The Club: Ethan

by Jenna Elliot

  “When I suggest something, you’ll give me what I want.”

  Oh, my. I have no reply for this cocky son of a bitch.

  And he knows. I see amusement flare in his eyes, recognize it in the way he gently folds my fingers down, so he can brush a kiss across my knuckles. An unexpectedly noble gesture.

  “So, what do you say?” He cocks his head and looks around me and asks again, “Want me to hitch you up and strap you down?”

  I arch away from him and follow his gaze . . . and realize he’s talking about my Jeep. “You mean tow me?”

  “What do you think I mean?”

  The laughter in his voice finally penetrates my haze. I maneuver away, colliding with the cage over a tail light in the process. My hip aches in sudden protest, and I know I’ll bruise. But he lets me go, still smirking, still provoking me on so many levels I practically reel.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, and just swaggers back to his truck as if nothing has happened, as if the earth hasn’t reversed its rotation or the judge hasn’t declared a mistrial.

  I watch him vanish in the blinding glare of headlights and hear his engine turn over. For one shocking instant, I’m torn between hoping he speeds off and leaves me here to regain control of my insane reactions and a wild, irrational disappointment if he does.

  The engine growls, roars through the quiet, and my heart pounds as his car lurches forward, headlights slicing away as he grinds up the shoulder to my Jeep.

  I watch him emerge from the car, a languid unfolding of muscle that’s so graceful in a masculine way.

  He covers the distance between us and hands me a flashlight. “You’re in charge of this.”

  Then he stands right in front of me and strips the undershirt over his head.

  Oh. My. God. Heat pools between my thighs at the sight of all the tanned muscle, curiously unmarred by the tatted designs that sleeve his arms. His shoulders are broad, almost impossibly muscular. My fingers tingle, and I have a very unwelcome urge to reach out and touch him, to run my palms over his skin.

  “Won’t take but a minute to pull out.” He flashes a grin that gleams white in the fading darkness. “To pull you out.”

  “You wish,” I say. Another lame retort.

  His arm snakes out, and his fingers grip my chin. I gasp. His grin vanishes as he tilts my face up to his. He looks into my eyes, past them, as if straight through into my soul.

  “Not wish. Want. And I’m not the only one.”

  Am I that obvious? Again, I have no idea what to say. I step back and break his grip.

  He removes one very big strap from his car and drops it in front of mine. My mouth goes dry as he bends over and hooks the strap under my Jeep. Jeans tighten around his butt and thighs until I see muscles flex beneath the fabric, see the swell of his crotch, and remember what he felt like against me. Huge. Hard.

  “Um, the light,” he says. “Can you aim it down here?”

  I gawk, a deer caught in the headlights. Sometime between checking out his butt and watching him handle that big strap, I let the flashlight dangle from my hand unnoticed.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Like me on my knees, do you?”

  Heat explodes in my face, and I’m suddenly so very grateful for the dim light of pre-dawn. And strangely, I feel good, liberated, too.

  I huff. “You did more than check me out.”

  It’s an accusation, but he only chuckles. “Happy to oblige.”

  “I bet.”

  There isn’t a doubt in my mind that if I encourage him, he’ll hoist me against him, shove aside my thong, and sink his dick deep, deep inside . . .

  “You’ll win that bet.” He half turns and grabs the flashlight, directing the beam under the bumper. “Some light, please. Unless you want to wait until the sun comes up.”

  His fingers graze mine, and I feel calluses, the hands of a man who uses them to make things, to make girls plead. No doubt about it. I’m losing my mind. But not my grip. Not anymore. I hold the flashlight so steady my arm will break.

  After what seems like an eternal and undeniably-awesome display of shifting muscles and strength, Ethan finally shoves back onto his haunches and stands.

  “You need to move back.” He gestures to the other side of the road. “Go over there.”

  I do as he says, grateful for any distance and a chance to catch my breath. All his rough, bad boy charm is about to kill me. Who knew?

  He tugs my poor Jeep out of the ditch. My fender flare is damaged so bad it’s mangling the tire. No way to get the tire off and replace it with the spare. Even if I had remembered to repair the spare, which I hadn’t.

  “Oh, no.” No way am I driving anywhere. I feel bad about my poor car, but a tingle shoots down my spine. I’m more excited to spend time with him than bothered, although I don’t want him to know it. He’s already way too sure of himself, way too sure of me.

  Ethan slides out of his truck again, and eyes the damage. “You aren’t looking to get rid of me any time soon, are you?”

  “I am, actually.” I lie.

  “Damn shame that.” He shakes his head, sending his inky hair skittering across his forehead. Then he’s back on his knees to unhook the strap. I watch in fascination as he drives around to the front of my Jeep, then backs up, leaving about eight feet between the cars. “Put your car in neutral.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to damage your transmission.”

  He obviously knows a lot about cars, and I’m trapped between my past and the possibilities in this moment. Possibilities of taking a chance on having a real good time.

  I get in my Jeep and do as Ethan says. I get the feeling he’d like for me to always do as he says. Not sure how I feel about that. There’s a bossy edge to him, a dark streak of wild.

  From the back of his car, Ethan removes a cart with wheels. The fact that he travels with gear to tow a car makes me wonder about his work. Something where he uses his hands, maybe. The cart looks heavy but he manhandles it with a muscular heave and a grunt that reminds me of sex.

  Is there anything about this guy that doesn’t?

  “Unless you say otherwise, I’m winching up the front wheels and towing you to the shop.”

  He shoots me a knowing glance that sends heat straight between my legs. Then he waits, and I know he wants me to ask for his help. Fine. I’m done fighting a losing battle.

  “Thank you. A tow seems like the least you can do after running me off the road.”

  His smirks. “I already told you that I didn’t run you off the road. You swerved too hard around the turtle. Landed yourself in the ditch.”

  He argues, but likes when I give him attitude. I can tell in the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, as if he’s resisting a smile.

  I ignore him and reach for my shoes. My feet are gritty with dirt and sand, and I’ve probably trashed my pedicure, but I make the effort to brush myself off as he attaches my Jeep to the cart, and the cart to his car.

  I studiously avoid looking at the vista of muscles bulging with every move he makes. But I fail big-time. How can I not look when a rush of adrenaline and excitement and wariness and uncertainty assaults me, all so visceral I vibrate inside? And through all the insanity, there’s a question begging an answer.

  Am I really getting in his car and letting him drive me who knows where?

  3

  Ethan

  “YOU GOOD TO go?” I ask her.

  Her eyes lock with mine. One moment she’s all vulnerable and hesitant, the next come-fuck-me bold. There is no world where she won’t excite me.

  It’s not just her looks. Hot babes are standard. There’s no shortage of fresh, eager pussy in my reality. But I can tell this one’s thinking about getting dirty for the first time. With me. Definitely not my usual eager pussy. Suddenly, I’m itching to teach her . . . things.

  “You ready?” I repeat, keeping my tone low and even, but adding a hard lilt that makes girls melt for
me.

  “You talking about the car?” She licks a pouty lip, a lip I ache to bite. She shifts from foot to foot, her neon green toenails as big a tease as she is, her eyes wide and dilated.

  “What else would I be talking about?” I can’t wait to hear what she’ll say next. She wants me. I can have her.

  Life is that fucking simple.

  Tossing my gloves into the truck, I take a long swig of my beer. I can wait.

  She hesitates. Our eyes stay in a lock.

  Come on, baby, I mentally coax. Come on over to my side of the road where it’s all about feeling good. Just the thought of dirtying up this babe makes my cock ache. I ignore the pressure against my jeans, the anticipation drawing my balls tight.

  “What ya gonna do, baby doll?” I croon, willing her to take that first step. It’s not far for me, but clearly it’s a galaxy to her.

  I set the beer aside and cover the distance between us. Grazing my fingers behind her ear, I strum that sensitive skin along her jaw, down her throat. She trembles so slightly, I might have missed it if I wasn’t so in tune with the babes. I am.

  But she still resists, sucking on her bottom lip. Her uncertainty is tangled up with want. And she’s not the only one getting tangled up. She’s killing me. Usually, I snap my fingers and my girls obey. But this one’s new to the scene, brand spanking new. I am practically vibrating at the idea of settling her, of showing her limits she doesn’t even know she has yet. I’m so damn close to crying uncle and fucking her hard just to take the edge off.

  “We’ll have a very good time.” A promise.

  Suddenly, she slides away and hop-skips the few steps to her Jeep. For one shocking instant, I think I lose her. She grabs her cell. I figure she’ll lock herself in her Jeep, call 9-1-1, and I’m shit outta luck with my rock-hard dick. But the fates are smiling. She only snaps a picture of my license plate.

  “I’m texting your tag to my BFF,” she says.

  “Like a safe word? No problem.” Whatever the hell it takes.

  She sends the text, then looks at me. “What’s a safe word?”

  “A word that tells me to stop.”

  She frowns, that perfect suck-dick mouth drawing close in a pout. “I can’t just say ‘stop’?”

  “Some girls like to pretend they don’t want it when they really do.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth purses into a perfect O. A little wider, and I could ease my dick inside . . .

  “I don’t know if I want to play those kind of games.” She’s contemplating again.

  And that isn’t working for me. I’m used to coaxing sex from women. I can seduce this one’s emotions. A little reassurance is all she needs. “I will make you have a good time. Promise.”

  I hold my breath.

  Seconds tick by, her expression unreadable. Then she tosses her hair over her shoulder, takes a step, then two. Slipping her hand into mine, she says, “I just have to say ‘stop’.”

  “You won’t want to.”

  I bring her hand to my mouth, taste her skin so soft, cool and gritty. She could be covered in mud, for all I care. My heart pounds so loud the blood rushes in my ears.

  I want to explore every inch of her lean body. Slowly. I want to slake my need and test her limits. But I have to be cool. She doesn’t understand the game yet, doesn’t have the kind of control I’m used to. She doesn’t know my rules. Experience tells me she’s not ready to hear them.

  And I find that one big fucking turn-on. Who knew?

  The only thing I do know is that my control is being tested. The night is fading around us, and we’re standing on the side of the fucking road. I don’t mind playing to an audience, but I don’t want some pushy trooper showing up to interrupt my fix. I’m so not in the mood. I want inside this babe, not in the county lock-up.

  I drag her against me, and don’t give her time to react. Picking her up by the waist, I lean her against the Jeep, lifting her feet off the ground.

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Baby doll, babe, what’s the difference?” she says.

  Fuck it. All this defiance is driving me nuts.

  “Kiss me.” I demand.

  “Where?” The word exhales from that sweet mouth on the edge of a breath.

  “Lady’s choice.”

  She plants her lips on my neck. And bites.

  “You’ll pay for that.” I growl.

  “Promises, promises.”

  Shit, she’s playing with me. That comes at me sideways. She might be wary, but she’s all in now, looking for the ride of her life. She fucking came to the right place. Her eagerness is just so tanta-fucking-lizing hot, my head wants to explode.

  “Kiss me—”

  “Here?” She tugs down my head and brushes my earlobe with her mouth.

  She’s all fired up, and I want her sweet pussy dripping for me now, suddenly need it more than my next breath.

  “Hell to the yes.” I drag her legs around my hips and grab her tight ass under the swirly skirt. Oh, hell yeah. A thong. My fingers sink right into her silky skin. Pressing my throbbing meat against her hot crotch, I am so grateful for the jeans that are reining me in.

  That’s the only thing reining me in.

  4

  Mia

  OH. MY. GOD. Every nerve is sizzling. My brain is frying, and his hands on my ass stoke a damn inferno inside me.

  He feels good. He smells good. He tastes good. My body does things I didn’t know it could do. My thong is soaked. My pussy pulses with greedy little clenches that steal my breath.

  I grind my crotch against his jeans. I’m on fire, and I can’t stop moving. He’s smoking and big, huge. I want him to feed this fire he started, not stop until it’s smoldering ash. I slide my hands into his thick hair, tug his head down and kiss him. I taste him, try to urge him on.

  He devours me. But agonizingly slow. I’m ablaze like a fire sucking all the oxygen, while he’s deliberate, a simmering heat carefully scorching everything he touches. Me.

  His tongue teases my lips, then dances into my mouth. He tastes like beer, and salt, and male heat. Everything about him is a contradiction. And he arouses a wild mix of conflicting reactions in me. He makes me feel precious and slutty at the same time. There’s something about his touch that’s both polished and raw, sophisticated and feral. I’m high on him.

  I tug his head closer. Tangle my tongue with his. Our breaths collide, a burst of steamy excitement. I want him inside me. Now. But I can’t say a word. I’d have to stop kissing him, resist the way he controls my mouth with this melting rhythm that fuels the ache deep inside me. The way he controls all of me, keeping me off balance so I can’t get away. He holds my ass in his big hands, kneads my skin, keeps my feet off the ground, so I’m wrapped around him like a blanket.

  When his fingers inch inwards, I know what he’s about to do. I shake with anticipation as his fingers meander between my thighs, grazing all my sensitive skin and zeroing in on target as if he has all the time in the world. My pussy clenches in expectation, a hot, wet throb that makes me feel electrified. Alive.

  Have I ever felt so alive?

  Dear God, no. I’m dying for his touch, torn between awareness of the way he savages my mouth as if he’s on fire, and the caressing way his fingers zero in . . . The first meeting of skin to skin sends a shockwave through me. I groan against his mouth. My pussy clenches eagerly again at the welcome intrusion. Then he uses callused fingertips to tease open the willing folds of wetness, explore all my soft places, brush my clit with the lightest of caresses.

  Another shockwave.

  This one makes him chuckle, and the sound breaks against my lips, tweaking my pride through the haze. He’s so skilled, so calm, while I’m like kindling that sparks at his every touch. I want to do something to shake his control, but he’s playing with me now, grazing his fingers through my soft folds, dipping his fingertips inside just enough to make me gasp with each tiny invasion, making me writhe against him to get what I want.

>   He’s having none of that.

  He anchors an arm around my waist to hold me still, a vise grip that controls my wiggling bottom. He makes me wait, but I’m so full of need, the ache is swelling, building . . .

  I try to yank my head back, to grab a breath. “I want—”

  “You have to wait, baby.” He catches my bottom lip with his teeth, won’t let me go. He plunges his tongue back in my mouth and teases my pussy as if driving home his point.

  I gasp. Through the haze of sensation, I grasp that he’s playing some sort of game with me. Control. He wants all of it.

  He presses his palm against my clit, a pressure that pushes me even farther, makes me grind against his hand to relieve the pressure. His skin is slick with my moisture, and he slides a finger through that wetness toward my nether parts . . . White heat shoots through me, and I rock from head to toe. I don’t even recognize the sound that rips through the quiet. Is that desperate, yearning voice mine?

  He catches the sound with his mouth, and the man actually laughs. “I don’t like to be rushed, but the sun’s rising soon. In the off chance anyone drives by, I can keep you from being exposed. But unfortunately, we’re on a time limit here.”

  He may not want to be rushed, he may be thinking of protecting me from possible prying eyes, but the road is deserted. And I feel relief. Thank goodness he can’t drag this out. I might implode.

  And just as I wrap my pleasure-soaked brain around the possibility of satisfaction, he drags his mouth from mine and catches the neckline of my tank with his teeth. In one move, he drags down both shirt and bra, and my breasts spill out.

  The contact of sultry morning air against my nipples practically makes me jump out of my skin. The bastard chuckles, a rough-velvet sound that is pure amusement, but I don’t have time to react. Not when his mouth makes contact with my breast.

  I yelp. Another yelp. With me the completely-willing victim, he tugs at my tits with his teeth, lifting my breasts up and down, swirling his tongue over my tight nipples so the pre-dawn air becomes another weapon he uses to control my body. His palm grinds against my clit until I can’t control myself. I rock against his hand, wildly trying to ease the ache.