Chapter EIGHT

MARAT

Her dark curly hair was swept back from her soft face in some kind of complicated knot at her nape. She had blue eyes lined with some smoky dark shit women did to tantalize men.

I didn’t know shit about makeup or fashion. Never really paid attention. The women I typically dated wore so much crap caked on their faces, the few times I’d seen them without it they were unrecognizable.

Not that I cared what a woman did to make herself feel good. Wear makeup. Don’t wear makeup. It was none of my business what a woman did, and I wasn’t so arrogant as to tell one what she could or could not do.

Then again, maybe I’d simply been uninterested in what other women wore. This woman, though, she interested me. I wouldn’t mind watching her get dressed. Or undressed.

Preferably the latter.

Whatever she did to her face, the effect was stunning. But I had a feeling this woman would not look like a different person if I saw her early in the morning, her face clean of all cosmetics.