Give In To Me

by Lacey Alexander

  Running away from him had not been one of her finer moments, but again . . . she was mentally exhausted. So she forgave herself.

  And really, even if it hadn’t been terribly mature, she wasn’t sure there had been a smarter option even if she’d felt perky, energetic, and fully on top of her game. What good could have come from having a conversation with him, after all? Unless you really did want . . . more . . . of him . . . there was nothing to say. So running off perhaps made more sense than the alternative. And of course she didn’t really want more. Of course she didn’t.

  Just then, she turned a corner that brought the Café Tropico into view. While it had been quiet there earlier, now loud music echoed from inside and it appeared so busy that remnants of the crowd spilled out onto the sidewalk. People stood around drinking, a few smoking. For some reason she suddenly wished she’d put back on the suit jacket she now carried in one hand, yet it had remained hot out—even after nightfall—so she hadn’t. While she’d felt perfectly comfortable in just her tank ever since her encounter with the man she’d kissed, now that she was back here, she instantly felt . . . uncovered again, a little too . . . revealed.

  God, what if he was still in there? And he probably was.

  Just keep walking.

  She followed her own silent command, yet—Lord—there was no denying the strange yearning that stretched its way up her inner thighs. She became much more fully aware of each step she took because every single move she made seemed to amplify her nagging desire.

  But just keep walking, damn it.

  She did. She pushed her way past the Café Tropico, taking one almost agonizing step after another.

  Until she passed. Passed the people lingering on the sidewalk. Passed the peeling green paint and old sails, the sound of the classic rock song “All Right Now” fading into the distance even as the lyrics reminded her that maybe she was in need of a kiss.

  That’s when she stopped in front of the old pink stucco hotel next door, halted in place by the memory. Of those kisses. Of what that man had made her feel.

  At the time, it had been . . . oh God, so wonderfully consuming. She had to admit that to herself, even if she hadn’t quite been able to at the time. And later, after, well . . . yes, then it had definitely been horrifying. And she still didn’t understand it—not at all.

  And further, the truth was that it scared her to death. She was a little afraid of him. And a little afraid of herself suddenly. That was what had compelled her to flee upon seeing him.

  So if running made so much sense, why are you stopping now?

  She stood there in the dim lighting of a pink hotel trying to puzzle her way to an answer.

  What if the wonderful part was more powerful than her fear? What if the gnawing ache between her legs was more powerful? And even the vague concern in the back of her mind that Juan Gonzalez might be there again held no sway over her at this point.

  An almost painfully thready breath left her as she turned around. She couldn’t explain to herself why she was hoisting the long strap of her small purse onto her shoulder, gripping the jacket in her hand a little tighter, and then slowly walking back. Her heart beat too hard in her chest as a bead of perspiration trickled between her breasts. The Café Tropico suddenly felt like a magnet now, as if it were physically pulling her to it.

  Do you really want more of that? More of him? More of his forcefulness?

  Her mind wasn’t sure. At all. And yet her legs continued to lead her cautiously toward the slightly downtrodden club, making her think her body was more decisive. In fact, it was almost as if she’d lost the ability to control her own actions, even as slow and tentative as they were. Because she was entirely unsure what she was doing, or why, and what she really wanted to come of this, if anything—yet something led her on.

  And as a flash of memory entered her mind, she knew it was the answer to the questions she’d just asked herself.

  It was the way he’d held her, not letting her go.

  A bolt of heat shot between her legs, leaving the tender flesh there to feel heavy, wanting.

  You liked it. You liked being held that way, against your will.

  She blew out a heavy breath, freshly revolted by her own response.

  Don’t think about it. Just don’t think about it.

  And so that’s what she did—tried not to think about it even as she found herself still making her way to the entrance and squeezing her way inside past everyone who stood around socializing. She tried not to think, her heart beating hard and fast in her chest as she took it all in. Lights, music, people. To her left, a young female bartender in a tight baby-doll tee busily took orders, mixed drinks, and plunked beer bottles on the bar in front of thirsty patrons. Ahead of her, people mixed and mingled as waitresses snaked their way through the crowd. In the distance, the band she’d heard from outside performed on a well-lit stage, the dance floor in front of them filled with moving, gyrating bodies. But she didn’t see her He-Man anywhere she looked.

  She searched the room again, twice, because it would be easy to miss someone in this kind of crowd. Yet after a few minutes she had no choice but to accept the fact that he just wasn’t here. A strange mix of relief and disappointment flooded her senses.

  So he’s gone. And nothing shocking or frightening or amazing is about to happen here tonight.

  But that’s okay. In fact, it was probably just as well. Because God knew she didn’t need any new complications in her life. And what a confusing complication this one had the potential to be. So it was best. Meant to be. Go home now. Go home and rest. Go home and remember who you are and what you value. Go home and just be you. The normal you. Not the you with the aching thighs and wet panties.

  Then the crowd parted slightly, revealing the restaurant’s side door, the one he’d dragged her through last week. She tensed at the sight, at the sensations it brought back. A recollection of adrenaline, and fear, and . . . excitement. Oh hell—the juncture of her thighs surged with moisture yet again. Her panties had to be soaked by now.

  Would he like that if he knew? Wherever he happens to be right now? Would it turn him on to know memories of those few hot minutes make me so wet? Would it make him hard?

  She drew in her breath again, briskly this time, shocked anew. By her own thoughts. She’d never been so . . . wanton. Even just inside herself.

  Stop it. Stop it now. He’s not here and you’re never going to see him again, so just forget about this and move on with your life.

  Another deep breath, this one deliberate, and calming. Good. That’s better. And as her gaze remained on the side door, a more practical thought hit her. In fact, it was the first practical thought she’d had since the Café Tropico had come into view, so it seemed like a good sign. She wondered if her lost hair clip—the one he’d removed—could possibly still be outside, in the alley.

  It wasn’t important, but she’d remembered it later, wishing she’d picked it up. And it would surely be gone by now. But on the other hand, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to check—stranger things had happened.

  So without further ado, she made her way to the side door, turned the knob, opened it up, and stepped back out into the hot Miami night.

  Her throat seized as a muscular arm closed around her from behind like a steel trap. Then she found the front of her body being shoved against the stucco wall next to the door, one wrist yanked behind her back. Too stunned to even scream, her body tensed with a fear unlike any she’d ever known. What was happening? You’re being attacked. Assaulted. Think. About what to do, how to get out of this. But she was too panicked for any clear, useful thoughts to come.

  That’s when a familiar voice said, “Ginger?” Then the hands holding her in place let go, freeing her.

  She spun to face the man she’d come here to see—but now she couldn’t quite believe she was seeing him.

  “You!” she spat. He’d scared the shit out of her! “What on earth?” She shook her head to clear it.
/>   “Thought you were somebody else. Sorry.” Though as apologies went, she thought it fairly lame—he sounded far from contrite.

  “Who?” Someone he thought it was okay to attack? Just who was this guy she’d been kissing? And . . . thinking about ever since.

  “Afraid that’s none of your business, Ginger,” he replied with a short nod that left her just as incensed. But then she felt his eyes, roaming her body, and time seemed to slow down. Everything slowed down. Like earlier when she’d seen him, she began to sweat and it got a little harder to breathe. Which she feared was making her breasts heave slightly. “I’m glad you came back,” he said, voice low.

  And something in her stomach contracted. She didn’t know what to say, how to react. Even though she’d come here looking for him, she’d come without a plan. Which was completely unlike her. And she certainly hadn’t expected to be slammed against a wall by way of greeting.

  Somehow she couldn’t admit that she was here for him. Because it suddenly struck her as absolutely ludicrous. Why had she done this? What had she been hoping for? What a bad time in life to start acting without planning. “I was thirsty,” she heard herself say. Oh God—talk about lame.

  And the slight tilt of his handsome head, along with the amused, knowing look, confirmed it. But he didn’t call her on it. Instead he just asked, “Why’d you run away from me? Earlier, on the sidewalk?”

  She drew in a quick breath. Another thing for which she had no reply. Come up with something. Something sensible this time. “I was in a hurry.”

  “That I could see.”

  “I was late. For a meeting,” she went on.

  His head tipped back lightly. “Ah.” She couldn’t tell whether he believed her or was being sarcastic. And his dark gaze still burned on hers. Such direct eye contact made her nervous. Especially with a man she was so bizarrely drawn to.

  “Where’s your drink?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turning up just slightly, the question holding more arrogance than she liked.

  “Already drank it,” she lied, her tone pointed, letting him know she didn’t like his interrogation and wasn’t about to cater to his conceit.

  “Not thirsty anymore?” he asked.

  She shook her head softly, wishing she didn’t feel so lightheaded. And at the same time, she’d grown startlingly aware of . . . her body. Her breasts, her torso, her thighs. And she knew it was all because of his eyes.

  “Maybe you’re hungry then?” he asked with a speculative tilt of his head.

  Hungry. He meant . . . hungry for him. Hungry for sex. Her chest tightened, but she tried to be cool. “No.”

  A knowing look. “You sure, Ginger?”

  She swallowed nervously and knew he’d seen it, damn it. But still she said, “Yes.” Even as he leaned closer.

  Even as he said, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you want,” she said, but it came out in a mere whisper.

  And she didn’t make a move as he brought his face close to hers—oh, so painfully close. And then he kissed her.

  Oh God. Oh yes. She couldn’t help but respond as the kiss moved through her like . . . relief. It was something she’d yearned for but thought she’d never have again, and now suddenly, oh yum, and yes, yes, yes!

  His hot, slow kisses—one turning into another and another—were the best thing she’d felt in a week. Or . . . well, the sad, honest truth was that she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt anything so deliciously intoxicating. As his hands molded warmly to her hips, her own lifted without thought, her palms pressing lightly to his well-muscled chest.

  But—oh Lord—she was kissing him back that easily? Proving him right, shoring up his arrogance? What had gotten into her? And yes, sure, she’d come back to the Café Tropico hoping for exactly this, longing for it, but . . . maybe she’d hoped for more talking first. Maybe she’d wanted to find out more about him and decide he was a decent guy before any more kissing took place. Maybe she’d hoped he’d want to know more about her, too. Maybe she’d imagined them coming together in a more civilized way this time, and she’d thought that would make it all right. Or . . . maybe she hadn’t really thought that far into it at all, but now that she was kissing him, she was being forced to remember why this had made no sense last week and why it still didn’t make any sense now.

  In fact . . . God, what was she thinking? How had she even ended up here, like this, again? I just can’t do this. I can’t keep kissing a stranger this way. I can’t.

  And that meant there was only one thing to do. Stop. End this.

  So she pressed firmly on his chest, trying to push him away.

  But he didn’t budge. And he kept right on kissing her.

  Even when she leaned her head back until it touched the stucco behind her, still his mouth remained on hers.

  That’s when she began to struggle against him, to make it clear that she wasn’t into this anymore, that she wanted to stop. She pushed harder against his chest, turned her head to the side to escape his mouth, and found herself wriggling in his grasp in an effort to break free of it.

  And yet . . . oh Lord. Even as she did those things, she found herself getting inexplicably more and more excited. Especially when the only result was for him to hold on to her hips even tighter and bring his body closer against hers. Her crotch practically pulsed with the heat of desire.

  To his credit, he did finally stop kissing her then—only after landing one last surprisingly gentle kiss on her cheek. And he went agonizingly still, their bodies still crushed together, and she could hear her own labored breath as she tentatively turned her head back to meet his gaze.

  And oh Lord, his eyes were right there, not two inches away. The warm, musky, male scent of him permeated the air, seeming to cling to her very skin, and she thought she’d never forget the smell.

  And then, with their gazes locked so close, he shifted slightly, pressed his hips into hers, and a startling hardness lodged against the tender juncture of her thighs. She swallowed tightly. For a long, shocking second, it was the only thing she could feel. Like stone. Like a column of stone stretching its way up the very center of her, wedged into place where she could feel it the most.

  She couldn’t explain it to herself, but it was perhaps the most intense sexual moment she’d ever shared with a man. To be looking so intently into each other’s eyes while he held her in place in a dark Miami alley, as much with his powerful erection as with his hands. Both of them knowing she didn’t want to be there. Both of them also knowing that she secretly did.

  It was that second kind of knowing that made it impossible to fight it when he leaned back in to deliver an achingly slow, hot, steamy tongue kiss that seemed to echo its way through her entire body.

  And despite herself, the self she usually was, she knew it wasn’t really fighting when she pressed against his chest again in a small attempt to push him back. She knew she wanted more of that strange push/pull struggle. And as he moved his grip from her hips to her wrists, his hard-on still bolting her to the wall, then pinned her arms against the stucco on either side of her head, she knew a delicious near ecstasy she could never quite have imagined before.

  It was . . . surrender.

  Chapter 4

  More smoldering-hot kisses left her lips tingling and her chest heaving beneath her silk tank. Between those kisses, he drew back barely at all, their faces staying achingly close.

  Her breath grew even threadier, more audible, when, still holding her wrists in both hands, he stretched her arms slowly upward, over her head, until he could grip both in one fist. The other hand he rested on her shoulder before slowly easing it down, running his palm painstakingly over her breast. She gasped softly, tensing once more in his grasp, and then—God help her—her teeth clenched lightly as she absorbed the pleasure.

  First one breast, then the other—he made a slow, thorough exploration of them, each move of his hand sending ribbons of fresh lust unfurling through her. He sensually squeezed,
molded; at one point he stroked toward her nipple, catching it between forefinger and thumb even through her bra.

  There came a time when she struggled again, slightly, without thought. She chose not to examine why now—she only knew that it happened. And of course he held her in place, and their eyes reconnected, his having dropped to the mounds of flesh he was so expertly caressing.

  Their gazes stayed locked again for a long moment, in a way that felt positively primal to her, until he drew his look away to glance up and down between them. “I like the red.” His voice came out raspy.

  She blinked, dumbfounded. “Wh-what?”

  “If you have to wear a suit, the red is much hotter than what you had on last time.”

  She didn’t bother to respond. But vaguely wondered for the first time what had become of her jacket. Suits were expensive, after all. Though a glance down of her own allowed her to see it puddled near her feet where she’d dropped it at some point. It also allowed her to see her body plastered against a stranger’s. And since she couldn’t seem to change the part about their bodies being plastered together, she decided it was high time to change the other part of that equation.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  His eyes glimmered on her beneath the dim bulb over their heads. “Who do you want me to be?”

  “I don’t know.” Honest answer. It was all she had.

  “Maybe I’m the big bad wolf.”

  She suppressed a shiver. “And that makes me who—Little Red Riding Hood?”

  The wolf leaned near her ear, his whisper tickling her skin as he said, “You’re not that innocent here, Ginger, and you know it.”

  “What do you mean?” The argument came naturally—anything else was unthinkable.

  “You like it.” He was all confidence, arrogance. “As much as I do.”

  “You’re not giving me a choice.”

  “I don’t think you want one.”

  The accusation—true or not—stung and made her struggle against his hold, harder this time, more committed to breaking free. Her stomach churned when she realized exactly how strong he was, that even when she was serious about getting loose from him, she didn’t stand a chance. “Let me go,” she insisted, fighting to free her arms from where he still held them over her head, the effort jostling her breasts.