Lycan Contempt

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“I thought you loved me, Connie. Were al those late night, whispered promises al bulshit?” Anger and hurt burned through Kish’s chest as he waited for an answer from the woman he’d falen in love with over a year ago, the woman he thought had falen in love with him.

Her flawlessly painted red lips—lips he’d kissed more times than he could count—puckered up in a pout that could rival Marilyn Monroe’s. Now that pout, the one she’d frequently used on him to get her way, had no effect on him other than pissing him off even more than he already was. She must have finaly figured that out since her mouth turned down into a scowl.

“Don’t be so overdramatic, Kishy.” She glided to him. Gliding was the only way to describe the obviously practiced, overexaggerated sway of her slim hips. When she reached up and ran her fingers down the undamaged side of his face, longing danced in her eyes. Kish knew exactly what she was thinking because he’d seen that look many times before.

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