Page 2 of Raced (Driven 3.50)
“No apologies needed,” I tell her, smirking at how this boring event just became a helluva lot more interesting. Batter up. “I’m used to women falling at my feet.”
Her head snaps up and confusion mixed with what I’m guessing is disgust flashes through those extraordinary eyes of hers.
Welcome to the big leagues, sweetheart!
She opens her mouth again. Flustered. Stumbling over her words.
I make her nervous. Good.
“Thanks. Thank you. The-the door shut behind me. It jammed. I panicked—”
When she speaks this time, I actually hear her voice. The telephone-sex operator rasp of it. Shit. My dick’s doing more than stirring now. The sex-kitten purr is enough to make a monk hard. “Are you okay? Miss—?”
She just stares at me. Frozen. Indecision and confusion warring across her incredible features. She’s questioning her resolve already? Not a chance in hell. She’s not going anywhere. I always finish what I start, and this—the chance to hear her screaming my name while I’m buried in her later—is by no means over.
Game. On.
I reach out, cup the back of her neck, and pull her closer to me. That’s all I plan on doing. A little touch to up the ante—force her to place her cards on the table or call her bluff. I pull her close enough to touch her lips, tease her a bit to let her know the stakes behind this unexpected game we’re playing.
But fuck if I know what it is about her—something different, challenge or not—that’s got me reaching my free hand out and running it up her arm, across the curve of her neck, and over her cheek.
I don’t want to want her. Don’t need her. Shit, a simple text will have Raquel in my bed in a heartbeat for a nightcap. Fuck, she’s probably already there. Our arrangement may be nearing its end, but she’s still game.
And she has mad skills.
But there’s something about crazy fangirl that has me looking twice, has me forgetting this is a game.
Those eyes. Those curls, wild and fallen from her clip, looking like they’ve been fucked loose. Those plump, perfectly parted lips. Sweet Christ. I just might have to let her win this game because damn, she’s not playing fair.
Options of how to play her flicker through my head. Dive right in and consider the consequences later or draw this out and have some fun with her?
Then she sucks in a ragged breath that let’s me know she’s affected. Let’s me know she’s bitten off more than she can chew. Hints at that little bit of vulnerability I see flicker in her eyes. And that sound—the subtle shudder telling me her body wants to betray her mind’s warning to steer clear of me—is such a fucking turn on.
And desire overwhelms all logic.
Testosterone wins.
Just a little taste.
“Oh fuck it!” I slant my mouth over hers and use her surprised gasp to slip my tongue between her now parted lips. To taste what she’s offering. Holy shit! Talk about knocking me off of my stride. The woman tastes like nothing I’ve ever had before. You hear addicts say that their first line of coke is what hooks them, causes them to do irrational things for the next fix. I finally get it.
Sweet. Innocent. Sexy. Willing.
Fuckin’ A.
And before I can take more of what I suddenly want very badly, game be damned, she struggles and breaks her lips from mine.
Only one thought fills my head. Clouds my resolve.
More.
Her pulse quickens beneath my palm. Her panted breaths mix with mine. Her eyes flash with confusion and fear. And desire.
More.
“Decide, sweetheart,” I demand, an unbidden ache settling deep in my balls and taking hold. “A man only has so much restraint.”
Her eyes, so much contradiction flashes through them; they say “come fuck me” and “stay the fuck away” at the same time. Her lips part and then close. Her hands fist my lapel, indecision warring across her stunning features. Why the sudden resistance when she’s getting exactly what she came here looking for? Did the stakes just become too real for her? Ah … a boyfriend then. How can she not have one when she looks like that?
