The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,8
I didn’t pull away, even when danger began humming around me, thickening the air, depriving me from oxygen.
Play with monsters, but don’t be surprised when you get beaten.
“No. I had to find myself at a young age.”
“Lucky you.”
“I wouldn’t use that word to describe me.” He chuckled.
“Not Irish, then?” I couldn’t help but probe.
He didn’t look Irish—he was too tall, too broad, too tan—but he had that Southie accent most blue-collar Irish men sported.
“Depends on how you look at it,” he answered. “Back to the subject at hand—your being lost.”
“Yes, right.” I cleared my throat, thinking about her again. “I don’t think I’ll ever find myself. I don’t have many friends. In fact, I only had one really true friend, and she died today.”
“There is nothing to find. Life is not about finding yourself. It’s about creating yourself. There’s something liberating about knowing your own bones, all the things you are capable of. Being unapologetically yourself makes you invincible.” His voice seeped into me, hitting roots. Our fingers tightened together. Our cart jerked here and there while zombies sent arms flying in our direction, trying to catch us. People around us giggled and screamed.
He hadn’t said he was sorry for my loss like everyone else had. “And who are you?” I breathed.
“I’m a monster.”
“No, really,” I protested.
“It’s true. I thrive in the dark. My job is to implement fear, and I am some people’s nightmare. Like all monsters, I always take what I want.”
We reached the highest point. The peak.
“And what I want right now, Aisling, is to kiss you.”
The cart jerked back, screeched, then tipped down, falling at an increasing speed.
The stranger muffled my scream with his mouth. His hot, salty lips sealed mine possessively. All my inhibitions, fears, and anxiety evaporated. He tasted of cigarettes, mint gum, and sex. Like a man. I let go of the rails, clutching the thin fabric of his black shirt, drawing him close, drowning in what we were in that moment. A monster devouring a princess, with no knight in sight to save her.
He tilted his head and cupped my cheek, his other hand cradling the back of my head. His tongue prodded my mouth open, touching mine—gently at first—before I let our kiss deepen. Our tongues twisted together, dancing, teasing, searching. My stomach dipped, and my anxiety dissolved.
The world felt different. Brighter. Bigger.
Warmth pooled between my legs, and my groin rocked forward on its own accord. I felt achingly empty. I squeezed my thighs together just as I felt a lash of fresh air on my face.
The ride was over.
We were back out.
He broke our kiss, drawing back, his face expressionless. Terrifyingly calm.
The girls in the cart behind us mumbled “holy shit” and “that was hot” and “yeah, it’s definitely him, Tiff.”
Him who?
“First kiss, huh?” He wiped a smudge of saliva from the corner of my mouth with his thumb, cold amusement dancing in his eyes. Like I was a toy. Something laughable, replaceable. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
The girls behind us giggled. My soul fired up its imaginary laptop and opened Zillow in search of a suitable place to bury myself from shame.
“Are you seriously not going to tell me your name?” My voice came out hoarse. I cleared my throat. “Imagine if you really were my first kiss. I could be scarred for life. You might traumatize me. I’d never be able to trust another man again.”
Stoner Guy flung the metal bar open, striding down the line of carts. “Time’s up. Everybody out.”
The stranger smoothed my hair away from my face.
“You’ll survive,” he croaked.
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Don’t underestimate me. I know a whole fucking lot about people. Besides, I already told you, my name is Monster.”
“Now, that might be your nickname—” I started.
“Nicknames are more telling than birth names.”
I happened to agree. My father called my older brother, Cillian, Mo Orga, which meant “my golden” in Irish Gaelic, and my middle brother, Hunter, Ceann Beag, which meant “little one.”
He never nicknamed me anything.
My name meant vision, a dream. Perhaps that’s all I was to my father. Something that wasn’t real, tangible, or important. I was meant to be an idea. A pretty vessel for him to parade and exhibit.
A little daughter, pretty, prim, and proper, without the pressure of breeding me for some big role. To take over his company one day. To give him male heirs to continue his legacy. I was my mother’s gift from him, and I played my role, doting over her, fulfilling her