Wild Ride (Let it Ride Book 2)

by Cynthia Rayne

  “You okay?” I carried Poppy to a nearby bench and sat down beside her.

  She nodded. “I’m fine, but I’m done for the night.”

  “Me too.”

  A check of the clock revealed we only had twenty more minutes anyway. I was ready for a warm beverage indoors. Winter sports leave you with a peculiar sensation of being hot and sweaty and simultaneously chilled to the bone. It got uncomfortable after a while.

  “Thank you for suggesting this. I had fun.”

  “I’m glad. Think you’ll skate again?”

  Her eyes softened. “With you? Anytime.”

  Warmth curled in my stomach. “Fancy a hot chocolate, love?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She placed her hand in mine, and we strolled down the block together. We got some amused glances due to our headwear, but no one recognized us.

  Eventually, we arrived at the donut shop, the Nut House, as in donut, I presumed. The bakery wasn’t much to look at—wooden floors, brick walls, and Formica tables. But the smell inside was heavenly—sugar mixed with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. I snagged us a seat by the door, marking our table with an assortment of gloves and jackets while Poppy got in line.

  Squinting at the menu on the wall behind the counter, I joined her. The donuts were miniature, around the size of an old American fifty-cent piece in a host of unusual flavors. Poppy ordered the lavender, honey, and vanilla variety, while I settled on a more traditional banana-chocolate-walnut flavor. We both ordered large hot chocolates.

  “These are always perfect—the outside is crispy, the inside is warm, and the toppings are so tasty.” Poppy tucked into her donut with gusto, making a yummy noise after the first bite.

  “You two want to be alone?” I joked.

  “Yes.” She licked dabs of sugar from her lips, and my cock stirred as I imagined her tongue on something else entirely. “Get much done today?”

  I nodded. “I wrote a new song. I’ll need to play it a few times, rearrange the verses, tweak it a bit, but it sounds like a winner. How’d your schoolwork go?” I felt ancient asking the question. Sebastian Cross, the cradle-robbing rock star.

  “Good. I finished my chapters, wrote my essay, and batch-cooked some chicken breasts for the week with Iris. I feel accomplished.”

  “Good. I’m sorry it all went to pot this morning. It won’t happen again, and if it does, give me a right good bollocking.”

  “I get it—we’re in a gray area, kind of undefined. So no worries. I didn’t get too butt hurt about it.”

  What did I do to deserve her? Not a goddamn thing. Somehow, the universe had given me a gift.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I thought about you all afternoon.”

  “It does.” She leaned in closer. “And what did you think about?”

  If only she knew the thoughts flitting through my mind. We should’ve gotten our dessert to go.

  “Can I get a picture with you?”

  Both Poppy and I were startled because we’d been so preoccupied with one another. A middle-aged woman was standing beside the table with her iPhone out in anticipation. She’d come out of nowhere.

  “Uh, sure.” She stood beside my chair and then snapped a picture. I never wanted to be the wanker who refused a photo, even though now wasn't the right time. At least this wasn’t the nineties, and I didn’t have to run around with a pen for autographs anymore.

  Around us, there was a growing murmur of voices, eyes glancing our way. I had a bad feeling a crowd was forming. Sometimes, that happened—I attracted too much attention and wound up surrounded by a group of people.

  “We should go.”

  Poppy agreed, and once more we were out on the street. We hurried away, putting some distance between us and the bakery.

  The mood had changed, and she was tense once more. I knew the direction of her thoughts. Our donut interlude looked innocent enough, but if we continued on with this madness, we’d be discovered by the paparazzi.

  Chapter Ten

  Sebastian

  We’d been sneaking around for weeks, making out in closets and alcoves. Spending time curled up in my bed together away from the world. I wondered if the secrecy made the affair even more exciting.

  Nah, it had to be Poppy.

  She was a blast of fresh air—funny, sincere, forgiving, drop-dead gorgeous. Lord knew I didn’t deserve her. She shouldn’t be here with me, tucked into my bed. We were living on borrowed time.

  And as I sat there watching her sleep, my heart swelled, filling with some nameless emotion.

  God help me, I was falling for her.

  My connection with Poppy was deeper than the one I’d had with Shellie. Since her mother had gone through addiction treatment, she understood what I was going through. She didn’t give me any hassle about not drinking, unlike a lot of women who thought “just one” wouldn’t hurt. Poppy didn’t poke at my old wounds, either.

  Or maybe I was just different. Now that I wasn’t high all the time, it brought a mental clarity. I wasn’t thinking about my next fix, and I could concentrate on her, on us.

  Sometimes, I held on to my sobriety by my fingernails. Any day, I might sell my own soul for just a gram of heroin, and it’d always be that way. One of the hardest things to come to terms with—I’d forever be an addict, no matter how many years of sobriety I had.

  There was no cure for addiction, just constant vigilance and discipline.

  Since I’d started seeing Poppy, I couldn’t keep the lyrics in anymore, like she was plucking my heartstrings. My writing had been tender—sweet, even.

  In between plucking the guitar, I wrote down lyrics, phrases, everything drifting through my mind. Some of it was gobbledygook, but most was usable. Over the years, I’d learned not to question my process, which sounds over-the-top pretentious, but is accurate. And I loved using my craft again, instead of whoring myself on television and press events for attention.

  An hour or so later and I was still fine-tuning the lyrics, moving pieces of the song around, and adding in a melody I’d been working on. Sometimes, parts of a song came to me separately, and I meshed them together later.

  “Is that new?”

  Poppy sat up and stretched her arms over her head. I loved the slow way she moved, as though she enjoyed being in her own skin.

  “Yeah, wrote it this morning.”

  “When it’s finished, will you play it for me?” She walked over for a lazy good morning snog, which I happily gave her.

  “Absolutely. I’m sorry, did I wake you? I was trying to keep the sound low.”

  She grinned. “Not at all. I usually get up at this hour. And I live with three other girls—my place isn’t the quietest.” Poppy checked her phone. “Speaking of, I’ll have to leave soon-ish, to get ready for my afternoon classes. I have a severe case of senioritis, and I didn’t do the reading yet.”

  “We can’t have that.”

  “Nope, as my mom would say—big finish.” She splayed her hands, jazz hands style.

  Damn, she looked gorgeous, a rumpled angel in a pair of pink sleep shorts and a tank top. Innocent and provocative—that was my Poppy.

  No, she wasn’t my anything. Bloody hell, this is a temporary arrangement, knob-head.

  “How’d you learn to play?” She sat beside me on the couch and rested her head on my shoulder.

  “My father had a thing for Jimi Hendrix, and we listened to his music together. I was obsessed afterward—playing the records all day, learning the lyrics.” Somehow, this drive was innate, and I’d been born with it. “Then I took lessons from a man down the street—he was the lead singer in a local band and taught kids on the side to pay the bills. After a few months, I saved up for a guitar and then devoured music, schooling myself. I never looked back.”

  “Sometimes I wish I’d been born with some creativity.”

  “Don’t be—it’s a sickness, love.” When I was down and out, I’d wanted to be something normal, like a doctor or a busines
sman. “Want me to teach you a chord?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I couldn’t resist the opportunity to show off in front of her. What can I say? Ladies adore guitar players. And I wasn’t ready for her to walk out the door and go to class. I wanted to keep her here with me longer.

  “Hell yeah. It’s not every day a girl gets a private lesson from Sebastian Cross.” Poppy sighed in a dreamy fifties schoolgirl way, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “I’m going to tell all my friends.”

  I laughed. And then she gave me a look—it made me want to drag her on my lap and do unspeakable things.

  I patted my knee. “Then have a seat, and I’ll school you.”

  Her eyes danced. “Always eager to learn.”

  So I put her on my lap and then settled the guitar on hers. I placed her fingers on the strings, my hands hovering over hers.

  “Let’s do a couple basic ones. This is an E.” Slowly, we worked through the chords together. But this was more about fondling her then playing guitar.

  Poppy didn’t seem to mind. Soon, she was rubbing her bottom against my erection.

  I sucked in a breath. “What are you doing to me?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “You’re in charge this time. Take your pleasure.” Surrender was the only option, so I placed the instrument on the couch.

  “So I’m the boss? Hmm.”

  Poppy traced my erection through the denim, teasing me. I slid my hands up and down her stomach, slipped my fingers beneath her shorts, squeezing her thighs.

  It was such a tease, and I loved it. Riding the edge of anything appealed to me, and this was no different.

  Then she rocked, driving my cock insane. More than anything, I wanted to shove the jeans down, put myself inside her once more. I’d had her so many times, so many ways, but somehow I knew I’d never get my fill of her.

  Poppy bounced on my lap. I dragged her bottoms down and squeezed her tight ass, then pushed my hand under her top so I could feel her breasts jiggling with her movements.

  “You’re killing me, love.” The movements of her hips were beguiling, and I wanted more of her.

  “You asked for it, remember?”

  “So I did—but I’m taking control now.”

  I’d never been an ass man, but her bum was delicious—a juicy peach I wanted to bite. After releasing my zipper, I grabbed her cheeks, squeezing them, then pushed the shorts up, deeper into her crack. Then I put the thick head between the two pale globes as she rocked back against me.

  Her thighs were soaked, wet with her need. I glided between her cheeks, using the moisture of her dripping quim to glide up and down.

  Poppy squealed when I slapped her hot little arse. I pushed the bottoms up further, deeper into her crack. Somehow, I had to make this last—couldn’t shame myself by coming straight away.

  But I was so fucking close to bursting.

  But I needed to make her come first. I reached around her thigh and pulled her back against my front, halting her movement.

  I kissed the back of her neck, and she shuddered. I loved how sensitive her skin was, how she reacted to the slightest touch.

  Then I grazed her clit, flicking it, rubbing—slow circles, building up to faster ones, more intense pressure. She arched on my lap and then fell back against my chest. I stopped momentarily, sliding my palms up her sides. Poppy squirmed as I tweaked her left nipple, squeezing it.

  “I’m going to play you, just like my guitar.” The words came out rough, ragged.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s all about the rhythm.” My dexterity had been honed over the years, and I was a master at manipulating my instrument. “You’ve got to take your time. Don’t rush—until you find the right chord.”

  I knew I’d hit it when she jerked against me. Poppy leaned back further, and I hissed as my cock settled against her lower back.

  Trembling, she came for me, sobbing her release. Her thighs clutched around my hand. She turned her head, and I kissed her mouth, drinking her in, memorizing her taste.

  When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I positioned her and forced my cock between her wet cheeks again. This time, I took control, with my hands around her waist, moving her body to suit my needs. Until I came, streaking her arse with my cum.

  After it was over, I held Poppy, stroking her back with my chin on top of her head. We stayed like this for long, lazy minutes.

  It was strange. Being around her made me sleepy, content every now and then, like a warm cat curling in the sun. Others, she kept me on edge—thrilled me.

  “Sebastian?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What if I didn’t want this to end? We could keep going, see where we wind up? I—”

  “Don’t say it.” My voice was hoarse. “Please? It’ll just make things harder.” God help me if she gave voice to those thoughts.

  Would I have the strength to push her away?

  Not a chance in hell.

  “Right. Okay. Well, I should be going.”

  The moment was over, and I opened my mouth to say something, anything to fix it, but she’d already gotten dressed, grabbed her things, and dashed out the door.

  Bugger. I’d gone and hurt her again. Later, I’d apologize, buy a dozen donuts in restitution.

  I resumed playing, but my mind was full of wayward thoughts. I was destined to want more of this, more of Poppy.

  And I couldn’t let myself have it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Poppy

  As soon as my feet hit the floor, I felt woozy.

  It’d been three weeks since my sexy guitar lesson with Sebastian. Something had changed that morning. A distance had grown between us, which was probably a good thing in the long run, even though it felt awful.

  I wanted as little space between us as possible. While Sebastian wanted to push us even further apart. It was a tug of war that could only end in tears.

  But I had other problems than my not a relationship this morning.

  Last night, I’d spent most of my time staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping, a headache pounding against my skull. My belly felt like it’d been weighed down with lead—heavy and thick. I stumbled to the bathroom, hit my knees, and puked, for the third morning in a row.

  I knelt there on the tile until the world stopped spinning. Snap out of it. You don’t have time to be sick.

  Maybe I was coming down with something awful. Although, to the best of my knowledge, the flu wasn’t going around the university. It couldn’t be food poisoning, because it didn’t last for three days.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was hungover. Or it could be stress. Things were heating up at school—projects were coming due left and right.

  In the kitchen, I fixed myself a cup of coffee, heavy on the sugar. Kate must’ve been here earlier today, because the coffee pot was half-full and still warm.

  A couple nights ago, she’d confessed to me that she was dating her boss. Like I didn’t suspect already.

  As I was halfway through my beverage, Darcy walked in, and she was humming and doing a dance. Her cheeks were pink, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was in a fabulous mood.

  It was disturbing. Darcy had a serious demeanor. She loved order and responsibilities—the sort of girl who got a thrill from striking items off her to-do list.

  Meanwhile, I felt like a zombie, and probably looked like one too.

  “What’s going on with you?” And then my traitorous stomach turned again, so I tossed the remains of my coffee down the sink. I couldn’t even enjoy a caffeine fix.

  “I just, er, got an A on my Bronte essay.”

  I squinted. Who was she kidding? No one was that happy about a good grade, not even Darcy.

  “I see. Ian gave you a good grade, huh?”

  “Yep.” Her lips thinned. “Don’t say it like that.”

  “Like what?” I widened my eyes.

  “Like I earned the A doing something dirty. And
what’s your deal? You look terrible.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You know what I mean. Are you ill?” She raised the collar of her shirt and held it over her nose and mouth like I was patient zero in a disease outbreak.

  “Dunno.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I feel like crap—I’ve been pukey every morning this week. I’m coming down with something.”

  Her eyes rounded.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Spit it out, Darcy. I don’t have time for games.”

  “You’ve been having sex…”

  “Yes, safe sex,” I snapped. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not an option.” Because the thought had occurred to me yesterday, and I’d dismissed it out of hand.

  “Isn’t it? Protection isn’t one hundred percent effective. Think it through, Poppy. You’ve woken up feeling nauseated and tired. What’s it sound like to you?”

  “Like I’m a frazzled college student with a stomach bug. I can’t be pregnant.” I whispered the last bit, as though saying the P-word loudly would make it happen.

  My period was late, but that wasn’t unusual. My cycle wasn’t predictable, especially when I had a lot going on. If the red tide came rolling in during finals, it got delayed for a week. One time, after a particularly nasty breakup, I skipped my period entirely.

  “There are pregnancy tests in the bathroom. Why don’t you take one?”

  “I don’t need to, because there’s no bun in this oven.”

  “Yes, you do—just to rule it out as a possibility.”

  I wanted to argue with her but gave in—if only to shut her up.

  “Fine, but only to prove you wrong.” I marched to the bathroom.

  Kate had had a scare a few months ago, but nothing came of it. Hopefully some of her luck was with me this morning.

  Darcy paced right outside the door. Thank God I don’t have shy kidneys or anything. Everything about a pregnancy test is uncomfortable and awkward. There’s nothing like balancing on the toilet with a cheap piece of plastic between your legs as you tinkle.

  A cheap piece of plastic that could change my entire life. My hand shook a little. According to the package, it could give me a reading on the day of my first missed period, which was yesterday.