Free No Perfect Princess by Angel Payne, Victoria Blue Page B

Not like strappy pumps were my new fetish; it simply seemed the safest view for the moment, considering everything that slammed my brain when I fixated north of her waist. How much trouble could her feet get me into?
    I had to ask.
    Dumb shit .
    First, I thought about how elegant her feet looked, no matter what she was doing—even bopping to the jukebox at the High Dive. Adorable, carefree girl . Then I thought about how she’d hike her cute ass on one of the barstools and taunt me by dangling a shoe off one of her toes. Ruthless, seductive woman . Wasn’t hard to make a jump from there, remembering how she’d slide off the seat for a trip to the ladies room, imitating something she called “the Olivia Pope strut”. How the feisty sway of her ass made me yearn to climb off my own seat, follow her to the bathroom, and—
    Shit.
    Maddening, magnificent goddess .
    Now all I could think about were her heels parked on my shoulders. Her ankles beneath my lips. Her legs locked around my neck as I surged my body into hers, over and over, harder and harder—
    Shit.
    Her feet weren’t an option, either.
    The plain and simple? I was doomed. Dazzled to the point of motionless, not daring to move for fear the chafe of my pants would turn my erection into a goddamn tent pole.
    This was all so strange, looking at her but feeling like I’d never seen her until now. I suddenly realized that even after I’d come to those new opinions of her last summer, first impressions had hung around for a while. Ice princess. Bitch on wheels. Jacqueline Frost. Maybe I’d kept them around as a safety net against the inevitable—tumbling fast and hard like this. If that was so, I’d sure as hell misplaced the thing now. Funny what could go missing during a six-month exile…
    And what hung around, no matter how hard you tried to get rid of it.
    As soon as she turned and looked toward me, I was as good as a dry pine in a brushfire.
    Two seconds of a glance, maybe three—but I was in hopeless thrall. The sun gleamed across her whole face but concentrated in her eyes, transforming them to brilliant green stars, searing into me even deeper.
    Paradise. Purgatory.
    Thank God it was time to focus on the bride.
    Claire was, to be cliché, fucking perfect. I was sure even the birds in the trees stopped as the quartet changed up their tune, breaking into a sweet version of A Thousand Years as she and her father, Colin, walked up the aisle. Her white gown was also strapless, and adhered to the understated elegance she used in dressing for every occasion. A delicate diamond necklace hung to the hollow of her throat, leading the eye to tiny jewels embedded into the gown’s neckline. The bodice was fitted to an empire waist before flowing down, Grecian goddess fashion, in layers that billowed behind her in all the right ways. With her hair gathered beneath a double-stranded Grecian headpiece, she really did seem Aphrodite come to life—or maybe just Wonder Woman, the glammed-up version. The woman seemed to possess extra super powers tonight—if the permanent drop of Killian’s jaw was any giveaway.
    I traded a smirk with his best buddies, Drake Newland and Fletcher Ford, who were serving as ushers along with Chad and myself. Their faces said it all. They didn’t get chances to witness Kil as the spokes model for gobsmacked very often, so they relished every moment. Chad’s lips quirked too, joining in Fletch and Drake’s private party, but no way in hell was I jumping in. How could I bask in Killian’s fight for composure, when I related to so much of it?
    Focus on Claire. Focus on Claire. Focus on Claire.
    Stupidest call of my life.
    Had I conveniently forgotten the maid of honor was the one who helped the bride—as in standing next to her? As in, all I had to do was click my vision one degree to the right in order to stare again at the eyes, the smile, even the damn feet of the lady in red who rapidly gave me balls of blue?
    And now told me, with