He shook his head. She was uncertain if that meant no, or something else.
“Are you going to stand there all night, staring at me? Message received loud and clear. There’s been a change in plans. Just give me a lift home.”
“You’re making this too fucking easy.”
“Well, things just got harder.”
“Sure did.”
“Jesus. I’m not sure how well your insults work on other women—”
“Get off the bike.”
“And now you’re going to bail on me. I should have known not to trust you, McBadass.” She closed her mouth, not wanting him to know just how much his hot-and-cold act affected her. Not wanting to voice her frustration at being led on. The least the manner-less man could do was give her a lift home. Call it childish, drunken irrationality, stubborn pride, call it whatever, but she tightened her thighs around the leather seat. He was going to have to drag her off his bike. No way was he going to brush her aside and pull an Aiden on her.
He took a step closer, arms raised to pluck her off the ride. “Climb off. You’d get yourself killed, anyway.”
“You owe me a ride—a lift home. It’s the least you could do after...” She bit her lip, hard.
“You’re just asking for it, aren’t ya? Drunk, sober—shouldn’t matter.”
“I’ll hang onto you, don’t worry.” What did he need, a written invitation? Placing her hands behind her, she arched her back, making room on the seat in front of her. There, no R.S.V.P. required. “Hop on.”
He grunted, which echoed loudly around the parking lot. His eyes narrowed. “You’re not making this easy, and fuck, you’re making this far too easy.” He kicked something with his boot. “I’ll call you a cab.”
Befuddled. A silly word, but that’s exactly how she felt. And as his eyes flicked over her, embarrassed. Her cheeks warmed. Terrific. Could he be any more blatant with his rejection? It stung. “No one likes a tease,” she muttered angrily. She was about to swing her leg over the seat and make a run for it, defeated, when he spoke.
“Man alive. You really have no idea. You want the truth. What the hell, I’ll tell it to you straight up.” His tone was rich and husky, like earlier, when he was making lusty promises he never meant to keep. Yet, despite it all, she was drawn in. She raised her chin and looked at him.
“God’s truth, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you, in that get-up, on that bike.”
Sweet holy hell.
If her cheeks were warm from frustration before, they were on fire now. Moisture pooled between her thighs. By the time they reached her apartment, she’d need a dry pair of panties.
Down girl. She had to get it together, hold her ground. He wasn’t going to piss her off one minute then sweet talk her into bed a second later. Or pull another fast one.
“Now, slide off, and let’s get the hell outta here.”
She paused. “You want us to walk?”
“Walk? Fuck no.” He retrieved a set of keys from his pocket. They rang out as he jiggled them.
He turned, took a few steps, then glanced back at her. “You coming?”
Oh...what was he asking her? Carefully, she climbed off the bike and adjusted her skirt. “What about your Harley?”
He paused, his lips curling up with a hint of a smile. “Not my bike.”
* * *
He ended up walking with her after all, from the car to her front door.
A protective gesture, an act of kindness from a tough biker. An action that had her so goddamn furious, she contemplated starting a brawl out on the second-story landing. She clenched her fists, more upset now than she had been during his hot-and-cold routine—even when his switch had decidedly been flipped back to frigid during the ride to her apartment. The silence in his car had been deafening. Damn right his aloofness got under her skin. But his gentlemanly show, his concern for her safety, stirred up feelings best left back in Savannah. Irritation that he assumed a strong, self-sufficient, independent woman like herself couldn’t find her way safely home—tequila goggles on or not.
“Half the exterior lights are blown. Contact your landlord and get them fixed. I’ll grab a glass of water, then head out.” She bristled. His first sentences in twenty minutes, and they sounded like demands rather than requests. She was about to say no, along with a few other choice words, but his fist shot out over her head, pushing the door she’d just unlocked open.
She came within a fraction of an inch of nailing him with an illegal elbow to the stomach but he’d already brushed past her. She watched, her fury mounting, as he performed an obnoxious tour of her apartment, first giving the small living room a once over, then the kitchen, then walking down the hall to the bathroom and her bedroom, making a quick scan of each space like he was scouring the place for predators.
Or the boogeyman.
First the lighting comment, then this? Overprotective, overbearing asshat. It was one thing to be rejected, twice. Another to be underestimated. She’d had a lifetime of that—Reno was her fresh glass of water. The place she’d chosen to quench her thirst. She wasn’t about to let him sully it.
What did he think, she couldn’t handle herself? She stalked into the kitchen to grab his drink so she could send the arrogant, domineering player on his way before she let him know exactly who he was dealing with.
What did she expect from a biker? That he’d be smart enough, observant enough, to get her? That somehow he’d pick up on the strength within her as well as her physical abilities? That he’d realize she could take care of herself; that just because she’d dressed the part, she wasn’t some innocent little school girl? Some woman who was an easy target for the biker version of Ted Bundy. Someone who hadn’t spent the latter part of her teen years preparing to not be someone’s victim.
When she returned to the living room, his leather-clad body was sprawled out on her couch. Sexy in a rugged, hard-as-nails kind of way. Way too sexy for her to fully absorb. But—and this was a big but—he thought she was helpless.
She handed him the glass, waited for him to take a sip, then nodded toward the door. “See ya around.”
He sipped his water, slowly, his gaze shifting around the room, taking a closer inventory of her threadbare apartment. The thrift store hutch with an outdated, oversized television, a rare picture of her with her brothers and father where they’d all been smiling, a worn photograph in an expensive ceramic frame of her mother with her arms embracing a teenage Huntley.
She scowled. The room summed it up—she’d left Savannah with three suitcases and a one-way ticket. Terrific. She’d have his sympathy along with his arrogance.
He polished off the rest of his water. With a long, aggravated-sounding sigh, he stood. “Fuckin’ sugar,” he said in a low voice, more to himself than for her benefit.
“That’s what you think, huh? That I’m sweet? That I can’t take care of myself? Watch me.” She snorted a very unladylike snort, one that would raise brows at her former country club. “Sugar is kicking your sour body out.”
“I’m tired of screwing around here, playing nice, giving you all the time in the world to make your move—”
“—what are you talking about? Here’s my move.” With her pointer finger, she gestured to the door. “Get out.”
“—for your head to clear enough to know your body is begging for my touch,” he continued, as if she hadn’t interrupted him. Gone was any remnant of the nonchalant man hogging her couch. His actions spoke volumes—he meant business.
And she was at the top of his “to-do” list.
Wow, did the jerk rub her the wrong way. “Begging? Hardly. The only ride I wanted tonight is parked back at Club Klimax.”
“Liar.”
Holy badass hell. Huntley felt her cheeks flush with outrage. Anger. Three insults in less than a
minute—a helpless begging liar. Really?
Why in the heavens had she let him in?
Because there’s some truth to his words. You know it. He knows it.
The thought pissed her off even more. Enraged her in a way she hadn’t been in years—maybe ever. It wasn’t the kind of sickening rage Robert had elicited from her. Or the justifiable kind she felt knowing her mother’s killer was out there, somewhere, while her mother was buried six feet underground. No, this was a rage laced with sexual awareness—anger and passion united. On a scale of one to ten, her temper was an eight. Her libido, however, was a twenty-two. Maybe a twenty-three, in response to the way his eyes flashed raw, brimming with unbridled lust. He hadn’t merely switched from cold to hot, he’d gone from frozen to hydrogen-fueled inferno.
Which had her moving to the door quicker than an uppercut.
Bracken was faster. Before she could yank the door fully open, he reached overhead and slammed it shut. Damn. She should have seen that coming.
He didn’t touch her. Instead, in a low and husky voice, he ordered, “Huntley, wait...”
She ducked and dodged, backing up into the center of the small room, careful not to turn her back on him.
Her breath hitched, but not from fear. A deluge of mixed emotions swam around in her mind. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the rush of desire battling for primo position and overshadowing everything else.
He took a step forward.
For a nanosecond, she thought about stepping back.
A coward’s move, which infuriated her even more. Never again would she fall victim to a fear so blinding, it’d taken years of self-defense classes mixed with a healthy dose of therapy to deal with. Years spent preparing for the unexpected. Forgetting the past. Walking through life like a sail at half mast, never quite catching the wind and allowing herself the pleasure of feeling the breeze on her face.
“Shit.” She heard him say, far off in the distance. Yet he was so close, four steps away? If she wanted, she could reach out and touch him. “You done?”
“Yep.” She shifted forward, rage spurring her on. One step. Two steps. A third. Then, with one lightning-fast kick, with her full weight on her left leg, she swept her right one across her body and into his side. Hard.
Not giving him time to respond, she followed it with a foot to his thigh. A close crotch shot. Warning enough that she meant business.
She glanced at his face.
“You’re such a tease.”
Yeah, look who was calling the kettle black. He deserved what he had coming. Pivoting on her heel, she planted an unobstructed backward kick right into his rock-hard stomach.
He grinned like a smug devil then laughed. “Red panties? Suits that fine ass of yours.”
Huntley growled low in her throat. “Gonna be hard for you to even see straight in a second, let alone get the full coochie effect.” Readjusting her weight, she aimed the next kick high, dead center, right at his baby jewels. But she’d pretty much handed him an invitation telling him what was coming, and he moved, taking the kick on his upper thigh.
For the second time tonight, she’d wiped the smirk off his lips.
“Raise a leg again, and you’re gonna regret it.”
“Fine.” Balling her fingers, she sent one fist into his arm and the other flying in a solid uppercut to his chin.
He didn’t budge. Matter of fact, he didn’t even flinch. The jerk wasn’t defending himself at all. Maybe because her movements had been predictable? Jesus, she wasn’t really thinking they’d get into a full-out bout, with her in this naughty schoolgirl outfit, and him calling the shots.
“Your kicks aren’t bad. But you punch like an ammy. That’s why you need a good trainer.”
His tone was casual, like she hadn’t been beating his ass for a few seconds now.
“No shit, Sherlock. That’s why I put the ad in Reno Sports Extra.”
“So we’ve got a deal?”
“Give me one reason why I’d want to work with someone as overbearing as you? Who leads me on then pisses me off, insults me in my own home, and has some kind of twisted motive for wanting to coach me. Sweet heaven, you don’t even like me.” She glared at him, not quite finished. The next round of insults would be physical, and he wouldn’t see them coming. Bracken was going to find out, first-hand, how wrong he was about her.
Something passed across his face, before he abruptly shuttered it. “The way you position your arm is all wrong. That, and a few other things.”
Grabbing her skirt, she yanked it higher, not caring that a good expanse of skin and her undies were fully exhibited. For what she had planned, the skirt would be better off up around her waist.
His eyes traveled lower, and his nostrils seemed to flare as he took her in.
Good. He wouldn’t see this coming.
With sure, fast and expert movements, she jumped from a stand, high, and aimed a powerful kick right at his kidney.
He was faster. Hooking her leg around the underside of her knee with his elbow, he yanked her forward, pulling her leg in tight and pinning her inner thigh against his side.
“I was hoping you’d ignore my warning.”
Her body tensed as his free palm cupped her, over her panties and right between the legs. She felt her thigh against his side stiffen. Hell, her whole body was frozen in disbelief.
He ground his palm up against her, hard enough to let her know he meant business. Hard enough for her brain send out a signal for a four-alarm fire. Hard enough that a waterfall of moisture gathered between her legs.
He played with her, lightening and then intensifying the pressure, until his palm was angled over her nub. Then, like a true warrior, he went in for the kill.
Flexing his arms and cupping her coochie, he lifted her and carried her over to the coffee table. With a sweep of his free arm, he sent the stray papers and his empty plastic cup onto the worn Oriental rug, then lowered her onto the table.
He shifted onto his knees, keeping his hand fixed between her thighs. “You’re gonna beg me for more.”
She froze, her mind knotting into a complex mixture of passion, caution and anger.
“Don’t like that word, huh? Bet you’re the one that usually brings a guy to his knees, weak, willing, wanting.”
You don’t know the half of it, she thought. Bracken moved his palm over her clitoris, effectively wiping away any lingering thoughts of her ex.
“Shit, in that outfit, I wouldn’t hold it against them. Been wanting to do this all freakin’ night.”
“Oh, I could tell by the way you sweet-talked me on the ride over,” she ground out sarcastically. “You have a way of putting on the charm.”
“So I’ve been told. Fuck, you’re not making this easy for me.”
She glared at him. He had her sprawled out across her coffee table, legs spread wide and his hand palming her sensitive flesh, and she wasn’t making it easy for him? The thought had her squirming beneath him in an attempt to break free.
For a second, she thought she’d succeeded. Then she was lifted high, flipped and redeposited on her stomach, her skirt low on her hips and her bare belly pressed against the cool glass. He pushed his chest against her back, pinning her to the table and preventing her from fighting her way free.
“I’m doing things my way,” he whispered in her ear. “Tell me now if you want me to let you up. Tell me to go. I’ll leave without another word. But if you don’t tell me to stop, Huntley, I’m going to eat you up like a Sunday morning pastry.”
The arrogance in his tone had her lips forming the word stop. But the feel of his fingers between her legs, on top of her oh-so-thin panties, sent her senses into overdrive, and she couldn’t for the life of her mutter the word that’d bring it all to an end.
“Jesus, you’re
wet.” He exhaled sharply. Still, his fingers lightly caressed her, causing a new tidal wave of moisture to mix with the already established deluge.
In this position, it was impossible to turn, to see his face. Which was fine with her—the warmth in her cheeks was like a red flag broadcasting her embarrassment. How her body betrayed her. How turned on she was from his big body pinning her to the table. How the word stop was never going to be laid out on this coffee table for discussion. Nope, instead she was the only thing laid out on the cool glass, and she prayed to god there’d be no discussion, period. Action. Pleasure. Mind-blowing sex.
Hell’s bells. The anticipation was killing her.
She wiggled her bottom, suggestively.
“You’re going to get what you deserve for wearing that little skirt and those fuck-me stockings. And I’m going to enjoy doing it. But it’s time for the panties to go.” He lifted his weight off her and his hands moved to her hips. “Up,” he commanded, and she obeyed without protest, lifting herself up so he could slide the scrap of red silk over her hips and down her legs.
She tried to turn then, but he placed a palm on her back and guided her back down onto the table. For a moment, all was quiet except the sound of her racing heart which seemed to echo around the room like a symphony of base drums.
Then, quicker than a cymbal crash, she felt it. His tongue. Forming a wet trail across the sensitive skin on the back of her thigh, just above her stockings. Her body jerked in surprised delight. He moved away, briefly, then worked his lips across her other thigh. Equally opportunistic, those lips. So soft for a man who was nothing but hard.
His palms worked beneath her cheeks, then held her steady as he worked that magic tongue back across her thighs. Who knew this bit of flesh could be such an erogenous zone?
McBadass. Yeah, he knew it all right. Her body quivered and her senses reeled in agreement.
“You make me forget all reason. Duty. Honor...” His lips moved against her skin as he spoke, his breath warm despite his words. But before she could wonder about them, he’d grabbed hold of her waist, lifted her high off the table and, with the ease of a skilled MMA fighter, spun her around and back down onto the cool glass without missing a breath. He sank to his knees and parted her thighs with his body as he settled between her splayed legs.
Out for the Count Page 7