In spite of her dick-hardening, thick Southern accent, she was not a sweet little Southern belle. At five-foot-nine inches tall with a heavy fall of platinum hair down to the curve of her mouth-watering ass, an hourglass shape of full, womanly curves, and thick thighs that could lure a man between them and trap him before he knew what had hit him, she was a fucking goddess.
Her features were flawless—radiant skin; perfect cheekbones, high and dusted with natural color; full and pouty lips, the kind you could kiss for hours; eyes so fucking violet they hypnotized.
She could lure an unsuspecting man to his death.
Most would go willingly, just for one, tiny taste of her.
To see if the reality held up to the fantasy.
But I wasn't a man, and I hadn't been for a long time.
I was a fucking monster.
The only thing I cared about was my club and killing for it.
Killing fed the monster that lived inside me and kept him at bay.
And she was going to learn real quick just how fucking dangerous I could become.