A Match Made in Heaven [Paved the Road to Hell]
Series Metadata
Listing Series
-
Tags
Summary
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then she laughed. Short, sharp and genuine. Dean felt a small surge of triumph. He'd earned that one. She closed the remaining distance between them with effortless confidence. A subtle scent drifted toward him. Vanilla, warm skin. And something else. Something metallic. Dean frowned internally. Gun oil? The thought flashed through his mind and disappeared just as quickly. Plenty of people around here owned firearms. Nevada practically handed them out with driver's licenses. Still, it wasn't a scent he usually associated with women in bars. Before he could dwell on it, she tilted her head slightly, studying him with open amusement.
Dean let his gaze wander. The tank top, the flannel, the denim shorts and the long stretch of tanned legs disappearing into battered cowboy boots. He smirked.
"Those shorts are skin-tight." Her expression remained unchanged. "How do you even get into them?"
A lesser woman might have blushed, or scoffed or thrown a drink. Instead, she leaned forward until her lips were only inches from his ear. Dean felt warm breath brush his skin. His pulse immediately kicked up a gear.
"You can start by buying me a drink."
Series
-
Tags
Summary
The air felt thin, the walls closing in. She wasn't the saviour. She was the guest of honour. Panic surged through her, a blind, instinctive need to get out, to get help. She reached into her pocket for her phone, her fingers shaking so violently she nearly dropped it. She began to dial the sheriff's number, her breath coming in shallow, terrified hitches. Suddenly, a hand clamped around her wrist. The grip was like a vice—cold, hard, and utterly possessive. Mykie let out a sharp yelp, the phone clattering to the floor with a plastic clack. She was spun around and slammed back against the door, the impact knocking the wind out of her. She looked up, and there he was.
Dean.
He looked exactly as he always did, but his eyes were different—dark, bottomless pits of obsidian that reflected nothing but her own terror. He was smiling, but it wasn't the smile she loved. It was a predatory, hungry expression that made her skin crawl. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a low, gravelly purr that sent a shiver of absolute dread down her spine.
"You're just in time, sweetheart," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. "I've been waiting all night to celebrate Valentine's with you."
Series