by Shandi Boyes
When I refuse to enter Ryan’s patrol vehicle, he forces me into the back seat.
Unfortunately, last night’s exchange was not only witnessed by Jet and a handful of waitresses, but Ryan’s partner as well. Talk about embarrassing. His partner isn’t just pretty; she’s downright gorgeous. It is fortunate I spotted the ginormous rock sitting on her ring finger, or the jealousy I’ve been struggling to rein in the past week would have surfaced greater than ever.
Ryan flees the main floor before the silk around my thigh has been removed, but that doesn’t stop both Viper patrons and staff from approaching him. Although grateful he has never accepted any of the many offers bestowed upon him, I’m still annoyed. How many rejections does it take to get the hint? In Melena’s case, the sky is the limits. She’s sitting at fifteen this week alone, and she’s still chipping away at Ryan’s resolve.
“Prune juice.”
I stop tying the laces on my running shoes so I can lock my eyes with Jet. “Prune juice?”
Not spotting my confusion, he nods. He maintains his straightforward, carefree composure for all of two seconds before it comes undone. “Prune juice will take care of that constipated look on your face. Or a dick in your ass. Whatever you prefer.”
My mouth gapes. “I’m not ...constipated.”
“So take choice B,” Jet replies, still laughing.
“I’m not shoving a dick up my ass.” I don’t know why I'm whispering. The conversations I’ve overheard at Vipers could fill fifty erotic books. “It’s not the hole I want filled.”
Now it’s Jet’s turn to be stumped. He glowers at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
I rib him with my elbow, causing him to gasp in a sharp breath. “Don’t act surprised! I’m a woman. I have needs—”
“And now my cock could drill the arctic,” Jet interrupts, adjusting his crotch.
Unappreciative of my faint giggle, Jet sneers, “If I didn’t appreciate my freedom, I’d stuff your laughter down your throat with my cock.” He grips the back of my head with his hand before gyrating his hips toward my mouth.
“Such a charmer,” I tease, knowing he's only playing. Jet can have the pick of any girl, so why would he choose me?
He waits for me to sling my bag over my shoulder before asking, “You know, if you’re not going to take me up on my offer, you’ve got another suitor dying for the same chance.”
“I’m not going out with Gerald,” I reply, gagging.
Gerald is a regular who’s been to more of my shows than Ryan. He seems like a lovely guy, but dyed combovers and button-up Hawaiian shirts aren’t my thing.
Jet flicks two fingers between my brows, demanding the return of my focus. “I’m not talking about Gerald. It is someone much hotter, just not quite as handsome as me.” He dusts his fingers over his chest.
I roll my eyes. “Well that could only be one person...”
Jet nods, assuming I’ve caught on. I haven’t.
“...Pete?”
“What?! No!” His voice is so loud he startles my heart as much as my ears.
“My god, Savannah. You are lucky you’re gorgeous.” He whispers my name to ensure those surrounding us don’t hear it. “I’m talking about Ryan. The guy who rocks up here every night to drive you home. He isn’t doing that to be friendly. He wants in your panties.”
I huff, wishing what he said were true. “Ryan doesn’t want to sleep with me. He’s been there. He’s done that. He isn’t interested. He is just being civil. It is the way he is. Ryan is a gentleman; nothing will change that.”
“A gentleman who wants to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked.” Jet rocks his hips while making inappropriate moans. “He wants to give you the best sex you’ve ever had.”
I throw my fist into his stomach, winding him. “Once again: been there, done that.”
Jet makes a pfft noise. “You said he was a virgin?”
“Yeah, so?”
He cocks a brow. “That means he didn’t have a fucking clue what he was doing. He probably didn’t find your G spot, much less make you orgasm.”
My teeth graze my bottom lip as my mind wanders. Just like me, Ryan was a virgin, but that didn’t stop him from knocking it out of the park. My god—that man knew what to do and precisely how to do it. When we were together, the sex was... mind-blowing.
I fan my flaming red cheeks with my hand. “Trust me, he knew what he was doing.” I’m prepared to say more, but I don’t need to. Jet’s wide eyes reveal he believes me.
After shoving a lollipop into his mouth, Jet says, “If he was hitting sixes back then, imagine his skills now?”
I groan. “Don’t say that.”
“Why? You tempted?” Jet waggles his brows.
I nearly lie but swallow my words when I consider how many lies I’ve told the past five years.
“More jealous than tempted,” I admit. I want Ryan to be happy, but I hate the idea of him with anyone but me.
“You don’t have to be jealous, Savannah. He’s there, waiting for you like he’s always been.”
I wish I had as much confidence in Jet’s declaration as he does, but I don’t. Ryan hasn’t given any indication that he dislikes me, but he’s not put out any feelers either. He is the most guarded he’s ever been. I can’t read what he had for dinner, much less gauge his reaction to my resurrection. For the first time in the twenty-five years I’ve known him, I’m flying solo. It’s a scary, tormented flight.
When I throw my gym bag over my shoulder, Jet asks, “Same time tomorrow?”
My pout morphs onto his mouth when I shake my head. “I took Saturday off, remember?”
He glances at me like I told him I’m performing open heart surgery with a butter knife and a pair of tinsnips.
“I have my performance at Maison’s Bordello tomorrow night. Although the double pay is appealing, I don’t think I can do four performances in a night.”
“Oh.” Jet’s reply is not an informative “oh.” It is a worried one.
“Sunday?” I purse my lips.
After twanging my bottom lip, Jet nods. “I’ll be here. Will you?”
My frown turns into a smirk. “You haven’t gotten rid of me yet.”
He half-heartedly nods. “Give him time. He’ll soon wear you down.”
He doesn’t need to say Ryan’s name for me to know who he is referencing. Every night Ryan drives me home, Jet’s suspicions grow. He’s just waiting for me not to arrive the next day. He has no reason for concern. Ryan doesn’t have the means to look after me, and in all honesty, I don’t want him to. I love that Ryan is a working-class man. Everything he has, he earned himself. Even when peeved with jealousy, I admire that about him.
“Bye.” I lean in to press a kiss to Jet’s cheek. Abby Rowe may not kiss her friends goodbye, but Savannah Fontane does, even when he makes her ugly green head rear for the first time in a decade.
Chapter 16
Savannah
The first person I spot when I exit the back door of Vipers is Ryan. Unlike the past week, he isn’t leaning against his patrol car. He has his knee braced on his truck. The very same truck he owned when he was a teen. The truck we...
I fan my cheeks, suddenly overheated.
“Night off?” I push off my feet to head Ryan’s way.
His foot falls from his truck, his braced stance indicating he's ready to chase me if I run. “Yep,” he replies, eyeing me hesitantly.
The hardness in his eyes weakens when I glide my hand along the overworked curve of his front fender. “She’s always had entrancing curves,” I murmur in a breathy moan.
I’ve always loved Ryan’s truck. I’m glad to see he has taken good care of her the past decade.
“Yeah, she has,” Ryan replies, his voice drenched with candor.
When I raise my eyes to his, he drops his heavy-hooded gaze from my skirt-covered backside to his feet. My smile grows when I notice he's wearing running shoes.
“Come pr
epared tonight?”
I inwardly cringe. My voice is way too husky. I sound like I’m seconds from climaxing. Damn Jet and his nosey-nancying. Now I’m not just looking at the attractive attributes visible outside Ryan’s clothing, I’m thinking about the desirable ones his clothes are hiding from my perverted gaze.
The chance of dampening my excitement flies out the window when Ryan smirks a boyish grin. His smile does wicked things to my insides—things I shouldn’t be feeling.
“You snooze, you lose,” Ryan murmurs, his words as breathless as my lungs.
I tap my tennis shoes together to show I understand his challenge. The scuffs on my stilettos can’t be undone, and my walls are slowly crumbling. Ryan was the first man to break through my walls years ago, so it is logical he is the same one breaking through them again ten years later.
“Why do you show up every night, Ryan?” My voice isn’t angry or snarky. I’m not looking for a fight. I’m honestly curious to hear his reply. “Your disapproval of my choices was expressed without hesitation last week, so why subject yourself to it over and over again?”
Ryan’s shoulder touches his ear. “Who am I to judge your choices?”
I’m tempted to shout, “My boyfriend and lover,” before I realize he's neither of those things. I don’t even know if he is my friend. We’ve spoken more tonight than we have the past week.
Before I can voice a more suitable reply, Ryan’s cell buzzes. While keeping one eye on me, he digs it out of his pocket. My thighs press together when a blistering smile stretches across his face. Damn, I’ve missed this man’s grin.
Just as quickly as excitement blazed my veins, anger follows it. That smile wasn’t elicited by a message from Brax. That’s his smile when he’s wooing someone out of her panties. I know this, as it is the one he always gave when sliding my panties down my thighs.
Oh my god—is he hooking up in front of me?!
My first thought is to slap his phone out of his hand before inflicting my anger on his cheek. But since Ryan suffered a violent childhood, I harness my anger before resorting to the tactic I always use when times get rough.
I run.
With my endeavor to evade him at fever-pitch, I charge for the bush instead of the roadside, reaching it in three heart-thrashing seconds. Because Ryan is distracted returning the text message of the person responsible for him grinning like a lovesick idiot, he fails to notice I’m fleeing until I’m a good three to four hundred feet into the scrub.
I realize he’s spotted me when he grumbles, “For fuck’s sake, Savannah.”
Peering over my shoulder, I watch him put away his phone before he pushes off his feet to chase me down. It’s utterly ludicrous for me to think I can outrun him, but I sprint like the finish line is in my sights. The prickly hedges scratch my thighs, but I ignore them, more determined than ever.
Just as I reach an opening near the freeway, Ryan’s long strides catch up with me. I’ve barely forced out my first set of demands when he opens the passenger door of his truck to throw me inside.
Yes, I said throw, as that is precisely what he does.
Luckily for me and my short temper, his truck doesn’t have the means to keep me contained like his patrol car does. Even our exchange being witnessed by over a half dozen spectators doesn’t weaken my determination in the slightest. I charge for the scrub like I’m outrunning an axe-murderer, my strides as spirited as my resolve.
Ryan is nipping at my heels two seconds later. He curls his arm around my waist, hoisting me so far off the ground my shoes run on air.
“You can’t outrun me, Savannah. I chase criminals for a living. It’s my job,” he murmurs into my ear as he walks us back to his truck, his steps not as hurried this time around.
My frantic wails come to a shrieking halt. I can’t fight him—I’m too busy calming the inane pulse his gritty voice caused to my sex. If the force doesn’t work out for Ryan, he should consider book narration. He’d have the readers’ panties damp just from reading the copyright notice.
While pinning me to his truck with his body, he throws open the door I slammed shut during my evasion. I’m not going to lie, not all my breathlessness is from running away. Some—if not all of it—is from having every inch of his rock-hard body pressed against mine. Ryan has always had a nice build, but he’s added a few extra pounds of muscle the past ten years, making his body not just nice, but mouthwateringly impressive.
My spine snaps straight as disturbing notion after disturbing notion filters through my head. He was just sexting another woman, yet I’m grinding against his crotch like his cock is a metal detector and I have a treasure chest lodged up my ass.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Let me go, Ryan!” I demand with anger dangling on my vocal cords.
“No,” he replies without pause for thought.
He shoves me into the passenger seat of his truck before sprinting for the driver side door. With the encouraging cheer of my colleagues, I swing open the door he just slammed shut and commence sliding out.
I don’t even get a foot on the ground before Ryan’s impressive body fills the doorframe.
Snarling, I clamber for the driver’s side door.
Ryan’s torso warms my back two seconds later.
And thus begins a vicious game of cat and mouse.
Our audience grows in size with every back and forth exchange. If there wasn’t a weird, sick, demented part of me relishing Ryan’s resolve, I’d be peeved at the attention. But with playfulness warming both my heart and my core, my anger is kept at bay.
Ryan’s face displays his annoyance, but that isn’t the only insight his panty-wetting features reveal. He's also thankful for the challenge. Ryan isn’t an overly competitive man, but he's still a man nonetheless. He loves the chase just as much as any red-blooded man. To some men, this type of foray is as good as foreplay.
To some women as well.
I swear my panties have never been so drenched. Just last week I was arguing with Ryan that my morals hadn’t up and left town. Now, I’m not so sure. Am I so desperate for attention, I’m willing to pretend I didn’t see what I saw? Wasn’t turning a blind eye what got me in this position to begin with?
I’m not doing that again. If I can’t be myself around a man I’ve known since I was four, who can I be honest with?
No one.
“Who was she?” I ask, stopping Ryan’s trek from the passenger door to the driver’s door midstride.
He peers at me sitting in the middle of his bench seat with confusion slashed across his handsome features. “Who?”
I say a private prayer to keep jealousy out of my voice before replying, “The woman you were smiling about earlier. Who is she?” For once, my prayers are answered.
Ryan remains still, either shocked into silence or striving to weasel his way out of an awkward situation.
I realize it is neither when he locks his eyes with mine and says, “You, Savannah.”
Confusion engulfs me. Ryan is a bad liar in general, but when he's looking directly into my eyes, he has no chance in hell of hiding his deceit, so why would he bother? Unless he’s telling the truth.
“I didn’t send you a message.” Confusion echoes in my tone.
Ryan smiles, then nods. “I know. But the message wasn’t from you. It was about you.”
Spotting my growing bewilderment, he adds on, “Izzy wanted to know if I needed backup tonight. I told her I had everything covered.” He licks his dry lips, drawing a moan from a female spectator watching our exchange from the sidelines. “I have everything covered, don’t I?”
Before I can utter a syllable, a female voice purrs, “Oh, yes, you do, Officer Carter.” She enunciates his name with the same seductiveness I used when coercing him to join the force over a decade ago.
With a snarl, I swing my eyes to the voice. I’m not surprised to discover the seductive purr belongs to Melena. Utterly oblivious to the half dozen eyes glowering at her, she twis
ts the rope scarcely concealing her monstrous rack from the public between her thumb and index finger while her hungry eyes burn into Ryan’s profile.
I’m five seconds from telling her to row up shit creek without a paddle when the air in my lungs brutally evicts. Since I was distracted issuing a vicious glare to Melena, Ryan has snuck up on me. While whispering in my ear that he has everything covered, he yanks me out of his truck.
Ignoring the excited hollering of my coworkers encouraging me to fight—and the disappointed sigh of Melena—he stomps around the wooden bed of his truck, holds open the door with his foot, then slides into the driver’s seat, taking me right along with him.
Since he’s not used to driving with a person sitting in his lap, his steering wheel digs into my back and his crotch jabs my ass. It’s been over a decade since I’ve seen Ryan’s cock, much less felt it, but I’m fairly certain I’m not the only one stimulated by our closeness. I can’t miss the bulge in his jeans.
When I attempt to scoot off Ryan’s lap, he yanks me back into my original position. Considering the thickness I’m striving to ignore grows from our battle, I come to the conclusion not only is he at half-mast, but his manhood is even more enticing than I remembered.
“I can sit in my own seat,” I snarl.
I’m not peeved at him. I’m not even peeved at myself. I’m pissed at his jeans. How dare they come between us.
Grunting in lieu of a response, Ryan tugs the seatbelt around us before locking it into place. His hot breaths fan my nape when he stabs the key into his ignition to fire up his engine.
My work colleagues’ exuberant catcalls ring in my ears for the next quarter of a mile, along with the thud of my raring pulse.
I bite on the inside of my cheek when Ryan hits his third pothole for the night. My bite isn’t pleasant; it is painful enough tangy copper stings my taste buds. The past three minutes have been pure torture. Having Ryan so close but being unable to touch him is the cruelest form of punishment. I can smell him on my skin, taste him on the tip of my tongue, and feel him sitting heavy beneath my ass. If that isn’t already distracting my senses to a point of no return, every subtle bounce of his truck reminds me how perfectly aligned our bodies are.
