by Jenna Elliot
Then suddenly, everything stops. I’m so caught up in sensation it takes a stunned minute for me to realize he’s as still as a freaking statue.
“Don’t move,” he says. A command.
“What?” The question is out of my mouth instinctively, because my brain still hasn’t caught up.
“Think about how good I’m making you feel.”
He wants me to think? I manage to tilt my head back when my muscles feel as uncontrollable as molten lava, and stare up into his face. For this instant, I’m trapped by how the paling dawn showcases the dark beauty of his features, the sheer masculinity of him. But there’s no missing the granite edges to that stunning face, the dark demand in his expression.
A fucking lust lesson? Really?
But he’s not playing. I don’t know this man, but I know to the very depth of my throbbing crotch that he’s not playing around right now. And something about that knowledge makes me tremble deep, deep inside. Someplace I never even knew I had.
His molten gaze traps mine, and doesn’t let go, a look of stern comprehension. I know right then that he won’t touch me again until I agree to hold still and control myself.
God, how do I even do that? My body is on fire, almost beyond recognition, let alone control.
I stare back, my breasts trembling with my ragged breaths. My skin clammy in the sultry air. My pussy clenching in fading bursts, my hands helpless and limp on his broad shoulders.
“Can you think?” he finally asks. Another demand.
I have no words, but some sound breaks from my mouth, and he must think it’s an answer because suddenly, the hard edges of his expression soften.
Then heat scorches my dripping pussy. His dick. When did he unleash that bad boy?
“I want you to hang on tight,” he says. “I need my hands.”
I melt against him and cling bonelessly, not afraid he’ll drop me, but terrified he’ll stop working this magic on my body. I’m so on fire that it takes me a second to realize what he’s doing—digging a condom out of his pocket.
Makes sense that bad boys carry condoms, right? To be ready for anything?
That’s my last coherent thought before he slides his steely heat against my pussy. For a breathless instant, I think he’ll fill me up, finally end this agony of waiting. But he only slides his length between my thighs. He presses against my clit. He shifts his hips and drags himself through my wet folds until his tight head teases at my nether parts.
My breath hitches, a series of gasps that shock the quiet. Nothing I’ve ever known has felt so good.
And he knows. This stranger is reading my mind. Or my body. He pulls back, settling against my clit again, dipping his dark head and teasing my breasts with his mouth, testing my control. Settling his dick at my wet entrance, he slides in just enough to part my dripping folds.
I break into a sweat. I rock my hips, trying to suck him inside before I die of pleasure right in his arms.
He stops again. “I’m in control here. Understand?”
I bite my lip, shake my head frantically. No, I fucking don’t understand. But I’ll tell him anything to get him moving again. “Yes.”
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers all sexy and reasonable-like, but I hear the authority beneath, a tone that tells me, he may grant my request. Or he may not.
Strangely, the uncertainty excites me.
I can barely think. “Do what you want.”
“What I want is to push you to the edge and bring you back.” He sucks my nipple into his mouth. Then he draws a long tug that seems to go straight to my core.
He’s drawn me up so tight, I’m about to explode.
Then he pulls back, leaving me barely hanging on to my sanity.
I open my eyes, wet my lips.
With a feral grin, he locks gazes with me. There’s a smirk of satisfaction there, along with pride, and excitement.
“I want to know your name,” he says, eyes glinting.
More games. But I think maybe he wants me as much as I want him. Maybe he’s just way more skilled at controlling it. I like that thought, so I tell him.
Well, sort of anyway. “Mia.”
“Mia.” He tastes the sound in a voice like rough silk.
I like the way that name sounds when he says it. But all the exquisite sensations he’s creating inside me are starting to fade just enough to annoy me, disappoint me, anger me.
“Why did you stop?”
He shifts his hips so I’m balanced on his hard shaft, then slides up his hands to cup my breasts. His thumbs tease my nipples. “You need a rest.”
“I don’t.”
He arches a dark brow. “You need whatever I say you need.”
There’s steel in his voice again. And if he wants to make sure I heard it, he pinches my nipples to drive home the point, hard enough to sting.
I gasp, and pull away. But then he licks away the pain, until every nerve is sobbing inside. Then he shifts his hips so I ride his hard shaft, and the pressure against my clit makes me explode with a fierce burst that leaves me gasping crazily.
I can barely catch my breath. I expect him to ram his dick into me and take his own pleasure. He doesn’t. Without giving me one damn moment to recover, he replaces his fingers with his dick, works my clit mercilessly, and to my shock and delight, I cum again within seconds.
I mean I’m exploding like a fountain, the orgasm so hard I buck against him so he has to hang on or he’ll drop me. And it’s lasting and lasting. It’s like endless shocks that are burning me down to nothing.
And when I can’t take another second, he slides his dick into me to the hilt. I’m so raw and mindless and spent, I can’t do anything but arch against him, his fullness finally filling me up, easing an ache that goes so far beyond my flesh, to my soul. He fucks me the way I never knew I needed to be fucked, drawing my body and my mind and my soul together. I cum again. This time hot fluids spurt from me.
I collapse against him like a rag doll, mind numb and burned out, and he gathers me close, moving in and out, never stopping the driving rhythm of his lust. I cling to him and try to draw enough air into my lungs, but another orgasm rocks me.
And I’m totally undone. The world goes black.
5
Mia
“YOU FAINTED?” Emme, my BFF, asks me. “You’re telling me you had sex with a stranger, and it was so amazing you actually fainted?”
Her green eyes are wide, and she stares as if she’s never seen me before. But I’ve known Emme since middle school, a friendship that solidifies through the years despite my mother’s disdain for the middle child in a family of seven, whose parents aren’t in our same tax bracket. Or even close.
I kind of like that I surprise her. I haven’t done that much through the years. Well, at least until I broke off my engagement to Dylan and declared my independence, anyway. So, I run through what happened to land me in a ditch and into the arms of a perfect stranger.
Her eyes bug out by the time I’m done, and I can tell she doesn’t think I’ll actually stand my ground with the whole turning-over-a-new-leaf thing. Knowing Emme, she probably already came up with supportive things to say if I crumble and go back to Dylan and law school.
But now I have her attention.
“When I came to, I was in his arms and he was whispering to me.”
She snorts. “He probably thought he’d killed you and was trying to figure out where to stash the body.”
“You had his tag number.”
“But I didn’t know I had it.” She sinks back onto the couch and glares at me. “You know I don’t have time to check my phone when I’m working an opening shift. It’s insane. Junkies gotta have their brew.” She glances pointedly at her own mug.
“If I’d turned up missing, you would have put two and two together.” I smile, the memory still having power over me. I sink down beside her and lean in, about to share the most delicious secret of all. “He was worried. I could tell. OMG, Emme. He has t
hese eyes . . . They’re the color of molten gold. And his voice was all whispery and low. He was brushing the hair from my face. He was so unexpectedly . . . tender.”
Her expression softens, and I know she understands. Emme has a family that is a model for my own version of perfect. The LeBlancs live in a three-story house that’s always in need of the next home-improvement project. It may not be the greatest part of town now, but it’s one of those areas that’ll turn around one day because of all the incredible old homes.
For me, the home-improvement projects define Emme’s family. When the roof leaks, whoever’s around helps mop up the mess. When a hurricane blows through, everyone hunkers down together like it’s a party, sealing up the place like a fortress, and welcoming anyone who needs to ride out the storm.
Every one of the LeBlanc family lives the cliché: friends are family by love. Emme knows how much caring means to me. Even if it’s just kind caring from a stranger.
“All right. All right.” She shakes her head, still trying to wrap her brain around what I’m telling her. “I’m already jealous. What happened after you woke up?”
“He took me back to the shop where he works and—”
“Shop? What kind of shop?”
“Auto body shop,” I tell her, still able to see the place in memory. “Not your typical collision repair place, though. Like custom painting and stuff. He’s an artist, Emme. You won’t believe what he does there. He paints art on all these pricey vehicles. There was a Ducati, a Jag, even a cigarette boat. I could tell he knew a lot about cars even before we got to the shop. He actually travels with a cart he used to tow my Jeep.”
“Prepared. A regular boy scout.” She pulls a face. “Okay, so what kind of car does he drive?”
“Range Rover. Late model.”
She exhales a low whistle. “Your mother will approve.”
Just the thought makes me twitch. “Maybe if he wears a suit to cover up the tattoos on his arms. And gels his hair. Or, better yet, gets a decent haircut.”
Emme gawks. But she shakes off her surprise and reaches over to rest a hand on my forehead. “Where’s Amelia? Is my best friend for life even in there anywhere?”
That tickles me, and I laugh, still feeling the effects of my morning encounter, feeling empowered, and alive. So alive.
“I’m in here.” I assure her. “I promise. I can’t really explain it. At first, I was so mad. Ethan says he didn’t run me off the road, but all I know is that I saw his headlights swerve into my lane and reacted.” Overcorrected, but I don’t add that. “I got a little scared when I first saw him. I’m not going to lie. He’s huge, Emme. Like really tall, and huge . . .”
My pussy clenches with the memory of just how huge he is. I’m so tender down there, even my thighs ache with the memory of how he felt ramming himself inside me.
“He had equipment at the shop to pull the fender flare away from my tire,” I add quickly, a little weirded out by the intensity of my thoughts even though Emme and I share everything. “He gave me a new tire because he didn’t want me driving around without a spare.”
She puts her feet up on the table and sips her coffee. She works the opening shift a few days a week, so she’s ready for bed at three in the afternoon.
“Gave you the tire? As in, wouldn’t let you pay?” She eyes me approvingly over the rim of the mug. “I like that.”
“I tried to, but he wouldn’t let me. We finally agreed to split the cost. I thought that was fair since he ran me off the road, even if it wasn’t intentional. So, I hand over my credit card and he goes all wolf on me when he sees my name is Amelia.”
“What else would your name be? And define wolf.”
“It’s hard to explain.” I shrug, testing out the idea in my head because I’m not even sure what I mean. I only know that when I was staring into his eyes, I felt as if I’d kept a secret because I hadn’t told him my real name. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I mean, I didn’t want to tell him my real name at first, but I didn’t want to admit that, either. I told him Mia is like a nickname.”
“True dat,” Emme agrees. “Makes you sound blue collar. Your parents will hate it. Dylan, too.”
“Precisely.” And Ethan already had his fingers in my pussy and his mouth on my breasts before he’d even thought to ask for my name. “Amelia wouldn’t be standing on the side of the road having a chance sexual encounter. Mia, however . . .”
Emme cracks up, nearly sloshing coffee over the mug. She carefully sets it aside. “Ha! Gemini. I knew there was a reason you were born in June. Is this flip side of Amelia going to be my best friend for life, too?”
“Do you even doubt it?” I pretend to be offended. I hate being an only child. Emme is the sister I went out and got for myself. I can’t even imagine life without her. Well, I can, and it’s gray and cloudy and . . . empty.
She pats my hand reassuringly. “Of course not. Just tired.”
“You’re being needy. You don’t want to go back to being Number Four of Seven.”
Sinking back onto the couch, she laughs at the Borg reference. Her dad is a diehard Next Generation fan. “You’re the twin I never had, Mia. Defines me from the Collective.”
“So not part of the Collective.” Neither am I, anymore. I like that thought.
“Okay, so he halves the cost of the tire and you leave? Are you going to see him again?”
“I’ll have to—to pick up my car. He didn’t want me driving until he put it on a lift to see if the rim and axle took any damage. I’ll pick it up after the new fender flare comes in. He promised he’d have my Jeep in perfect condition before he lets me drive again.”
“Wow. He drive you home?”
I nod.
“Okay, well cool. But you still haven’t told me if you’re going to see him again. Like as in see him naked. Not just to pick up your car. He sounds pretty promising.”
That’s a big compliment coming from Emme, who blows through guys like I blow through spare tires. I reach for her coffee and help myself to a tepid swig, needing the moment to steel the courage for my next admission. “He wouldn’t agree to split the cost of the tire unless I promised to meet him tonight.”
I’ve piqued her interest big. “Define ‘meet him’. As in date, or round two of what sounds like it might turn out to be a promising fling? For the record, I think you’ve earned a little fun. Dylan was on the fast track to middle age. Most college students live it up with their fraternities, not spend every waking hour campaigning for the next open internship.”
Boy, truer words have never been spoken. My parents always loved that about Dylan.
Eyes on target—a partnership, partnership, partnership.
No, thank you. And the beauty is that thinking of Dylan right now isn’t taking the edge off of the excitement coiling inside me when I think of Ethan.
“I’m not actually sure if it’s a date or not,” I admit.
She plucks the mug from my hand with a narrowed gaze. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“He invited me out—”
“A date.”
“To a sex club.”
She stops with the mug poised at her lips and asks incredulously, “A what?”
“A sex club.”
“Exactly what the fuck is a sex club?” She scowls. “Do I need to get my brothers to kick this guy’s ass, or did you neglect to tell me that Mia is a stripper?”
“Mia is not a stripper.” I don’t think so, anyway. I can’t really predict what I might do when I’m in the spotlight of those molten eyes. Another clench between my thighs.
I clear my throat. “That’s exactly what I asked him.”
“And?”
“And he said he’d see me tonight. Or not. The choice is entirely mine.”
Emme considers me silently for a moment, and I can just imagine what’s going through her head. If she doesn’t understand me right now, then no one will. “You trusted him enough to do the nasty this morning.”
&n
bsp; “Against all reason but, yes, I did.”
“Then you like him?”
Like him? I don’t know him. I only know that when he puts his hands on me, goes wolf all over me, I’m alive in a way I’ve never been before. And excitement swirls up inside me, urging me to throw caution to the wind and take chances I never even dreamed of taking.
I sigh. “I have no idea what to do.”
Emme watches me like my head is transparent, and she can see straight through to my brain. “Let me get this straight. You meet a gorgeous guy who rescues you from the side of the road, makes you faint during sex, helps pay for your tire, and you’re not sure what to do?”
It was her turn to sigh. “Mia, Mia, Mia. What am I going to do with you?”
“You think I should go?” I mean, I want to go. Maybe I just need a little push, since I’m not actually sure what I’ll be getting involved in. Would I actually strip for Ethan?
My pussy tingles with the thought. Actually tingles.
“Yes,” Emme says with a grin. “Yes, of course I think we should go.”
6
Ethan
A LITHE FIGURE steps out of the shadows, but the bright sunlight makes it difficult to discern who is there. I squint and raise my hand to my brow to block the sun.
He wears a khaki uniform, desert-camouflaged shirt, and pants tucked into black boots. He does not bother with a shemagh to hide his face. Worse, I see thick padding at his waist—unnatural padding.
My heart stalls in my chest. No one should be here. No one. I break into motion and sprint toward the paint booth.
My legs won’t move fast enough. They’re churning underneath me, but I’m not covering the distance. I’m too slow. My chest squeezes in cold-stone fear.
“Stop,” I yell, knowing that damn word isn’t going to stop what’s about to happen, loathing my fucking helplessness.
I am still a hundred yards away. Too far to stop him. Too far to do anything but watch in fucking disbelief as everything inside me screams.
