Violet
Women are hot. I’ve always known that.
Penelope, for example, God, sometimes I’d just stare at her and think, damn, what masterpiece work of art is this? And when I teased her about dating her if she wasn’t taken, I meant it. If she were single, I’d absolutely try my luck.
I’ve met all types of women before, but none like the one standing in front of me.
I couldn’t even place what it was. Was it her gaze, curious in a way that made me feel stripped bare? The way her lips curled with interest? Or maybe it was the way she was looking at me like I was a meal and she was already deciding where to take her first bite.
I swallowed, suddenly unsure what to do with myself.
I knew who she was.
I’d seen her face before, plastered on glossy magazine covers. This was Sierra. The Sierra.
