Don't Look

By: Jessa Kane

My cock grows a good two sizes in my jeans, my beer landing hard on the bar.

Her lips are puffy with a slight vertical crease down the center, smooth and sensual, while somehow remaining innocent. They’re parted just enough to see her pink tongue inside. It’s the kind of mouth women spend thousands getting plastic surgery to replicate—especially in Los Angeles—but they could never duplicate this bow-shaped creation. It’s meant to be painted on a fucking angel and floating at the top of an Italian church.

I watch those boots reverse direction. She’s leaving. She should leave. This is no place for a young girl. But I stand nonetheless, intending to…I don’t know. Question her. Make sure she has a safe way home. Maybe I just want to get a close up look at her mouth. Or to check her identification to make sure she’s eighteen before I tug one out thinking about those lips trailing down my stomach.

You’re going to do it anyway.

She’s almost to the door when another man blocks the exit, his expression a depraved leer. And his hands are lifting to touch the girl’s hips when I lunge forward, the words oh hell no pounding in my skull. Obviously, she isn’t expecting two men to converge on her at once, because her chin lifts, head whipping around—

And I’m lost. I’m fucking lost.

She’s the most beautiful…anything I’ve ever seen in my life. Fine, I’ve lived a pretty gritty life full of bullets and blood, but I’ve also managed to catch my share of sunsets, babies laughing and the Sox winning the Series. I know beauty. Nothing comes close to her. Her eyes are bright gold and fringed in a forest of black lashes. I’m so snared in them and the curiosity there, I almost miss when her coat gapes open and I see what she’s wearing. And the lithe curves she’s barely covering.

Jesus. Christ.

Determined not to let anyone else see the sweet body she’s hiding, I grip her forearm and tug her close. Damn, it feels right. Feels like…my hands were always meant to be on her. That’s insane, though, right? No time to question my odd reaction now. I just know if anyone touches her tonight, it’s damn well going to be me. “She’s mine.”

The dude who almost touched her still has his hands poised in the air. “That right?” He sucks his teeth. “See, I was thinking. I wouldn’t mind having her with me for the night.”

“Would you mind a concussion?” While I stare down the asshole over my brunette’s head, I’m also wrapping the coat more securely around her, belting it in a double knot. Finally, the guy backs down, hoofing it back to whatever dark hole he crawled out of and the tension dissipates in the bar.

I don’t relax, though. Nothing about me is relaxed—and that’s highly unusual. I keep it cool in the most volatile of situations. Comes with the job. But something about this girl and the way she looks at me…makes me feel like a giant. Her giant. It’s almost like I’m accustomed to the sensation of having her eyes on me, but that can’t be right, can it? All I know is I want to smash anything in her path like it’s my God-given duty.

“Come on,” I mutter against her temple, surprised further by the kick in my ribs when she shivers and steps closer. “Let’s get you a drink, goldie.”


There’s always one thing a person deems worthy of a risk.

For some, it’s a child. Or money. A lover.

It’s art for me. Painting. The sound of brush strokes on canvas are like a warm hug to me. The bright blues, yellows and reds are my friends. If I’m going to use those friends, they better give their lives for something worthy. I often wait days for the light outside my bedroom window to be just right, so I can portray a landscape accurately. That doesn’t require risk, though.

This? Walking into a rough establishment in an unfamiliar town just so I can get a close up look at my current subject? Now that’s risky.

Speaking of my subject, he’s nothing like I expected. He guides me to the bar, then plucks me off the ground with two hands around my waist, dropping me onto a stool. And then he just frowns at me under dark eyebrows. When I climbed into the back seat of his Mercedes tonight, I expected him to drive to some flashy club or a girlfriend’s house. Maybe a helipad. Aren’t those the usual destinations of Hollywood billionaires? Never did I expect him to pull up in front of a seedy shack with neon signs in the window. What gives?

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