by Rylee Swann
As if to confirm my original thoughts, he turns to me and insults my sweater. I can feel my blood boil. It’s chilly, and there is nothing wrong with what I’m wearing. I shouldn’t let it bother me so much. In grade school, I was teased mercilessly. I was a late bloomer, and even though that all changed in high school, it never left me.
Fighting back the urge to really lay into the arrogant asshole, my inner tirade is cut off by some guy coming to white knight me.
“Please don’t,” I tell my white knight, feeling even more weak and foolish. I want to shout at him, but something about this place has awakened memories of a dead-end life. It brings back that same depressive fear in me. I don’t want to be saved. I want to save myself.
Of course, white knight ignores me, and before I can blink, the fight starts. I’ve never seen anyone hit another person so hard. Cole lays the other guy out before I can let out the breath I’ve been holding. Cole is like a wild animal. His teeth bared, fists clenched, and his eyes...
I’m captivated. There’s a fire and rage in the man that scares me, but I can’t look away. I feel it like magic, like the force of the moon on the tides. I’m drawn in, drowning. I feel so small and lost, withering under the heat that comes from his gaze.
And just as the fight begins, it’s over. Two bouncers, both older men but just as big as Cole, drag him kicking and spitting out of the bar. His knuckles are bleeding, and I can tell by the veins standing out on his forehead, he’s still furious. For a moment, I just sit there, stunned. I feel like a deer caught in the confusion and bright lights of an oncoming semi-truck. Shaking my head to clear it, I snatch my purse and chase after Cole. I will get this story. I have to. My pride is on the line.
I find him easily enough, still seething, his breath fast and heavy, standing in the parking lot, swaying from liquor and adrenaline. He stares at the bar like it has insulted his mother. He doesn’t notice me, so I clear my throat. Still, his eyes are pinned on the bar. Maybe he’s waiting for that guy to come out to finish what he started. I don’t know.
“Hey,” I say, after finally finding my voice. I try to smile, but I’m sure it comes out more like a crazy grimace.
It’s like catching the attention of a hungry predator. His head snaps toward me, and he narrows his gaze. After a blatant appraisal of my body, his eyes catch mine, and he frowns. “What the fuck do you want?” he rumbles. His voice is rough, gritty. It’s also warm, though, like a harsh drink of whiskey.
I swallow and try to smile again. I feel a little shaky. He seems so out of control. Without meaning to, I compare him to my ex. Everything Rob did had a purpose. Every word measured. He works hard and lives for doing well in school. He runs the college paper like it’s a battleship. But everything Rob does lacks fire. He never makes a rash decision or lets his heart guide him. I guess that’s part of why we split up. I need more passion, and Rob just doesn’t have it.
“I... um. I want to talk to you,” I manage to get out, my heart thundering, the rush of blood in my ears almost deafening my thoughts.
He arches a brow at me, his posture relaxing, but only a little. “Yeah? Won’t that piss off your boyfriend?”
I’m stunned. “That guy back there? He’s not my boyfriend. I don’t know who he is. Just some idiot who thought I can’t handle myself.”
He laughs, but it’s a harsh, barked sound as though he doesn’t really find what I said funny at all. “Can you now?” he asks, taking a couple steps towards me, closing the distance. I can smell the liquor on him and feel the heat from his body in the chilly night air.
I stand my ground. “Yeah. I can.” I can’t help it. I know he’s baiting me. I know I should ignore it, but instead, I bite. I take the bait and run with it, lifting my chin and meeting his fiery gaze with my own, refusing to be cowed or intimidated, even though that’s how I feel. I’ll be damned if I let him know that.
The sneer leaves his mouth, and he studies me. There’s a beat of several, uncomfortable moments before he speaks again. “What the hell are you doing in a bar like that? Girls like you don’t ever come here.”
Slamming my hands on my hips, I swallow down more of the bait. I’m getting seriously, unretrievably hooked, I can feel it, but seem unable to walk away. “Girls like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
I’ve never had any trouble getting a date and never lacked confidence when it came to men, but something about Cole changes that in a significant way. I’m sure he doesn’t like me or find me attractive, even if he keeps looking at me the same way a lion eyes a gazelle.
“Good girls,” he says, the derision back in his tone. “Pretty. Smart. Fuzzy sweaters.” His fingers brush my collarbone, and he takes some of my sweater between thumb and forefinger, plucking at it for emphasis. My heart leaps, and my skin tingles where he touches me. I can’t repress my shiver.
“Cold?” he asks, his eyes falling to my breasts.
I’m not, but it’s a good cover. “Yeah,” I breathe and cross my arms over my chest. “It’s pretty chilly out.”
Running his tongue over his teeth, he seems to consider things for a moment, weighing some question in his mind. “Let’s go sit in my car.” When I hesitate, he rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna drive, okay? I’m just going to turn the heat on.”
I continue to hesitate. The fact is, I just don’t trust him. He’s as wild and violent as a brush fire. He starts in the direction of the parking lot, and I stand there, feeling dizzy and out of control myself. I know I have to get a handle on the situation, but once more, I let it slip away. I follow after him.
He drives some kind of muscle car. Much like sports, I don’t know a thing about cars. It’s cherry red, the color of lipstick I’m too conservative to wear. The inside is impeccably clean, the interior soft, black leather. It’s odd. I don’t know why I expected him to drive some old bucket that’s filthy and full of trash. Cole continues to surprise me.
“This,” he says, a little slur in his voice, “is my baby.” He slides into the seat like a cowboy gets onto a saddle. He runs his hands over the steering wheel, and maybe it’s the mixed drink I had or the fact that I haven’t been laid in months, but it seems so sensual to me. I imagine his hands running up my thighs and have to bite my lip to keep from sighing.
“It’s a nice car,” is all I manage to squeak out.
Cole doesn’t acknowledge this. He turns the key until the motor purrs and then cranks up the heat.
“So,” he drawls, a playful smirk pulling at his lips. He has a boyish, crooked smile that charms me immediately. “You gonna take off that sweater now?”
I blow out a breath and scowl, meeting his eyes. “No,” I snap. “I am not.”
He laughs. It’s a full, boisterous laugh. “I bet you will. Before the night is over.”
Cocky and arrogant to boot. Those aren’t traits I find attractive, but even as I think this, I know it isn’t true, at least in Cole’s case. Rob had been cocky too. A know-it-all. But behind the bluster was a selfish lover who was a bore in bed.
As if my eyes are drawn to him without my brain’s consent, I look him over. His thighs are corded in thick muscle I can see shift and move under the denim of his jeans. I let my gaze trail where my hands want to go, to his groin. Even in jeans, I can tell he is an impressive size. So maybe it isn’t all swagger after all. When I finally look at his face, I notice the sly grin. He’d seen me looking. Fine, I think. I caught him looking too. Fair’s fair.
I need to talk about the story. The article. I need to bring it up right away or this night will go in a direction I can’t allow. I open my mouth, but he beats me to the punch.
“You’re a real stunner,” he says. It doesn’t seem like flattery, just a flat statement of fact. “But you dress like you’re wound really fucking tight.” It’s as if my mode of dress and modesty offends him. Makes him mad. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why that intrigues me so much.
“You’re a real asshole,” I snap before thinking.
/> His grin broadens, and he laughs again. “Yeah? Fuck you too, Fuzzy Sweater.”
“Becca,” I correct him, feeling my blood boil all over again. This shouldn’t thrill me. Something about Cole is so honest. He may be an asshole, but at least he’s honest about it. Genuine.
“I didn’t ask,” he says, reclining his chair back.
Moments pass, and we fall into a strangely comfortable silence. I inwardly scream at myself to bring up the article, but I just sit there, glaring at him. It’s such an odd feeling to be so angry and annoyed, but weirdly companionable with someone at the same time. It’s like I crave this. Crave the fight. The passion. The fire.
He runs his tongue over his teeth as he gazes at me, his pupils flared with desire. No one has ever looked at me like that before. It makes me feel feminine and sexy and intimidated all at once. Like it’s some sort of unspoken test. I refuse to break eye contact. That is, until his hand starts moving.
Holy shit.
My entire body grows hot as Cole runs his thick palm up one of his thighs until he’s cupping the bulge in his pants. He gives himself a firm squeeze, then groans and grounds the heel of his palm against his groin.
I suppose this is where I should get out of the car, but I don’t. I sit, transfixed, watching him, wondering what he’ll do next.
“You’re going to suck my cock while you wear that good girl sweater,” he tells me with a wicked, cocky smirk.
I start to open my mouth to deny him, but I can feel the blush creep up my chest and wash over my face. His hand shoots out and grasps the silky hair at the base of my neck. He doesn’t pull hard enough to hurt, but he holds me firm.
“Aren’t you?” he growls, his other hand working his zipper to free his cock from his jeans.
This is what he’s used to, I realize. He’s used to women falling on his dick, and I’m seconds away from doing the same thing. It’s like I’m mesmerized, hypnotized, willing to succumb to his will.
But I’ll hate myself tomorrow, I know it. I’ll also hate myself if I don’t.
Maybe a compromise.
“Maybe I want you to suck me first.”
The words are out of my mouth before I realized the thought had occurred to me, and I nearly gasp at how forward I sound.
I reach for the door handle, ready to toss myself out of his car and run screaming into the night. But his hand comes down on mine. And good god… he’s grinning. His dimple is showing, and dear heavens, his hand is creeping up my thigh.
“You want me to eat that sweet pussy of yours, sweetheart?”
Yes! God, please, yes.
His hand is squeezing my thigh, kneading the muscle beneath. He’d be so good at oral sex, I just knew it. So damn good. He’d be rough, use his teeth, not let up until he heard me screaming his name.
Name!
An idea hits me, a way to extricate myself from his presence without running like a scared little girl. “What’s my name?”
It’s a challenge, I know. A test. But it’s also an excuse. Men like this don’t remember names. Hell, they barely remember faces. When he proves that I mean absolutely nothing to him, I’ll leave. I’ll open the door and—
“Becca.”
I don’t believe it. I stare at him and watch the grin spread on his face. The hand on my thigh begins kneading again. Squeezing. Moving upward. Inching up my skin.
“I’m going to suck your sweet little clit into my mouth, Becca,” he says, the skirt at panty level now. “I’m going to fuck you with my tongue, chew on your pussy lips. I’m not going to stop until you come on my face. And I promise to drink every drop.”
I’m powerless to stop him. I don’t want to stop him. I want this, I realize. To hell with the article. To hell with my good intentions. To hell with using good judgment. To hell with everything besides this.
“Spread your legs for me,” Cole says, his voice deep, seductive as he reaches over me and pushes a button to lay my seat back.
I do, then cry out as his fingers find my hot center, pressing the wet material of my panties into me.
He growls, and the sound vibrates through me, increasing the level of my desire. “So wet. So ready for me.”
With a single rip, my panties are in shreds and tossed to the floor of his car. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m letting him turn me until I’m draped unceremoniously over the middle console. I can’t believe that Cole James is kissing the insides of my thighs.
The position is uncomfortable as hell, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but the teeth biting the tendon that connects my thigh to my groin. The tongue licking my skin.
Then he’s there. Oh, god, he’s there. Teeth, tongue, lips. I reach out, seeking something to cling to as he plunges deep inside me. I find his hair and take it between my fingers, clinging to him.
“You taste so fucking good,” he says as his teeth find my clit, his tongue circling the small bud until I wail. I’m close. So damn close. My body tightens as he drives me to the edge of insanity as an orgasm rips through me. Nothing has ever felt this way. Nothing.
Cole doesn’t smirk when he raises his head. He doesn’t look arrogant like I’ve anticipated. Instead, he looks… what? In awe, maybe? As surprised as me?
“You’re beautiful,” he says, helping me until I’m back in my seat. “That is beautiful.” I can barely hear the words. it’s like he’s saying them to himself. Then he surprises me again by pulling my skirt down my thighs.
Surprises me. Disappoints me. Is he ready for this to end?
I lean toward him, trying to see his face in the dim light, and rest my hand on his thigh.
“Becca, you don’t have to do more,” he says, pushing my hair back from my face. “I was being an ass back there. You—”
“I want to.”
The words surprise me as much as it appears to surprise him as my hand continues to move up his thigh. I do want to, but not for the reason he probably thinks. He’s used to this, but I’m not. I’m not used to this level of desire, this need, this want. And while he might think he’s using me, that’s not true. I’m using him too.
Even if I never see him again, I’ll never regret allowing myself this one thing. If he won’t let me interview him, I’ll simply change the angle of my story and write about the entire team. Simple. Problem solved.
“I want to,” I say again and open his jeans. After a few long seconds, he raises up to slide them down, his boxers following behind them.
God. He’s long and thick, and my hand won’t fit all the way around him when I touch him for the first time, listening to his breath hiss through his teeth.
Pre-cum beads at the tip. “Is this what you want?” he whispers as his hand curves around the nape of my neck. He doesn’t try to push me down. He just rests it there, letting me have control.
It leaves me in a wash of emotions. I’m not quite sure how to feel as I lower to take him in my mouth. The rough grip of his hand in my hair, the way his breath catches as I flick my tongue over the head of his cock… all of it is something I crave. Need. Even as my mind protests my actions, my body becomes a taut line of need, a string pulled to the point of breaking. I open my mouth wide, and his dick slides past my lips.
I swallow his cock, work the shaft with my tongue and want more. I love the way he smells. It’s so masculine. The scent of soap and the light musk of sweat. And something so uniquely him.
The tip of his dick hits the back of my throat, and I fight the urge to gag and open myself for him, swallowing him down. My saliva slicks his shaft, and I swirl my tongue against the base of his cock, my nose buried in his trimmed pubic hair, pressing against his groin.
I feel powerful when he growls my name, his hand growing tight in my hair as I take him in and out of my mouth, licking the thick vein underneath. His breathing grows rough, his hips jerking as I take my time.
“Becca…”
It’s a warning. it’s a prayer. There’s a note of pleading in the
word that makes me suck harder. Then I’m pulled away, his cock popping from my mouth with an erotic sound that I’ll never forget.
“You are a good girl,” he growls, though I know he doesn’t mean it in the same way he’d said it before.
I whimper. I ache between my legs, and I’m the wettest I’ve ever been. I’m so hot, so ready for him to fuck me. I whimper again, feeling needy, desperate.
He reaches down and moves the seat, lowering the back, his hard cock moving in time with his heartbeat as it rests against his muscled stomach, shining with my saliva. From the console, he pulls out a condom, and I watch as he sheaths himself.
Then I’m on him, watching his face as I lean down to kiss him. I’ve never had sex in a car, but for some reason, the idea of a passerby seeing us, getting caught, only makes the whole encounter that much more appealing. I feel so free, doing what I want to do for once. It’s the fire and the passion of the moment, the taboo. With a man who does funny things to my insides.
I straddle his waist as he yanks my skirt up over my hips. He murmurs his appreciation of my body as he runs a finger over my slit. Just that light, teasing touch makes me moan.
“I bet that pussy feels as good as it tastes,” he says as he guides himself to my entrance. Both of his hands then fall to my hips, and he hilts his thick cock inside me with one, rough thrust.
I ride him, his hands on my hips, his fingers digging into my skin. I’m on the tender threshold of pleasure and pain, and it nearly drives me over the edge. My hands fall to his shoulders, and I grip them hard enough to bruise. His hips meet mine, pounding into me. The sound we make is so vulgar, the slapping of flesh on flesh, but I crave that too. All of it.
“Touch yourself while I fuck you. I want to watch. I want you to come on my dick,” he says, his voice breaking, rough with pleasure.
I barely touch myself in private. I feel suddenly so vulnerable and shy, but something about the way he said it, the way he commanded it, makes me want to obey. My hand moves between my legs, and I begin to stroke the hard nub of my clit in time with his thrusts.
