by Cole McCade
Deep breaths. “I’ll let you know after you buy me my next coffee.”
“So flattery and a mocha latte are the way to a woman’s heart.”
“Not necessarily my heart, but you’re talking your way into my good graces.”
He laughed, picked up his mug, and slid off the stool. “C’mon.” He tossed his head toward a booth. “I don’t know about you, but these barstools are chapping my ass.”
Zero rolled her eyes, but rose and followed him to the booth. Still an asshole, she thought. He draped his coat over the back of the seat; she tucked her hoodie and messenger bag into the booth and slid in across from him. “So what do you do, hm?”
“The usual. Suit and tie. I’m more interested in honing my flirting skills than talking about work.”
“Great. Now I’m practice.” She snorted, trailing into a laugh.
She was still laughing hours later, when she glanced down at her watch. Her stomach dropped out. She couldn’t believe how late it had gotten; Evan had completely distracted her. She’d thought he’d stop being funny once the lemon drops were out of her system, but three hours and five coffees later, here she was. He’d teased. She’d rebuffed. He’d flirted. She’d avoided. But she kept finding her gaze returning to that sinful mouth, her thoughts drifting until he dragged them back with another question or smartass comment.
But smartass comments wouldn’t keep her going in the morning. She slid to her feet and into her hoodie. “It’s midnight. I should be in bed. I still have to go listen to that douchenozzle tomorrow.”
“Douchenozzle? Creative.” He rose with her, shrugging broad, powerful shoulders into his leather jacket. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.” At her skeptical look, he laughed. “Seriously, I just want to make sure you get home safe.”
“I stopped being tipsy four coffees ago.”
“I know. But it’s after midnight, and this is New York.”
“For all you know, I live a two-hour train ride away.”
“Then we’d better find something to talk about,” he said, and gestured toward the door with a bow. “After you.”
Zero eyed him, then groaned, shouldered her bag, and headed for the door. “You’re not getting off the train with me,” she said.
“Of course not.”
He got off the train with her.
They took the twenty-minute ride in easy silence, pressed close on the narrow subway seats, the hard heat of his thigh sandwiched against hers, their bodies brushing together each time the train jolted. God, he smelled good. She was way too sober for what she was thinking right now. Especially when every time he caught her eye—caught her watching him—he gave her that slow, sensuous smile that said he knew exactly what was on her mind.
When the train let off at her stop he rose with her, but stopped at the door of the subway car, looking down at her. She had fifteen seconds to make up her mind before the train whisked him off and she never saw him again. She looked up into pale green eyes, dark with the question he wouldn’t ask.
She took a deep breath. To hell with it. Not like she hadn’t done the walk of shame before.
“Walk me to my door?” she asked, and he smiled with those sinful damned lips that made something so simple look so dirty.
“Of course,” he said, and stepped off the train. The door whooshed shut behind him. “I’d hate for anything to happen to you.”
In the twenty steps from the transit exit to my front door, she thought, but said nothing.
They stepped out into the crunch of snow on the sidewalk, breaths tasting of the crisp, clean scent of fresh snowfall on each cold bright inhalation, pluming into smoke as they rushed out. Street lights gleamed golden, stars bottled in glass, lighting their way as she led him up the sidewalk to her building, their arms brushing with every step. She dug out her keys, then glanced at him, biting her lip.
“This is me.”
“I had guessed.” He reached up to coil a lock of her hair around his finger, then brushed its tip against her cheek in a ticklish trail as he stepped closer. Deliciously close, oppressively close, the tall bulk of him caging her against the door of the building. “I won’t ask, Zero. It’s your choice.”
“Okay,” she said with a shaky breath. “Okay. Well you can come up if you want. Or not.”
“You have to unlock the door first.”
“That too.”
Somehow she fumbled her key into the lock, and nearly ran up the stairs. He was a dark shadow on her heels, stalking her to the front door of her third-floor shoebox studio. She felt hunted, and a delicious shiver went through her when, as she unlocked her door, his hands curled against her waist, burning hot and rough through her hoodie and shirt. He leaned into her, his body hard against her back, and dipped his head. His lips hovered over her throat, and with a husky sound he simply inhaled.
“You smell like green apples,” he whispered, and caught her earlobe between his teeth. The sharp pleasurable sting of a bite bolted straight to every pleasure point in her body before he soothed it with the soft tracery of his tongue. She trembled, and made herself pull away long enough to step inside and drag him through the door.
He backed her up against the wall just past the entryway, trapping her against the hard brick. She wasn’t that short—five foot five—but he towered over her, until he nearly enveloped her. His knuckles grazed down her throat, rough callused texture teasing her skin into prickles as he traced a path down to the zipper of her hoodie.
“Changing your mind?” he breathed, eyes simmering hot as he slowly dragged the zipper down, teeth popping apart with a loud rasp.
“No,” she whispered, and swallowed hard. “But let’s get one thing straight. You are definitely the mistake I’ll regret in the morning. You won’t call me, I won’t call you.”
“I can deal with that,” he said, then drew her close and kissed her.
CHAPTER TWO
DIZZY HEAT CRASHED OVER ZERO, leaving her gasping. Evan laid claim to her mouth with a wildness that bordered on madness, scouring her lips with his heat, shocking her senses with every titillating flick of his tongue. He delved deep, invading her intimately and inescapably. He tasted like wildfire, a flashfire burn that consumed everything in his path—including her. She’d never have thought, from his lazy smiles and lingering glances, that this slept under his skin.
She should tell him to slow down. She should do…something. Something other than clinging to him as he stripped her raw with a searing kiss, mating his tongue to hers until every liquid stroke turned her blood to molten gold.
Fuck. Fuck. He destroyed her ability to think; the hard heat of his body caged her, the heavy weight of massive hands stroking over her hips, the heady flavors of coffee still clinging to his lips and mingling with that flashburn taste until she could spend hours drinking in every drop of him.
He tore his mouth from hers and looked down at her, heat paling his eyes to a crackling green-white lightning strike that blazed right through her. “Fuck, Zoraya,” he breathed, the needy growl in his voice shivering down her spine to pool in a hot little knot just below the pit of her stomach. He released her hips to slide long, rough fingers up her arms to her shoulders, then drifted down once more to the zipper of her hoodie.
Her mouth went dry as he dragged the zipper’s tongue all the way down, one agonizing inch at a time. Thick knuckles brushed the underside of her breast, just enough to tease with a grazing touch that made her suck in her breath. As the hoodie parted he slid his hands inside, framing her waist. His fingers encircled her almost fully, scorching. He dragged her close, tight against him, until the hard ridge of his need pressed between them.
She swallowed roughly, fingering his shirt. She wasn’t used to this. To the silent intensity of his regard, to the way he went for what he wanted with single-minded focus. She was more accustomed to the mouth-breathers of the world, smarmy assholes who thought sensuality was about lame one-liners and saying you like this, baby? Yeah, you like it while smack
ing her ass.
Still he said nothing, only watching her with simmering question in his eyes, demanding an answer. Giving her a chance to say no. A chance to not do something reckless and pointless just because she’d had a bad day and wanted to take it out on him. A chance to put him out on her front doorstep and forget about him. Even as he leaned into her, his breath harsh and heavy between them…he was giving her a choice. Asking if she wanted to be horribly, wonderfully, painfully carefree for one delicious moment, and just let this happen.
She curled her fingers against his neck, stroking the strong, tanned slope of muscle, and dragged his mouth down to hers.
They crashed together, his mouth slanting hard against hers, the rough scrape of his beard teasing her skin to tingling sensitivity. She pushed his jacket down his shoulders and tore at the hem of his t-shirt, dragging it up. She needed the hard play of muscle under her hands, the fire of taut skin stretching over the sleek, toned muscle of a titan. The sound of skin to skin as she explored him made her shudder, mixing with the cadence of their rushed breaths in a whispered symphony of desire. The low growl building in his chest thrummed under her hands, trembled against her mouth, tore a gasp from her as she bit at the succulent firmness of his lower lip.
He pulled back with a low snarl, licking his reddened lips and fixing her with a searing, fierce look—then descended on her like a ravenous beast, hot and wild as he blazed a path of nipping, stinging kisses down her jaw, her throat, stubble teasing and dragging, heightening each point of sweet pain to delicious agony. She let her head fall back against the wall, struggling for breath, her thoughts so clouded she could think of nothing but the fire nudging against her belly, the subtle movements of his hips that said he wanted her with a need he couldn’t restrain.
His fingers found the button of her jeans and nearly tore it off. She arched into him as his palm spanned her stomach, imprinting its shape against her skin in electro-erotic outline, taunting her as he brushed the line of her panties yet moved no further. Back and forth, he traced that line between skin and lace with a fingertip as rough as raw leather.
She dug her nails into his neck and hissed. “Bastard.”
His only answer was a dark, rumbling chuckle, shivering against her ear. Then his hand slid inside her jeans, found her sex…and took complete control of her body.
Tight denim crushed his palm against her. He traced the soft folds of her, circling with a shockingly delicate touch, gathering the slick bursts of her wetness until he nearly glided against her as his fingertip stroked the center of her pleasure. She clamped her thighs shut, trapping his hand against her as she squirmed against the wall, trembling with every sharp burst of desire, each sluggish wash of heat that soaked into her in gut-deep pulses. He taunted her. Tormented her. She could hardly hear her own breath over her thundering pulse, and she clawed at his shoulders, demanding more.
And he gave—with two thick fingers thrusting into her, slick with her own wetness, curving inside to explore in intimate, plunging strokes that sought deeper and deeper. Her body clenched around him in shuddering spasms, needing, craving every touch, aching for him to reach just a little farther, find that one perfect caress that would break her. But he only continued to tease, delving faster, rougher, the heel of his palm rubbing against her clit until she ground herself into him with utter abandon, searching for anything to end the tight, delicious pain swelling inside her.
Until he withdrew his touch, leaving her cold. She opened her eyes to find him watching her with that damnable arrogant smile that made her want to scratch his fucking eyes out.
“Asshole,” she hissed. That smile only widened as he brought his fingers to his lips and traced his tongue over the tip of one, licking away the wet sheen.
“You keep saying that,” he rumbled. “But I don’t think you really mean it.”
“Fuck you.”
“If you insist.”
His lips crushed down on hers once more, kissing her until her mouth swelled to tender, luscious fullness and she tasted nothing but the savage rush entwined between them. She was hardly aware of kicking her boots off, dimly conscious of helping him rip her jeans away, of him fumbling a condom from his back pocket. Then there was only the indomitable wall of his body, the powerful flow of sinew under her hands, the sweetly metallic taste of bruised flesh as she punished his delectable mouth with suckling bites. His fingers grazed between her thighs once more, tugging the damp crotch of her panties aside. He lifted her up, hitched her against him, fitted their bodies together for a trembling second of sweet anticipation.
He looked down at her as if her name was the curse that damned him, a hell he couldn’t resist. Then he arched his hips, and surged to fill her. Her eyes slammed closed. Her breath seized. Her body tightened—and she gave herself over with a throaty, gasping cry.
He took her with the crazed frenzy of a man possessed, parting the softest, deepest crevices of her body to flow into those sweetly intimate places where every caress of friction was a luscious violation. The shape of him imprinted on her from within, caressing her on every rough, swift, steady stroke. His hands curved against her ass, dug in with strong fingers, lifted her up until he sank deeper on every thrust, until she thought she would break each time he withdrew and left her clenching inside, yearning for that slick stroke and stretching pulse again, lifting herself up to meet him until her hips slammed flush with his and her thighs gripped his waist and she couldn’t hold back her rising, desperate cries.
Her fingers curled over his scalp, stroking the tight-cropped burr of his hair, and he let out a melting groan and bent to take her nipple into his mouth. He suckled; he nibbled; he licked; he teased, wetting the cloth of her shirt and bra until the damp texture became a heated, maddening friction that shot sweet pulses through her veins. She couldn’t take it anymore—the hard brick scraping at her back, the claiming grasp of his hands, the savage rhythm mounting between them in a crescendo that could only end with her shattered and senseless. He roused her over and over until she was swollen and full with him, until she hurt with a need that racked her body to its limits. She couldn’t stand it. He was unbearable, overwhelming, destroying her.
And as she arched against the wall, as she twisted her hips until he fit into that perfect spot, she gasped out his name as that sweet paralysis gripped her and she locked around him in tight whiplash spasms. Each racking pulse concentrated her tension to a single bursting point, until her body prickled with wet fire and she couldn’t breathe and everything inside her dissolved into a liquid rush of molten sparks.
Through her haze, she remained dimly aware of him. Of how he moved against her, growling through gritted teeth, fighting the tight clutch of her flesh. Of how he gripped her tighter as his body went stone-still under her lax fingers, until a shudder went through him and with a choked sound, barely a breath, the hard throb of him swelled inside her. Then silence. Silence, and the glorious soreness and sensitivity of a body used beyond satiation and into lassitude. The mingled scents of their sweat and sex mixed with the lingering scent of green apple incense that always permeated her apartment. The hot weight of him trapped her against the wall, her thighs forced wide to span his breadth, deliciously sore.
She hadn’t had sex like that in…fucking ever. All heat and passion and primitive need, urgent and raw. Zero opened her eyes lazily and found piercing green eyes watching her, hazed and still so very hungry.
“Well,” she managed breathlessly, her throat raw from crying out, the words cracking. “That was unexpected.”
* * *
Evan blinked at Zoraya, then burst into laughter. His chest ached from panting, but he couldn’t stop until his laughter had bled itself out into a chuckle, then a sighing breath. Shoulders shaking, he curled himself around her, gathering her close and burying his face against her throat. He didn’t want to move yet, not when he was still cradled in the soft heat of her. She was saturated in that beautiful scent of woman and sex, and that hint of green a
pples he’d caught before.
With a contented sound she rubbed her cheek against his, little minx that she was. She’d caught his eye the moment she’d walked into the bar, with her wild hair and vivid blue eyes so bright against her soft, tawny skin. Even when so clearly despondent, she’d held her delicate sweet face turned up, chin lifted. Proud. He liked proud women.
He liked her, he thought. She was different; irreverent and cynical and independent, not trying too hard to be the kind of duck-lipped sex kitten he usually ran into when he took a night off to cruise the town. Feinting words with her had been refreshing, and she hadn’t hesitated in the slightest to put him in his place and knock him down a peg. Most people fell for the fake psychobabble I-know-what-you-want-better-than-you-do act without questioning, but she’d seen right through it. He wouldn’t mind getting to know her better—and he wondered if he could change her mind about that you won’t call me; I won’t call you.
Especially when she found out he hadn’t been wholly honest with her.
He drew back enough to look at her. Her eyes were glazed and dilated, dark with satiation; her lips bruised to a soft, inviting crimson fullness that made him want to do it all over again. A strand of her hair clung to her cheek, damp with sweat, sooty black fading to a blood-red tip that clung to the corner of her mouth.
“Regretting that impulse decision a little less now?” he asked softly.
With a tiredly amused sound, she closed her eyes. “Ask me when I can feel my legs again.” She pushed at his chest lightly. “Off.”
“So brusque,” he mocked. “I’d almost think you were only using me for sex.”
“You think?”
“I’m getting an inkling.”
With a laugh, he braced one hand against the wall and separated their bodies with a faint wince of friction against oversensitive flesh. She hissed through her teeth as she settled her feet on the floor and rearranged her panties, then bent to pick up her jeans. He tried not to be obvious about taking in the length of surprisingly long legs for someone so small, slim and shapely below lushly curving hips and a high waist.
