last forever, and time seemed to slow as Esmeralda buried her fingers in his long hair.

  Prettyboy made a grunting sound under his breath as she inhaled his spicy scent; Esme familiarized herself with the outline of his scarred face because she couldn't see any of the fine details. All she could do, was touch him.

  The cheers from the crowd below grew louder, almost as if they were cheering her on; as least, that’s what Esme convinced herself was happening as she opened her mouth over his.

  Perfect.

  He’s a perfect fit…

  Prettyboy dropped his hands as one arm snaked around her waist and the other gripped her thigh through her skirt. He canted his head sideways as their tongues touched; once, twice.

  Esme was almost certain this was an entirely different experience than what she’d had with Chris, but the thought didn't stick.

  She was too busy falling into something with Damon Michael.

  As he cradled her against him, his tongue sought out hers, his lips caressing hers in a passionate flurry of teeth and hope and whispered promises.

  Her head was spinning so fast she couldn't catch a breath; not with Prettyboy’s hard cock pressing against the inside of her thigh as he seduced her with nothing but his tongue and his skilled hands.

  Esme wasn't sure what was happening until he had her turned around, until he had her pressed against the scratchy brick wall leading to the exit hatch.

  “Tell me you want me to stop and I will,” He whispered frantically as he dipped his head again.

  Esme shook her head no, because… fuck no.

  She couldn't stop, not now.

  She couldn't have one taste of what was quite possibly her saving grace only to turn it away.

  “Don’t let go,” She pleaded as she slid her hands under the tight material of his white t-shirt.

  “I won’t,” Prettyboy promised.

  True to his word, his calloused fingertips slid across her bare skin as he lifted her halter top higher and higher until she was bare to him.

  The night air caused her nipples to harden as he dipped his head and nuzzled the skin of her belly with his beard. She gasped his name, tightened her hold on his hair; Esme was lost, alright.

  Lost in Prettyboy.

  “You’re so fuckin’ soft,” He murmured as he kissed his way towards the button of her skirt.

  Esme whispered his name again when he popped the button loose and tugged her skirt down.

  She watched, amazed, as he dropped a kiss to the apex of her thighs.

  Her mint green panties were sheer, but he didn't seem to mind when he ran his teeth along the edges of her skin.

  His hands ran along the backs of her calves as he kneeled in front of her, his fingertips gliding higher and higher until he was cupping her bare ass. The skirt hit the ground between them, and Esme had no willpower to stop him.

  “Tell me you want me to keep going. Tell me you still want me to touch you,” Prettyboy demanded gruffly. As he looked up at her from his position on the ground, the moonlight caught him just right...and she saw everything.

  Everything he’d been hiding from her.

  The puckered skin that twisted the left half of his face into a red knot of tendons and scar tissue. The bunch of burnt flesh that tugged the left side of his mouth downwards the slightest bit.

  The scars that disappeared all the way into the collar of his white t-shirt.

  Overcome with emotion, Esme’s eyes welled with tears.

  Prettyboy stiffened as one tear escaped and rolled down her cheek, his green eyes immediately searching for his bandana. She could see the shame and embarrassment on his face as he pulled away from her.

  “Fuck, I shouldn't have done this!”

  Esme tugged her shirt down as fast as she could, rushing to stop him as soon as his fingers closed around the black bandana he favored.

  Even though it scraped the tops of her knees, she knelt down in front of him and cupped his scarred face in her hands.

  “Don’t. Put the bandana down, Damon.”

  His hand slowly lowered, taking the bandana with it. His other hand moved to wipe away the tears from her cheeks.

  “You’re crying because you saw my face.”

  Esme’s heart hurt at his words.

  He doesn't even know how beautiful he is.

  “What? No! I’m crying because…fuck, baby. I’m crying because I haven't encountered anyone who makes me feel the way you do, okay?”

  Preryboy didn't believe her, she could tell, so Esme leaned forward to kiss him again.

  And, just like the first time, their need to taste one another far outweighed his fear of her reaction.

  Prettyboy’s hands pushed her jacket from her shoulders and Esme welcomed the cool night air this time as the heat between them rose to a blistering crescendo.

  She had no idea how it’d happened; maybe some things just did.

  Maybe, like a puzzle, some people just fit together.

  Honestly, she hadn't imagined ever finding someone else she ‘fit’ with.

  Esme hadn't thought that comi
ng to the Seven Deadlies’s clubhouse and spending less than two weeks there would change the course of her life completely.

  But, she did like to think that the tiny voice in the back of her head whispering to her that Damon was a good man, belonged to Chris.

  As she untied the top of her halter top, she liked to imagine that the beautiful, scarred man, kissing his way along the column of her neck was sent to her by the very man she’d loved and lost.

  His hands were kneading her soft flesh and her mouth was tugging on his earlobe; and then Prettyboy abruptly stopped.

  “What’s the matter?,” Esme asked worriedly.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Not at all,” She said as she kissed him greedily.

  He groaned, something like the sound of her name maybe, when he reached behind her for her jacket.

  Like a true gentleman he laid his cut and jacket along the ground before he laid hers down too, and suddenly they had a make shift pile of blankets.

  Esme rose to her feet, bare in nothing but her mint green thong, and looked at him.

  Slowly, so he knew that she was completely sober and lucid, she lifted his t-shirt up and over his head.

  He was a lot taller than her, so he had to help, but he didn't seem to mind.

  As it fell to the ground between them, Esme put her hands on his warm skin. Prettyboy sucked in a breath when she followed the patches of scar tissue that were splattered across his side and back.

  “Did I hurt you?,” She asked.

  He slowly shook his head.

  So, she continued until she came to the button on his black jeans. He had a perfect body; planes of muscles and tattoos and scars and in that moment, Esme was almost positive he’d been made for her.

  If ever she had any doubts about that before, she didn't now.

  She couldn’t. Not when it was so blatantly obvious that whatever was happening between them was fated.

  Fated...

  Prettyboy leaned forward to kiss her again as she unzipped his jeans and pushed them down his muscular thighs.

  He worked to removed them, pausing only to work them down around his bad leg.

  When it became obvious to Esme that he was struggling without something to hold on to, she fell to her knees and placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “Thank you.”

  His words were full of mortification, but she didn't mind.