#Willing victim by cara mckenna skin#
The woman put her fingertips to his forearms, stroking his skin as she said something and smiled. The woman was slim, dressed in tight, dark jeans, tall boots, her long black ponytail falling halfway down her back.įlynn set the cup on the ground beside a towel and crossed his arms over his chest. He accepted it with a couple words and drank, Adam’s apple bobbing with his swallows.
Flynn looked up from rewrapping his hands as the woman stepped close, holding out a red plastic cup.
#Willing victim by cara mckenna how to#
Laurel had no clue how to approach him but another girl beat her to it. Muscles ticced and jumped in his arms as he stripped cotton bandaging off his wrists. He looked both lean and heavy, raw and bruised and tattooed and feral. He was bare to the waist, powerful muscles lit starkly by the white light, sultry by the red. The first thing she saw was Flynn’s throat as he stretched his neck from side to side, tendons flashing, sweat slipping from his jaw to settle in the cradle at one end of his collarbone. Laurel felt displaced beyond belief, the pheromones drifting through the heady atmosphere pricking up her senses and doubling her nerves. The victory was met by jeers, not claps, the crowd clearly not impressed with the display. A pale, skinny teenager climbed up and over the ropes, grabbed one of the men’s wrists and thrust it into the air. Laurel’s fist tightened around her purse strap. The fighters in the elevated square ring were carrying on a tired, shuffling dance, both looking exhausted, both dripping sweat. Far less crowded than the bar but still bustling with a few dozen people, mostly men. What had been a basement at one point was now a boxing arena, its perimeter lit by dim red bulbs, bright white ones hanging above the ring. Her mouth fell open as she turned a corner and entered an alternate reality. The music faded, replaced by braying voices, weird sounds. The temperature rose even as she descended. She left the piss and grease behind, slipping into a headier cocktail of perspiration and something else, something medicinal.
She stepped onto a landing and pulled the door shut, started down a flight of metal steps toward an open threshold. Laurel pushed it open, greeted by a new set of smells. None of the stall doors had working locks or toilet paper that wasn’t trailing on the tile so she decided to skip a pit-stop until later, when she’d likely be drunk enough to lower her standards.īeyond the restrooms was a short stretch of hallway with the promised plain door at the end. She stopped in the fluorescent-lit peace of the women’s room to check her makeup and hair in the smoke-clouded mirror. He leaned over the counter and pointed into the chaos. “I’m looking for Flynn,” she shouted back.