Tongue (Ruthless Kings MC #8) - K.L. Savage Page 0,26
Maizey is.
“You’re worth it,” Reaper chuckles, slapping me on the shoulder.
I wouldn’t be too sure about that.
The rotten core inside me always boils over to purge, but right now, it’s barely simmering.
I’m placing a new book on the shelf when I feel the presence again. I inhale, letting the rush roll over my body and energize my heart. The dusty shelf is in the way of my sight, and my breathing picks up when I feel the tension rise. I see specks of leather on the opposite row in front of me, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m caught in a daydream.
Blood rushes to my cheeks when the hint of his cologne hits me in the face. It’s light, like he sprayed it on his cut a few days ago, and it’s lingering and is now influencing my brain. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I can’t think.
His face is blocked by the fan of his shaggy brown hair. His arms are up, gripping the top bookshelf, and the tattoos on his arms swirl around the thick muscle. I can’t see his face, but I remember what he looks like. The shelves are in the way from me having the perfect view of the man who’s been waking me up in the middle of the night.
Without saying a word, I slide a book in its rightful place, and he grabs it from the other side, holding it against his chest. He brings the spine of the book to his nose and sniffs.
“Do you like the smell of books too?” I whisper over the dust and grab another book from the cart, then glide it across the shelf too.
He takes the ‘Moby Dick’ novel from my hands, and our fingers graze together. My mouth drops open when a spark travels into my veins and up my arm. What is it about this man?
“I like the way you smell.” His voice is tinted with a Southern drawl and another unique quality I can’t put my finger on. I close my eyes for a moment as the baritone crawls through my senses and weakens them.
I smile, then nibble on my lip as I double-check to make sure no one is around to overhear our conversation. It’s an odd one, and I don’t want anyone to get alarmed. “Why won’t you let me see you?” I ask him, placing another book on the shelf.
He takes that one too and remains silent.
“Do you like to read?” I question him and pull the cart closer to me to set another book on the case.
“No.”
My brows pinch together in confusion, and I lean in, my fingers wrapping around the wooden edge of the shelf. I stand on my tiptoes to try to get a better view of the biker giant, but his hair is in his face. “Why take the books?” Oh my god, what if he burns them? I can’t let a catastrophe happen like that, even if he’s hotter than any fictional character I’ve ever read about.
“You,” he answers shortly, snagging another copy from my hand.
At this rate, I’m never going to stock the shelf.
“Me? I don’t understand.”
My head falls to the side as I watch him bring another book to his nose. He inhales again, smelling the leatherbound books so hard his shoulders rise from the expansion of his lungs. The leather of his cut stretches across his shoulders as he rolls them.
“What’s your name?” I ask, then step toward the end of the aisle to face him, but he backtracks, moving further away from me, staying in the dark where I can’t see him. “Who are you? Are you going to hurt me?” I whisper, needing to know if everything I’m feeling is something I’ve made up and if he is someone I need to call the cops about.
“Never. I’d-I’d never hu-hurt my co-comet.” Do I make him nervous? He sounds like he can barely speak to me.
“Your comet? Is that what I am? Is that why you’re following me? You are, aren’t you? What’s it mean to be your comet?” I bombard him with a bunch of questions, hoping he will answer one of them.
He falls quiet again. I can’t take it anymore. I run around the bookcase, but he runs behind another one. The one further encased in the dark.
“Please, talk to me. Tell me your name.”
Nothing.
I can hear him breathing. The sounds are harsh, like he’s unable to control himself.