Page 7 of Hunted for Halloween
“So, Aurora,” I hate the way my name melts on his lips. I don't stop shredding my chicken and shoving it into my mouth. “What do you do? Indulge me. I'm curious.”
I clear my throat, not wanting to give into the urge of ignoring him. That'd be disrespectful to my Dad, who has no idea what is going on here.
“I-uh,” I drop my fork. “I worked with Regal, a fashion magazine, but I quit because I want to pursue a career as a fashion designer.” I swallow thickly, quickly reaching for my wine glass.
I take a sip, avoiding his gaze.
“You should see her sketches, Christian.” Dad speaks up proudly. “They are simply breathtaking!”
“I’d love to see them sometime.” He casually chips in. It's as if he knows it'd get my attention because my head swings in his direction.
He chews his food like he has all the time in the world, his penetrating gaze boring into me.
I open my mouth to speak but the vibration of my phone interrupts me.
Thank God.
I stare at the screen, breathing out in relief when I see that it's Lydia calling.
“Can I be excused? I have to take this.” Christian stares at me like he knows I'm running away, but fuck him.
“Of course, Angel. Take your time.” Dad tells me. I send him a stiff smile and practically dash out of the dining area.
Lydia has no idea how much she just saved me from sitting at the table all night with my clueless father and his best friend whom I came all over his fingers in a corn maze.
What the fuck have I done?
Chapter Three
AURORA
After my call, I huff, tearing off a page of my sketchpad. I squeeze the page into a ball, tossing it aside.
My charcoal pencil hovers on the blank page but every time I try to sketch the design in my head, the intrusive thoughts and images in my head rear their heads to the surface.
I chew on my lips absentmindedly, looking up from my sketchpad. The sunset pours into the room through the glass walls that shield the living area. It gives my living room a vibrant orangish glow, most especially the Halloween decorations that I still have around.
Halloween only happens once a year, but it never stops me from obsessing over twisting the appearance of my home.
My living room is usually a color blend of beige, brown and orange. But, I have swapped my throw pillows for pumpkin faced throw pillows. The abstract minimalist paintings have been taken down into grotesque skulls, skeletons and ghost paintings. The black vintage lanterns on the side stools and center table are off. Skull strings adorn my fireplace, lined up perfectly and a skeleton sits on a stool beside it, donning a cute skull inscribed hat.
Today could have also been one of those when I stare at my handiwork then grin and giggle like a little girl, but I just feel exhausted.
I can't think without imagining him. Those whiskey eyes, large veiny arms, intoxicating cedar wood and musk scent, long, veiny fingers pumping in and out of me, curling inside me and those fucking flame tattoos.
Fuck.
I inhale sharply, feeling the space between my legs grow heated. I tilt my head backwards, wanting to ease the tingling in my core. All I have to do is stroke myself through the tight lace booty shorts I'm wearing and I'll get some release.
But it's not going to be enough. It never is.
The sound of my doorbell causes me to flinch. I hiss through my teeth, whipping my head towards the door with a frown. I'm not expecting anyone today, but that doesn't stop me from rising to my feet to get the door.
It rings again.
“I'm coming!” I groan.
I yank the door open, my breath dying in my lungs when those whiskey eyes clash with mine. My palm grows sweaty against the doorknob, my throat working harshly as my eyes devour his tall, imposing frame.