by Aimee Carson
“He’s just doing his time. He’s supposed to be pissed off at the world.”
“Fine. So he’s dutifully being the sullen and disagreeable teen. But you are an adult.” She swept a lock of hair from her damp cheek, the bright sun and her nerves heating her skin, and sent him a pointed look. “You should be better than that by now.”
He stared at her for a long moment before answering. “Yeah,” he said, his voice even. “Maybe I should.”
His tone wasn’t thoughtful in an I’m-contemplating-changing-my-ways fashion, it was more of a statement of fact. As if he knew how he was supposed to behave, yet still refused to comply. Cutter Thompson apparently didn’t conform, no matter what.
She watched him return to his task of wielding the hose, driving the sprigs of greenery off the deck edge. Unsure where to go next, she said, “I watched the wreck again.”
It had been disturbing to scrutinize, inch by pixilated inch, the stock car spin out, flip onto its back and slide across the track before busting into the wall, scattering parts across the pavement, all the while knowing Cutter had been inside. As a fan, it had been horrifying. Now that she knew him personally, it was terrifying. Because it made her realize she was beginning to care about him. The thought scared her senseless. And, ultimately, this conversation was about one thing.
She desperately needed to believe he was better than his actions last night.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” she said.
“You think I don’t know that?”
She shook her head softly. “I honestly don’t know what you think or feel.” She was still trying to figure it out.
Still trying to figure him out. Because being with a guy who was the antithesis of everything she’d ever hoped for was wringing her emotions dry. She was now running around outside that comfort zone with those sharp scissors aimed at her heart.
When he didn’t respond, Jessica stepped closer, staring at his profile. Because, bitter or not, the way Cutter had treated Emmanuel was wrong. Okay, so she should have discussed it with him in private, but that didn’t excuse his behavior.
“Sometimes you have to take the higher road, Cutter,” she said. His movements slowed, as if listening, but he kept his attention on his task. “Be the better person,” she continued. “Yes, I realize it was painful hearing a tactless reminder about your crash. What you’ve lost.” She hooked her hands on her hips, wanting him to recognize why she had been so disappointed in him. “But Emmanuel is just a seventeen-year-old kid. You can’t expect him to comprehen—”
“It’s not just about what I lost,” Cutter said, cutting her and the hose off at the same time. “It’s about why.”
Confusion forced her brow downward. “I don’t understand.” As she stood there, studying his expression, it dawned on her what he meant. “You got your memory back.”
“Yes.” He tossed the hose onto the teak wood and it landed with a thunk. “I did,” he said, and then he strode to the far end of the deck. He turned to face her, his expression hard. “In a fit of ego, I decided a rookie needed a lesson. Not to remind him of the rules so it’s safer for everybody. And not just to win a single event.” He jabbed his thumb at his chest. “I did it to show him that that track was mine.” The arrogant words, the bluntly honest look on his face, sank her stomach lower in her belly, leaving her stunned as he went on. “He threatened my number-one status so I wanted to teach him a lesson. But what I got was an injury that guaranteed I’d never race again.” He turned his face away from her, his profile lit by the bright sunlight, his expression harsh.
When she finally found her voice, it felt weak. “That’s why you bumped Chester Coon?”
He passed a hand down his face, as if fatigued, but his words were no less candid. “Yes. It was all about me,” he said. “Most people would say I got what I deserved. Ruining my own career.” Cutter looked at her again, not bothering to hide the fiery emotion. “And it just so happens...I agree.” She could hear the regret in his tone, see the stark expression on his face before it went bitter. “So I damn sure don’t want any misplaced idolism from a kid searching for a father figure via a has-been sports star.”
She blinked. “Maybe your memory is wrong. Maybe you—”
“No, Jessica,” he said. “It’s not.”
It took a moment for the reality to fully sink in. And she shook her head, trying to wrap her head around the news. “It was just one split-second stupid mistake. It doesn’t mean that you’re unworthy of the kid’s respect—”
“Christ, Jessica,” Cutter said, frustration filling his face. “Don’t start reading something into this that isn’t there.” The frown grew deeply skeptical. “This isn’t about some pity-party, talk-show feeling of unworthiness.” He stepped closer, exchanging cynicism for callous candor. “It is about my actions being unworthy.”
She blew out a breath. After crossing her arms, she studied him carefully, trying to make sense of his words. To sort it all out. But it didn’t compute. “You were the number-one driver for six years. You had to work like a dog to get to the top. And even harder to stay there. It took discipline and determination. One impulsive mistake does not erase everything that you’ve accomplished.” She was feeling more confident in her words, but he was still looking at her as if about to refute her claim, so she continued. “Especially considering that, during all your years of hard work, while at the top of your game, you made sure your sponsors supported the causes that were important to you.”
“That was just business.”
“You chose to single out kids in need as your focus,” she said. “I don’t think that was a coincidence.”
“Sunshine.” He stared at her as if she were a new flavor of crazy. “The only humanitarian around here is you.”
She was one-hundred-percent convinced his choice of charities was influenced by his childhood. He might not be able to see it, but she could. “I hate to break it to you, Mr. Thompson,” she said. “You do have a few nice-guy qualities. Good-guy qualities.”
He reached out and gripped her wrist, his voice low. “Cut it out.”
Heart pounding in her chest, she stared up at him. He stepped closer, and the moment lengthened until Jessica thought it would squeal in protest from the stretch.
The hard look in Cutter’s gaze didn’t budge, but his voice turned deceptively quiet. “You were so mad at me after Emmanuel left I knew I’d never get to touch you again. Which would have been just as well.”
They were the very words she’d been telling herself all day, yet the need that engulfed her now was stronger, and her whole world converged on the hand around her wrist. With one touch, he made her doubt her decisions. She should agree with him. Tell him he was right. But she couldn’t do it. The muscles in her throat contracted, making her voice tight. “It wouldn’t have been just as well.”
He continued, his tone serious. And deliberate. “But I’m still the same person now as I was last night, Jessica.” His fingers on her wrist were firm. “And I am not going to continue having sex with a woman who twists me into something I’m not, just so you can feel better about sleeping with me.”
Denial surged. “What are you talking about? I don’t do that.”
“Sunshine—” he pulled her another half step closer, and her heart moved closer to her throat “—you just did.”
Her breaths came shallow and fast, the intensity in his stare pinning her to the ground. “I never said—”
“You say I was an insensitive jerk to Emmanuel, and most people would agree,” he said, his voice now dangerously low. “It wasn’t my first mistake in your eyes, and it won’t be the last. But you either want to be with me or you don’t. And you can’t divide people up into black and white, good or bad.”
Her mouth dropped open. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”
The frustrat
ion on his face was profound. “Then what are you trying to do?”
Her mind swimming, she blurted out the truth. “I’m trying to figure out who you are.”
“You don’t want to know.”
But she did—because she’d fallen so completely under his spell. One touch and she chucked all her goals out the door. And she couldn’t figure out why.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I want to know.”
Cutter’s face went rock-solid. “Fine. I told you that first day in my garage, but I’ll spell it out for you again.” He pulled her another half step closer. “I was a cocky, arrogant bastard. I enjoyed the public’s attention. And I loved signing photographs.” His words were blunt, his tone firm. “I chose the charities, yes, but the real kick for me was the interaction with the fans.” He lifted an eyebrow for emphasis. “And that was ninety-eight percent about stroking my ego. Because I liked the way it made me feel.” He paused, as if allowing time for the heavy words to sink further to the bottom of her heart. “The remaining two percent was to please the sponsors. For me, it’s always been about the angle.”
She pressed her eyes closed, trying to take it all in. But the truth was too awful to comprehend. “Is that it?” she said softly, lifting her lids and scanning his face. “Is that all there is to you?”
Something flashed in his eyes she couldn’t interpret. “Even I haven’t figured that out. But let me tell you what I do know,” he said, pulling her until they were almost toe to toe. “I’m a shade of gray, Jessica. Darker on some days, lighter on others. But the real question is...” He lowered his head, his face only inches from hers. “Is that good enough for Jessica Wilson to sleep with or not?”
She stared into those sea-green eyes so turbulent with frustration. Resentment. And at the heart of it...desire. His fingers were warm on her wrist, but her skin burned. His musky scent, his presence, swamping her in a sensual fog. There was no redeeming feature about his past. He was all about Cutter. His actions had been selfish through and through.
But God help her, she still wanted him.
The sensual fog closed in around her, and she was powerless to stop it. “Yes.”
He pulled her arm, and her body collided with his, his mouth crashing into hers. An instant battle for supremacy, with Cutter the clear winner. He took what he wanted, not looking for submission, simply demanding she keep up. Barely leaving her room to breathe.
He was giving her a full taste of what she’d been fantasizing about since she’d watched his crash again last night. She’d been horrified by the sight. Grateful he was alive. And she was still angry at him for letting her down. But she was also disappointed in herself for wanting him—whoever he was—and this, despite his actions.
The power, the pace of the kiss was exhilarating. A slice of the out-of-control passion he’d only hinted at in the past. The kind she’d never experienced before, had never really wanted in a man.
Until she met him.
She clung to his upper arms, trying to steady herself under the onslaught. Cutter had one hand behind her head, sealing her mouth to his, while his other yanked at their clothes. His biceps alternately bulged and lengthened beneath her hands as he pulled on buttons and zippers, impatiently sweeping the fabric aside. When she tried to help, desperate to make it happen, her hands kept getting in the way, and wound up hindering his efforts instead of helping.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice gruff, pushing her hand away.
Jessica abandoned the plan, and he pulled off her shirt. He clasped her face, pulling her lips back to his, and she met him now, taste for taste. Her passion was running at high speed, catching up with him. She ran her hands down his chest, his skin hot, yet damp. The chest hair crisp beneath her fingers. Cutter pushed her shorts and his swimsuit down, and the fabric dropped to the teak at their feet.
And as he backed her towards the lounge chair behind her, both stepping out of their clothes, they stumbled back in a tangle of legs and lips. Cutter stuck out an arm, catching their drop onto the chaise, cushioning their fall. He landed on top of her, not missing a beat, continuing his full-speed-ahead clip. If anything, as if sensing she’d caught up, he shifted into higher gear.
It was maddeningly intense.
His hands and mouth were everywhere, her breasts, her stomach, between her thighs. Caressing, kissing, nipping and then moving on, leaving her in a breathless daze, trying to match his pace. Overwhelmed by the barrage of sensations. As her skin burned from his tongue, the rasp of his chin and from the hot sun blaring down on them, Cutter consumed her as if she was in danger of disappearing if he slowed down. All the rough, raw edges present since the day they’d first met highlighted in bold.
It was as if he was determined to show her the full force of the darker shade of Cutter Thompson.
Hands on her hips, he nipped his way up her belly, her breasts, and took her mouth as, in one swift movement, Cutter arched his hips, driving deep into her. Jessica cried out in relief.
He paused, capturing her head between his hands, and looked down on her, his face close. Her mind spinning, she gazed into his hard eyes, the steel muscles of his thighs pressed between the soft inner of her own.
Hands on her head, Cutter began to move between her legs. Swift. Sure. No holding back and no apologies. Taking what he wanted. A massive force of need.
But she hadn’t counted on feeding his need being a catalyst for her own. His earlier frustration and his overwhelming desire stamped his every move. She arched beneath him, her hips meeting his, the sensual haze tightening her muscles in anticipation yet turning her body to gel. She clung to his arms, his muscles hard beneath her fingers, her body insisting she comply.
His gaze bored into hers as his movements swept her along in an undertow that sucked her down, skirting the edges between dark desire and danger, threatening to close over her head. She felt as if she’d stepped into the deep end of a pool of need, barely able to touch the bottom with her tiptoes, struggling to keep her face above water. To breathe.
She shut her eyes as the pool climbed higher, closing over her head, cutting off everything but her ability to feel the pleasure taking root in her body. Until she finally went under, vibrant bits of light bursting behind her eyelids as she came, the violent shocks gripping her body.
* * *
The sun bore down on Cutter’s back as he gradually became aware of his surroundings. His chest heaved with every breath, his muscles were spent. His ribs ached and his left arm burned. Sweat trickled down his back, and his thighs felt slick between Jessica’s. He opened his eyes to the sight of her face, lids closed, cheeks flushed. Her temples were damp, dark hair stuck to her skin.
She’d never looked more beautiful, and the terrible reality of what they’d shared clobbered his pounding head.
Bad enough that last night had been long and agonizing as he’d stared up at his bedroom ceiling, angry at her for calling him out, but mostly angry at himself for his behavior. But then she’d shown up at his house...
And he’d wanted her anyway.
So much so, his frightening need had caused him to come completely unhinged, and now he felt damaged. Ripped open, bleeding and exposed, and he grappled with the rising lump of terror.
Because he’d wanted her, but she’d come here only because she still clung to the hope he was some sort of friggin’ closet humanitarian. Well, he’d cleared that notion up. He’d snatched off those sunshiny-colored glasses of hers and stomped on them within an inch of their life. And then he’d run them over, just to be sure.
His gut slowly cinched tighter, hating that he’d had to say all those words.
And he suddenly realized he wasn’t the same person he’d been last night. He had finally figured out why making love to Jessica was different.
Because he cared what she thought of him.
The terrif
ying realization dwarfed him, looming over his consciousness. He’d spent a lifetime earning a reputation for not giving a rat’s ass about people’s opinions of him, and now, he finally did.
Damn, he’d vowed to never put himself through that kind of agony again.
He closed his eyes, remembering the naive seven-year-old who used to wait by the phone for his dad to call. After his father had driven away and left him behind, Cutter had desperately clung to the hope it wasn’t over. So he’d left messages on his father’s voice mail. His dad’s return calls grew fewer and farther between, until Cutter’s ninth birthday. After that, there was only silence. On the day of his tenth birthday, Cutter called to leave yet another message, and got a number-no-longer-in-service recording.
And Cutter had finally given up the last bit of optimism he’d had left.
He frowned, swimming in a sea of suck. But then Jessica Wilson, the consummate Pollyanna, had shown up and dragged him down the path of hope again, only to crush the tender, spring-like growth.
Body tense, he lifted his lids, scanning Jessica’s lovely face again. Worried he was squashing her, he shifted slightly.
Her eyes flew open. “Wait,” she said, her fingers increasing their grip on his forearm.
He hesitated, hating the intense uncertainty in her face. But as long as he lived he would never forget her big, you-just-shot-me, Bambi eyes when he’d finally come clean about Cutter Thompson.
The Wildcard...asshole extraordinaire.
With a curse, Cutter rolled off, instantly missing the feel of Jessica’s skin. The sweat cooled his body, leaving him chilled. He tugged on his swimsuit as he stared down at her. He could never be the kind of guy she wanted.
He couldn’t even come close.
“Jessica, I’m the man you’d pass over in your online list of potential dates.” He raked a hand through his hair and then dropped it to his side in defeat. “Every single time.”
Jessica blinked. The expression on her beautiful face did nothing to deny his claim.
