Page 52 of One Last Rainy Day
Slinking back into my seat, she opens her eyes to find me smirking in satisfaction. She wants me just as much.
“You’re an asshole.”
And you’re the most beautiful punishment I’ve ever been dealt.
“That’s not news. Anything else you need to know?”
“I don’tknowanything.”
“Sure you do.” I thrust up, so she can feel just how fucking much I’m denying myself.
Knowing I need to start armoring up for what’s ahead, I opt to continue playing with the electricity at my fingertips because I’m just that selfish motherfucker.
Stealing the rest of her breath, l grind against the heat I can feel seeping from her core and am rewarded by fast pants as she sifts through our conversation.
“You described most red-blooded men. Cold beer, ah,” she moans as I continually thrust up, and she starts to give back as good as she’s getting, swiveling her hips.
“Fast cars?”
Thrust.
“Black coffee?”
Thrust.
“Runny eggs and...”
“And?” I prompt, lifting her so she’s suspended on my outraged dick.
“Me,” she whispers hoarsely before flashing a smile that serves as a direct hit.
“Then you know enough.”
Giving myself a minute more, I lift her shirt and groan inwardly when I’m met with the sight of perfect tits and peaked nipples. Every bit of remaining self-control I have threatens to abandon me when I dip and pull her hardened flesh into my mouth. As I greedily feed, she explodes into motion, grinding onto me as I momentarily lose myself. I soak in what I can of her scent, the feel of her, knowing it might be my last taste.
It’s when she moans my name that I mentally start to force myself away, biting down on her exposed flesh before soothing away any sting with the tip of my tongue.
“That was cruel,” she scolds.
My dick agrees, but at least my conscience won’t eat at me like it tried to after the lake. If I ever lay another hand on Cecelia Horner, at least she’ll have a better idea of whomshe’s getting into bed with—even if key parts of the truth remain purposefully tucked away. Sean was right in the sense that she deserves to know who’s fucking her. After tonight, she’ll be aware of the true nature of the devils she’s dancing with, and after that, it will be her decision to stay on the floor.
“We’ll have to pick this up—later,” I say, knowing it might be the last lie I ever tell her—that after Sean pulls back the curtain, she’ll most likely run. Glancing over as I turn the key, something inside me stirs at the possibility that she won’t.
*
Vision muddled by black rage, someone grips my hand, and I whip around, fist drawn to see Cecelia’s mortified gaze. Shaking her concern off, my wrist throbs as I offer her another lie. “I’m good.”
I’m anything but fucking good.
Fury and adrenaline continue to war for dominance as Cecelia takes a cautious step away from me. Her expression is telling as Sean snakes a protective arm around her, pulling her into him to shield her—fromme. “Let him cool off, baby.”
Not fucking likely.
As predicted, the last hour has been a fucking disaster. Feeling Cecelia’s terrified gaze trail me, I break through the cover of the trees, fighting the urge to retrieve my Glock and end Andre and Matteo—no matter who’s left in the audience. I’m bending my wrist and flexing my trigger finger when Tyler appears, eyeing my injury. “Broken?”
I jerk my chin in reply. “Andre no-showed.”
“I know,” he exhales, glancing toward the roaring bonfire. “I’ve been tracking them both all night.”
