by Jenna Elliot
Not my problem.
But as much as I’d love to cruise past the fuckwad in the ditch, like shifting my gaze past road kill, I can’t just blow past a wreck on a lonely stretch of road. So, as much as I want to drive on, I simply can’t be the guy to leave a possibly hurt human being behind.
I hit the brakes.
It’s drilled into my psyche. No one gets left behind.
Fuck me.
I’m slowing and can’t miss the Jeep’s door opening. Or the delicate foot that appears, blinged-out in a high heel, rhinestones sparkling in the spill of light from the Jeep’s interior.
A woman driver. The only thing that could make the night worse. Like I need this shit now. My sleep pattern’s crap. My night’s crap. Fuck.
I might be royally pissed it’s a woman, but my cock gives one hard throb, noticing too, and my gaze shoots up to the rearview mirror.
Shapely, never-ending legs gleam pale in the moonlight. I so don’t need this right now. I need time to think, sort out what happened at the club.
Yet, my foot stomps harder on the brake.
There’s no other traffic. No one else to help the owner of those sleek stems. No one who can appreciate the way they might feel wrapped around my waist as I tap that wet pussy.
I downshift and maneuver the Rover around.
I’m barely out the door, and I’m already fascinated. Her feet again. In the spill of light from my headlights, I see her feet shaped perfectly in sparkly, pink heels sinking into the sandy shoulder. Her toes are painted neon green.
Pink and neon green. The contrast blows my mind.
Most people match colors. I know because of what I do for a living. And the rest of her doesn’t disappoint, either. Oh, no. She’s fuck-ready with that tight ass filling up a short skirt. Not a ho skirt, but a princess one, all flowy and sheer, the kind that’ll swirl around her thighs when she walks and invite me to slip my hand underneath to work magic on her soft places.
My cock throbs a familiar beat, and my blood thumps in my ears. My gaze journeys up, where some silky dark fabric clings to her tits like a second skin. Wispy curls the color of honey thread around her shoulders and neck as she turns around in slow motion, somehow unsteady, as if debating whether or not to jump back in her car and lock the doors.
Big-eyed, hopeful, and scared. Her uncertainty only makes my blood rush harder.
Suddenly, all I see is what she’ll look like with that mouth parted on a gasp as I shove her up against the quarter panel, flip up her princess skirt, and sink right in.
She’s about to bolt.
“Are you okay?” I call out.
“What?” Her voice shakes, and I hear fear.
I stop in my tracks, spotlighted like I might be at the club. I can play to an audience. Know how to reassure.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, giving her a chance to evaluate my concern as well as the goods on display.
Okay, the wife beater might be scary, but I’ve showered, and the jeans are clean, and everything underneath is nothing but rock-hard strength. I work out constantly because old habits die hard. And when I’m not working hard, I play hard and fuck even harder. Constant activity keeps me a step ahead of the beast.
But when my gaze finally lands on her face, I suck in a breath at the sight of pure, gut-wrenching perfection. A heart-shaped face that’s equal parts crazy shit sexy and sweet young thing. The kind of girl every guy wants to bone in the back seat. She’s got that . . . something that stokes testosterone like vodka on a bonfire.
And stokes the visual artist inside me, too, because my hormones boil. Her mouth is made for smiling and other more . . . interesting things.
I blink hard to shake the image out of my head. It’s only when her eyes go wide that I realize I’m still moving toward her.
Down, boy . . .
The only thing that shakes me back to reality is the way she stares—without the admiration I’m used to seeing. That’s when I realize my headlights are probably blinding her. She had the sense to turn down hers to parking lights. All she must see is some six-foot-four thug coming her way.
“You okay?” I ask again, sidestepping the lights, not wanting to scare her off. She’s scared, all right. She’s ramrod straight and retreating a step in a basic move from self-defense class.
But she’s not running. I sense the moment she decides not to back down. When she swallows, her throat works hard, and I respect the balls that takes.
“No, I’m not okay. My car is ruined. Ruined. And it’s all your fault.”
She does her best impression of a threatening glare.
I resist the urge to smile, ask instead, “How’s that?”
“You were swerving all over the road. Out of control.”
Now I’m frowning. “First of all, I was in a controlled bank to avoid killing a turtle. They’re a protected species. Second, I’m never out of control. Third, you lost control when you swerved to avoid the turtle, too.”
“You almost hit me.”
“I didn’t even come close.” But I’d like to. I imagine bending her over the quarter panel again, only this time I flip up that princess skirt and spank her sweet little ass. My dirty thoughts must be leaking out because she glares at me again.
“Really?” She arches a brow. “You ran me off the road. An apology would be the civilized response.”
Not too many places to go with that suggestion. I think about informing her there’s really not much civilized about me, but she seems to have figured that out for herself, since she’s eyeing my muscles and tats with an expression that says both may be an issue.
I soften my tone. “Did you bump your head?”
“I’m fine. Go away.”
“I’m Ethan. What’s your name?”
She remains silent and glares at me.
And here I am, trying to be all noble and shit. “There’s gators out here. And panthers. You have a gun, baby doll?”
She sinks her fists onto her hips and demands, “Do you?”
“Wouldn’t leave home without one.”
“Have you ever shot it?”
I know bravado when I see it, and her mouth is getting ahead of her brain. Such an obvious lack of control thrills me. Fucking thrills me to the head of my rock-hard dick. “I’d be damn foolish to own a gun if I didn’t know how to shoot it.”
She gives a huff that sounds sexy in the late night, then glances around as if reminded of how alone we are. “Right now you look like the most dangerous thing around here. Go away.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” I cock a hip against her fender and fold my arms across my chest. She looks startled, so I lean back and cross my feet in my least threatening way. I’m not ready to move on. Everything about her is pushing my buttons.
I push hers, too. I can tell. She doesn’t know what to make of me, still isn’t sure if I’m a threat, but she’s damned determined not to let me know. I just enjoy the show.
“I’ll call a tow truck.” She whips out her cell phone, more bravado.
“No one will come until daylight. Even if you’ve got AAA, it takes them at least an hour and a half to get someone here. Sun’ll be up by then.”
She scowls and starts swiping her keypad like a dare. I get more challenged by the second.
Her first call is a bust. I can see it all over her tightly-pursed mouth. Probably a message telling her exactly what I already told her.
She avoids eye contact and tries again. I don’t feel like watching the carnage, so I head back to my truck, which is still idling. I cut the engine and grab a beer.
Popping the top, I take a long swig, then head back. She eyes the beer in my hand in obvious disapproval, so I don’t offer her any.
Angry, she still won’t meet my gaze. I wait as she calls three more towing companies. Of course, no one answers.
When she’s finally done, I smirk. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”
“Thanks. You do know how to make a girl feel protected. I feel so
much better now.”
With a flip of her hair over her shoulder, she gets back in her Jeep, turns over the engine and tries to rock it out of the ditch. Maybe an all-wheel drive would make it, but she only has two-wheel drive. Sand flies, but the Jeep doesn’t budge.
“Looks like you’re good and stuck,” I say unnecessarily.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she hisses.
But I don’t mind getting blasted by her anger since she treats me to another show, sliding her legs out of the Jeep again as she gets out. That princess skirt swirls around her thighs as she stalks to the trunk and removes a shovel.
“Aren’t you a girl scout?” Now I just want to get a rise.
She drives the shovel into the sand as if she’d rather drive it into my chest, then kicks off her shoes and places them carefully on the front seat. Then she goes to work scooping away loose sand from around a tire.
Fucking stupid plan. I don’t point that out. Not when I’m enjoying my beer, her anger, and imagining what I could do to her with my rock-hard dick. I always like the thrill of the chase. Look like it’s game time.
Sweet.
2
Mia
HIS NAME IS Ethan, and he’s exactly the wrong kind of guy, the kind of guy my parents’ well-paid staff devoted their lives to sheltering me from.
Celtic tattoos cover his arms from wrists to shoulders. His cut cheekbones and full lips emphasize the chiseled cut of his jaw and the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks—the hard, but beautiful features.
He’s the kind of guy who looks like walking sex. Every muscle is a sculpture. Jeans ride low on his hips and showcase the bulge between his thighs.
God, he’s scrumptious. From his rebellious wild black hair to the broad shoulders and chest that narrow to a flat stomach, he has a come-fuck-me aura that is beyond attractive.
Way beyond attractive.
I don’t tell him my name because I don’t want to be on a first-name basis with this giant of a guy who can easily break me in half. I don’t want to encourage him to say anything or do anything or think anything.
Thankfully, he keeps his distance. But he stands there, watching me with melting golden eyes—a surprise on his knife-chiseled face. He’s rough, and somehow raw and sensual. I bet every girl who sees him wants to screw him.
The very thought makes me frantically shovel sand and weeds. I vainly attempt to chop saw grass. The shovel’s blade is dull and the sand slides back against the tire. Sweat beads on my brow and my hands burn. Normally, I would abandon this futile endeavor, but if I stop digging, I have to deal with Ethan.
I can hear my father in memory, “Don’t drive anywhere you don’t want to be stuck if you break down.”
It’s not as if I am driving through the ’hood. Of course, then I hear my mother chime in memory, “And don’t drive at any hour you don’t want to be stuck if you break down.”
Busted there. Shall I admit they are right?
No. I’m not scared. Not much, anyway. If Ethan wants to hurt me, he’s already had opportunity. There’s no one around. No one to notice. He could have his way with me right here on the side of the road, and if I scream, no one will be the wiser.
But truth be told, I suspect he has made lots of girls scream . . . with pleasure.
Just the thought of him touching me makes my insides swoop insanely. Something is wrong with me.
“Ready for some help yet, baby doll?” he asks.
Don’t encourage him. Don’t encourage him. I ignore him some more. If I don’t, I’ll have to look at how hot he is, how dangerously, crazily hot. It’s bad enough his voice is all laid-back sexy and oozing cocky charm.
Why am I even noticing him? Because I’m pathetically unfulfilled. I feel like we’re the only two people on the planet right now.
I should call my dad. He’ll come get me. He’d be furious, but Ethan will know I’m not unprotected. If I vanish, someone will notice. Emme works the opening shift this morning, so she can’t help. I could even call Dylan, my reliable ex-fiancé. He’d love that. I won’t. I promised myself to lose his number. I don’t like my options. Call my dad. Call my ex. Call OnStar, which means my dad will find out anyway.
Or, I can handle things. I recently declared my independence from a life of parental expectation, and I won’t give up in the face of a guy too hot for my own good, a dark night, and a desolate road.
“How are your hands?” he asks in that bedroom voice.
Burning like hell. But I refuse to give him the satisfaction of that admission. “I’m fine, thank you.”
The ensuing silence dares me to peek at him. There it is—a smirk that makes me itch to slap his sexy face, then seal my mouth on his and kiss him. He knows it, too. His gaze captures mine, and my stomach flip-flops again.
“Tell me. Does this mean you’re into pain?” He sounds interested. Hopeful? Certainly, not casual, I mean, and I have no clue how to reply. Is he threatening me?
“There’s a thin line between pain and pleasure,” he adds in a suggestive tone, full of innuendo. “If it’s done right, it can feel pretty damn good.”
What the fuck is he talking about? Certainly not the possibility of blisters on my hands.
The breath hitches in my throat, and my grip slips on the shovel’s handle. I lose my balance and grab the Jeep’s bumper to steady myself.
“Just trying to get out of here,” I finally say. My voice sounds so frail in the quiet.
“How about protection? Want some?”
What the hell is he talking about now? He thinks I’m into pain and offers to wear a condom? Thoughts collide, and I can’t think straight. I barely control the panicky excitement because he comes toward me on long-legged strides . . .
I step back and bump into my Jeep. Then he’s on top of me, so close his big body blocks out the world. My next breath comes hard, and it fills with his musky scent, all raw and male and sex. I know that smell, and it clings to him like sweat. It takes every shred of my will to look up. He’s so tall, I crane my neck to stare into his face.
His gaze smolders, promises to do things to me I can’t even imagine. Pleasure . . . pain . . . is it the same to Ethan?
All I know is, he radiates a heat that melts my skin. He’s so close I feel him everywhere, a whisper of sensation that draws a crazy response from deep inside. I can’t drag my gaze from the promise in his eyes. I can’t breathe because instinctively, my body knows if I do, my nipples will brush his chest, and he might think it’s an invitation.
But Ethan doesn’t seem to need one. He knows. I see it in the way his mouth softens slightly, the way his nostrils flare, a hint of triumph. But he doesn’t gloat. No, he just brushes his crotch against me, a glancing stroke more invitation than real touch. But I react. With a yelp. A startled, yearning sound.
Now he full-out smiles, an expression that transforms his whole face, one that’s all pleasure and danger and hot, hot sex rolled into one. He’s the guy mothers warn their daughters against, the one fathers threaten to shoot if they even pull into the driveway.
I can only stare with my heart aching in my chest, every warning I’ve ever heard clanging in my ears.
Then he dangles a pair of gloves above my head.
I blink stupidly, so wrapped up in this guy’s presence he can whip it out and screw me right here without me issuing one word of protest.
I do know what to do. I’ve taken self-defense classes, RAD training. In the rational part of my brain, I know how to break away and run like hell, but all I do when this stranger is up in my grill is yelp like a willing victim. Honestly.
Snatching those gloves right out of his hand, I toss them to the ground. They land with a soft slap. Throwing down the gauntlet, they’d say in a romance novel.
Ethan only shakes his head. “Anyone tell you you’re too stubborn for your own good?”
“So what if they do?”
“They’d be right.”
“Story of my life.” I shrug, the mo
tion grazing my nipples against his chest. The contact thrills through me like an electrical current. So what do I do now? Babble, of course. “Everyone else is right. I’m wrong. So what?”
Too much information. Way too much.
He’s having the time of his life. Not listening to me, I’m pretty sure, but watching my lips move. His gaze fixes on my mouth, an unwavering stare that’s all intensity and appreciation. I wonder if he hears anything I say.
“So, maybe you need discipline.” His voice is a dusky whisper. Like the dawn fading the sky around us, letting me see how black his brows are, how thick his eyelashes . . . His crotch hovers against my stomach and makes my insides melt.
“Maybe danger turns you on, babe?” His voice is throaty, hopeful, and his fingers clamp around my wrist like a steel vise. I yelp again, and my body stiffens, bringing me against him, every rock-hard inch of smoldering, sex-drenched male.
He raises my hand, and I’m powerless to react beyond hitching breaths that come out in a series of shuddering gasps that echo through the quiet.
“Sweaty and blistering and getting nowhere.” His warm breath bursts against my skin as he brushes velvet lips across my palm, a barely-there touch that is the most erotic I’ve ever known. Ever. “Not my kind of pain.”
There’s a dare in there. I hear it. I can freaking feel it in every tingling nerve.
“Let me hitch you up and strap you down.” He drags the tip of his tongue between my thumb and forefinger, tasting me, leaving the vee of sensitive skin moist, like he might if his face is between my legs.
The me of yesterday tells me to break away. The old me says to run and not look back. To him, I’m his next piece of ass and no doubt he’ll forget me before breakfast.
But there’s another part of me . . . that part finds the freedom of giving in so appealing. Just have fun. Have the ride of my life. Live with no regrets.
My rationality holds me back.
And makes me mad.
“Are you suggesting something?” I demand. Lame, I know, but at least I get words out. A triumph of my own.
