Killer Curves

By: Naima Simone



Shoving the disquieting thought aside, she pasted a smile on her face, determined to concentrate on her friend’s happiness. “Where’s your future husband?”

She’d met Shane Roarke a couple of times. Though the security specialist had a reserve about him that could be faintly intimidating, the aloofness melted like chocolate left out in the sun whenever he so much as glanced at Fallon. If witnessing the obvious adoration between the pair caused a there-and-gone pang of envy to reverberate in her chest, well…hey. It didn’t lessen Sloane’s happiness for them.

“He had to tie something up at the office, but he’s on his way.” Several more people entered the room, and Fallon laid a hand on Sloane’s forearm. “Excuse me for a moment. Enjoy the booze, and the hors d’oeuvres are being circled around, okay?”

With a squeeze to Sloane’s arm, Fallon glided across the room to greet her guests, leaving Sloane feeling oddly bereft and alone. Sighing, she twisted the cap off the beer and tried to ignore the voice echoing in her head that sounded too much like her mother. Guzzling from a bottle is so common, Sloane. A man wants a lady, not a drinking buddy.

She snorted. According to her proper, socialite mother, just one more thing to add to the list of why Sloane wasn’t proper marriage material. Chalk it down right next to can’t wear knit dresses without Spanx, has too many opinions, and boring in bed. Well, the last complaint was courtesy of her ex-fiancé.

Maintaining the polite, impersonal smile her mother had drilled into her from birth, she strolled over to the large French doors along the far wall. Beyond the doors and the restaurant’s terrace, the dark waters of Boston Harbor rippled gently in the deepening evening. Farther out, lights on a cruise ship flickered and glowed, and she could just imagine the laughter and chatter flowing as freely as the wine. Like here. A time of celebration and happiness. And it all intensified her sense of isolation and loneliness.

Like a perfect storm, everything—the troubling events of the last three weeks, Phillip’s new relationship just two months after their disastrous break-up, Fallon’s engagement—seemed to converge at once, reminding her she was like that cruise ship on the harbor. Bright and gay on the outside, but at its core alone and circling pointlessly with no purposeful destination.

Well, damn. Apparently she needed to stop DVRing The Young and the Restless because she was becoming way too melodramatic.

Shaking her head, she tossed the cap into a nearby trashcan. The bottle was halfway to her lips before she felt it.

A stare.

Not like the expectant or bored gazes of her students. Or the avaricious, gleeful scrutiny of her peers as they watched her for any sign of blood at Phillip’s defection.

No, this was…intense. Unsettling. Hot.

Turning from the serene view, she scanned the room.

And collided with eyes the color of a cloudless, beautiful summer sky.

Flawless. Absolutely flawless. Like Michelangelo’s David-meets-the-last-guy-who-played-Superman flawless. Dark, thick eyebrows emphasized the brilliance of his blue gaze. Elegant but sharp angles prevented his masculine beauty from edging into pretty, while a wide, sinfully curved mouth obliterated any notion of sweetness. Black loose waves and curls brushed his cheekbones, ears, and the collar of his black suit jacket. A black jacket clung perfectly to his wide shoulders and muscled arms like a shameless slut. With that hard body, he must work in construction or some other profession that required strength and muscles capable of shaming Vin Diesel into picking up his dumbbells and going home.

She dragged her greedy inspection back up his tall frame in time to catch that electric stare skim down her face and throat and loiter on her breasts. Unconsciously she sucked in her gut, praying that sometime between this morning’s glance in the mirror and now a miracle had occurred and God had granted her abs tight enough to bounce a quarter off of.

After another visual caress that left her flesh tingling and heavy beneath her dress, he returned his attention upward. The heat in his eyes blasted her like a furnace dialed up to incinerate. She blinked. Surely, that flash of desire had been a figment of her overactive and undersexed imagination. A man who exuded sex and sin like a high-priced cologne wouldn’t give her a second glance much less a long, lingering one.

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