by Gail McHugh
Deciding on the second option, I rip out of the parking lot, my dick twitching in anticipation as I wait at a stoplight. What can I say? She gets me going.
Amber’s sitting on top of the trunk, a towel spread under her ass. Her elbows are resting on her knees, her hands clasping her hair, which has fallen from the security of its messy bun.
Fuck. She looks even hotter with her hair completely down.
I cross the busy two-lane road and slow my car to a crawl, stopping beside hers. Rolling her eyes, Amber lets out a scornful laugh, seemingly annoyed I just might turn out to be her fucking hero.
That’s right, baby, laugh it up. I’m about to make your day so much more interesting.
“Well, well, well,” I bark, my voice pitching over the speeding vehicles clogging the road as I step out of my car. “What do we have here?”
That earns me another eye roll.
I’ve gained points.
Many.
“God, not you. I’m being punished for something today. That’s obvious.” She sighs, trying to sound like she’s genuinely disturbed.
I can’t help but smile at her lame attempt. “Come on, momma, why you gotta be like that?”
She plows her sticky hair away from her shoulder.
Christ. My teeth ache to bite that shoulder during sex, my ears crave the little pant that would follow, and my tongue tingles to lick the painful but equally pleasurable wound I’d leave.
Amber’s huff breaks me from my dick-induced thoughts. “What do you want, Ryder?”
I raise a brow. “To help, of course.”
She tears her eyes from mine. “I don’t need your help. Believe me, I don’t.”
I cluck my tongue in what I’m sure she’ll find an annoying tsk and make my way toward her. She shoots me a third eye roll.
I smirk by default. Planting my hands on the trunk on either side of her waist, I give her a wide smile. Though she rears back and her gorgeous lips curl over her teeth, her eyes tell a different story.
She wants me.
Bad.
“Are you trying to get smacked again?” she inquires.
“Are you trying to dehydrate to death?” I counter. “And I wouldn’t mind getting smacked again by you. It’s been, what? Close to three weeks since I had that privilege?”
She narrows those storytelling eyes. “Can you back up and give me my space?” Her tone’s reached the level of sexual frustration I’m aiming for.
I reward her with another smirk for being a good student. “Can you give me a kiss?”
Another sigh. “You never stop, do you?”
“I’ve never been known to,” I point out, wondering if I should just pull down my jeans, whip out my dick, and show her exactly what she’ll be missing if she keeps hanging with Brock instead of me. However, I’m in a gentlemanly mood today, so I decide to tempt her with my original plan. Cold air and my company. I cross my arms, step back, and give her the space she’s lied about needing. “Is Brock coming to get you?”
“No. Why would you assume I called him for help?”
“You two have been hanging out. Why wouldn’t I?”
“We just started hanging out. I’m not bothering him with my shit yet.” She slides off the trunk. After tossing the towel into her car and retrieving her purse, she slams the door. “I’m going to call a tow service.”
“You trust Harley?” I fish a cigarette out from behind my ear, light it, and take a long drag. “That might not be a good idea.”
Her face goes all kinds of cute with confusion. “Who’s Harley?”
“Never mind.” She looks at me suspiciously, causing my dick to jerk in response. “Why would you pay for a tow when I can drive you back to your dorm?”
“Because I don’t wanna get in a car with you.” She scoffs.
I’m convinced she’s lying . . . again. I debate calling her out on it.
I do.
“I’m not buying your shit, Moretti, so stop with the fucking dramatics. They’re already getting old.”
Her eyes go wide. Damn. This is getting good.
“You know you’d rather be in a car with me over some stranger.” I flick my cigarette to the ground and stub it out with the tip of my work boot.
She scowls, but it’s barely noticeable. “Technically you are a stranger.”
I step into her face, eliciting a little gasp from her as I look down into her eyes. “Nah, we’ve kissed already,” I whisper, twisting my lips into a grin. “I’m past the stranger-danger level.”
She swallows nervously, and it takes everything in me to not bury my hands in her hair, tilt her beautiful face to the side, and plant my mouth over her racing pulse.
Instead I turn, heading toward my Mustang. “Besides”—I open the door, get in, and roll down the passenger-side window—“believe it or not, your chances of survival are a helluva lot better with me than with Harley. Get in the damn car.”
She grimaces, stares hard at me for a minute, then looks off toward the road. With vigor, she bites her lip, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s going to chew it right the fuck off. I wait and watch. Wait and watch and wait and watch some more.
When she doesn’t make a move, I rev the engine, startling her. I almost laugh but manage to keep my expression placid as I stare at her gorgeous, undecided face. With an expectant eye roll, she begrudgingly swings open the door, climbs in, slams it, and crosses her arms.
She’s officially in the spider’s parlor. I mentally pat myself on the back.
“To. My. Dorm.” Insistency clings to each word as she rolls up the window. She plops her feet onto the dash, closes her eyes, and releases a soft, frustrated sigh.
I concentrate on the way she slowly moves the tips of her fingers over her forehead, removing the perspiration from her milky skin. What I wouldn’t give to shove those fingers in my mouth. I’d gratefully lick, suck, and swallow every bit of her sweat off them. My eyes shift to her nipples, which have hardened in the cooler air.
Christ. She had a better chance with Harley.
I can’t contain the groan that rumbles from my throat as I clutch the steering wheel tighter. It catches her attention.
“Nowhere else, Ryder.”
“Your wish is my command.” The lie flows from my mouth as easily as taking a piss. I’m not bringing her back to her dorm. No way in fucking hell. I didn’t work as hard as I did to spend less than thirty minutes with her. I want—no, I need more time with her.
Because of me, shit’s been tense the last few times we’ve been around each other. I have to right it, show her I’m not the total dick she thinks I am. My brain, the one I can always count on, conjures up a killer idea. I obediently follow it. Instead of making a left out of the parking lot in the direction of the campus, I drive straight across the highway, right back into the diner parking lot.
Exorcist-style, Amber twists her head around. “What are you doing?” she asks, her eyes bleeding frustration. “I said to my dorm and nowhere else.”
I shrug. “I’ve suddenly become . . . starving.”
“My ass,” she hisses.
“Is absolutely spectacular,” I finish, reaching for her purse.
She gasps, and I hop out of the car with it tight in my grip. Considering I’m more than positive her purse houses her cell, I’ve left her no other option but to follow me into the diner. I give myself another mental pat on the back.
She jumps from the car, shock visible in every pissed-off line and plane of her face. I’m quite aware I’m the source of it. Still, I want to pull her into me and kiss her anger away.
“Give me my purse!” she demands, trying to rip it from my hold.
My arm shoots up, hovering the flimsy piece of knotted rainbow cloth over her tiny yet athletic frame. “Give me a kiss.”
She cracks a mir
thless smirk. “What? You’re not just going to force one on me?” She snorts and crosses her arms. “Looks like you’re losing your touch.”
My brows jump to my hairline. “Is that a serious comment?” She knows I’m not beyond it. Considering our brief history, I find her statement brazen. It doesn’t surprise me that this also turns me on. Still dangling her purse over her head, I step closer, forcing her back against my car. “Because if that’s what you want, you know I can deliver, and deliver very well.”
She angrily digs her hands into her hips. They’re the kind of hips that have just the right amount of meat on them. The kind a dude like me can grip while pounding into her sweet pussy.
I laugh silently to myself and try to maintain a serious expression. “Answer the question, Amber. A guy can only hold out for so long under pressure such as this. Is that what you want? You want me to kiss you?”
“No. That’s not what I want.” She sighs, nervously flicking her eyes to my lips. Christ, the girl really has no clue how badly she needs to sharpen her lying skills. “Just give me my purse so I can call a tow.”
I bring my hand to my chin and rub it. The move is an attempt to appear to look like I’m seriously pondering her suggestion. It lasts less than a second. “Yeah. I’m not feeling it, Moretti.”
She sighs again.
I turn toward the diner doors, crooking my finger over my shoulder. “Come on. I’ll give it back after you let me feed you.”
“I’m not hungry,” she says as she follows closely behind me.
I know this because I hear her irritated footsteps pouncing up the stairs. I also hear her let out a string of curses, a huff, and another sigh as I open the door. Trying to finally act like the gentleman my mother raised, I sweep a hand across the threshold, gesturing for her to go in. I’m beginning to think the only thing she loves doing while around me is rolling her eyes, since she does it again as she walks past. It’s all good, though. It’s her eyes—not her face, ass, or tits—that nearly mutilated my heart the first time she looked at me.
Yeah. My head was pretty much fucked sideways from that point on.
“Two?” the cheery blonde hostess asks with a confused smile. She sat me and Layla earlier, and by the looks of it, she clearly remembers me.
“Unfortunately,” Amber pipes up. “Asshole here’s holding me hostage.”
Sweet Jesus. Every time I’m around this girl, I see why Brock’s dead set on officially making her his. Though she’s completely oblivious to it, and a little off her rocker, there’s nothing about her that isn’t truly phenomenal. She’s a spitfire. My match in every way possible.
The hostess, now appearing further confused and somewhat concerned, leads us toward a booth in the back corner. After Blondie drops two menus on the table and announces that our waitress will be with us shortly, Amber slides in against the wall and rests her legs on the cushioned seat. Frustration’s leaking from her pores. I can almost hear her mentally cursing me out.
“You’re not gonna talk to me?” I make sure I sound offended.
Silence.
“That really hurts, Amber,” I add, this time including my best frown.
More silence.
I chuckle, loving how fucking cute she is when she’s pissed. “I bet by the time I drop you off, not only will I have struck up some kind of conversation with you, but I’ll get you to tell me what color panties you’re wearing.”
She scoffs.
At least I got her to make some kind of noise.
I shrug. “Whatever. You’ll see. I’m good at shit like this.”
She ignores my statement.
Deciding to prove my point, I pull a dollar from my pocket, feed it into the minijukebox hanging from the wall, and hit F5 for a little Florida Georgia Line. Though I also dig it, chicks can’t help but melt when they hear this song.
After a few moments . . .
“You listen to them?” Amber asks, tapping her finger against the table to the beat.
“You talked. I win,” I inform her with my eyes locked on hers from over the menu, well aware that I sound like a child. “Now tell me, are they red or pink? Lace or satin?” She goes to speak, but I cut her off. “Wait, let me guess. I’m thinking black lace? Mm. Fuck yeah, black lace.” I close my eyes, a vivid, filthy picture involving spiked heels, body paint, and a video cam flashing in my mind. “Brock, such a lucky bastard. I hope he’s taking care of all of that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Is that all you do, Ryder? Think about sex?”
“As many times in a day as you roll your eyes, Amber,” I deadpan, lifting a dark brow. I can tell she’s fighting the urge to roll those pretty eyes.
She shakes her head. “Just so you know, when we do get around to it—and we will—I’m sure Brock will know what to do with all of this.” She sweeps a vogue-style hand across her body.
I stiffen—or maybe my dick does. I can’t be too sure at this point. Considering I already knew Brock hasn’t sampled everything she has to offer, it’s pretty safe to say she’s jarred my head a little something more than I’m used to.
“Also,” she continues, lifting her own brow, “good luck finding out what color panties I’m wearing.”
I frown. This time it’s an honest-to-God frown.
“Now can you answer my original question?” she asks.
Blank. It’s me shaking my head this time. “What was the original question?”
“Florida Georgia Line,” she reminds me. “You like them? I never pictured a guy like you listening to their music.”
I clear my throat, attempting to rid my mind of several filthy thoughts. “Yeah, I like them. ‘Cruise’ is one of my favorite songs.”
“It’s one of my favorites too.” She shrugs. “Again, I just never pictured you listening to them.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” I drop my eyes back down to the menu.
“Ryder,” she says softly after a moment.
I jerk my head up for two reasons. One: in the short time we’ve known each other, I’ve never heard Amber say anything softly, let alone my name. Two: the sound of this new voice makes me feel strangely relaxed, comforted. Jesus. In a split second, she’s managed to twist me up.
What the fuck? Usually her voice evokes some kind of frustration in me, which then morphs into an uncontrollable urge to throw her onto the closest surface and fuck her until her legs only know how to function while wrapped around my head, shoulders, or waist.
“Amber,” I reply, my eyes pinned on hers.
She looks at the table then back up at me, her voice remaining soft. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you because every time you’re around me, you wind up acting like a certified prick.” She gnaws on her thumbnail. “Is it an act?”
“Why would you think it’s an act?” My tone comes out harsher than intended, causing her to flinch. My stomach tightens with guilt as I gaze into the eyes of a broken, fallen angel.
Christ. What the hell is wrong with me?
I know what happened to her parents. Though it took some hard convincing, I got Brock to give me the details after he hung out with her at the lake. That shit rocked my head, so I can only imagine what it’s done to hers.
Still, a pissed-off Amber Moretti is as hot as they come. Call me an asshole, but since the moment her tight little ass fell into my lap, it’s been pretty simple. I get off on pissing her off.
But I’m not all douche. Sure, some of my reasoning for fucking with her is sexual, but the other is an attempt at eliciting an actual smile from the girl. Her whiskey-colored eyes alone are amazing, and ninety percent of the time, they’re drenched in pain. The emptiness beyond them is a mirror of what lies beneath her hardened front—bottomless, polluted torment. It nearly kills me, and had I known the source of her pain, I wouldn’t have laid my shit on as thick as I did.
&nb
sp; I wet my lips, trying to buy myself some time. I need to figure out how to respond. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, dragging a hand across my face.
“You should be,” she asserts. “Admit it’s an act, and I’ll forgive you.”
I lean back and seriously think about her request. It is all an act, and though I don’t want her pissed at me, I have no intention of admitting a damn thing. “There’s not a second that goes by that I’m not thinking about you,” I hear myself say. In an instant, my throat seizes up, and I want to slam my head into the fucking wall.
Lips mashed together, Amber’s shocked attention wanders over my face. She remains silent, which causes my suddenly fried brain to continue spilling the truth.
“I didn’t know how to handle you,” I say, remembering the second I set eyes on her.
I knew she was cut from a different cloth from all the rest. I felt it in my bones, in the hollow of my chest. Completely rocked, I felt it in the way my lungs burned, making it hard as fuck to breathe. I don’t believe in premonitions and stupid shit like that, but I saw it all the day she fell into my lap. I saw her not only in my bed but as a permanent fixture in my life. I saw her wrapped in my arms after a long day, felt her lips on mine before I kissed her. It was as if I knew she was supposed to be mine. But I fucked it up, and the only place she wound up, other than hanging out with Brock, was in every waking thought I’ve had ever since.
I shrug. “To be honest, I’m still not sure how to handle you.”
“Why do you feel like you have to handle me?” she whispers, pain evident in her confused expression.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, wishing I did. “Look, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m an asshole, and I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, Ryder. Not about your feelings.” With a sigh, she pitches her head to the side, her sympathetic gaze and tone burning a hole in my skull. “They are what they are. But stop feeling like you have to handle me, okay? Brock told me that you know what’s up with me, but I’m only human. A fucked-up human with a fucked-up past, but still, you get what I mean.”