Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(11)
“I bet I seem a lot more interesting than I actually am due to the fact you probably haven’t seen a woman in a while,” I said awkwardly, trying to deflect the compliment. Usually I lapped up praise from the opposite sex, but it was always about my appearance: my tits, legs and hair. Ian saw past all of that; it made me uncomfortable and feel warm inside. It was dangerous.
He frowned. “Trust me, you’re nothing like any woman I’ve ever met. You’ve been an amazing friend to my sister. I’ll be forever grateful for that alone.”
I relaxed at him steering the conversation back to a safer subject, one that might douse the flames of my out of control libido.
“Gwen’s the one that saved me from suffocating in the stifling Upper East Side cult. She’s real, honest and loyal—I’m lucky to have her.”
From there the conversation seemed to flow and although there was a sexual undertone, the topics were general.
We talked for hours, talking about nothing and everything. Ian told me about having four-wheeler races with Gwen on their farm back in New Zealand. I told him about the time I signed my mother up to attend a drag queen benefit without her knowledge. I talked with him like I had never talked with anyone before. It felt easy, normal, right. Dangerous.
The easy banter and extreme attraction I felt for this man did not bode well for my future. I had only been in his presence for a couple of hours; how could I stand the two weeks he was here without pouncing on him? I would just have to ovary it up and find a way to resist it. I was a grown woman, after all. I wasn’t a slave to my baser instincts.
“Fucking hell, you’re beautiful,” Ian growled while his hand traced my breast.
“No talking,” I commanded, pulling him back to my mouth.
Okay, so it had taken my resolve about five sexually charged minutes to waver on the car ride home. Ian seemed to be struggling too and as if we had reached some kind of mutual agreement, we had pounced on each other. Luckily the car had a little screen so the driver wouldn’t be getting a free amateur porn show. Not that I cared at this moment. Hell, he could pull up to Times Square and sell tickets, I didn’t give a shit.
He yanked me up to straddle his lap, bunching the fabric of my dress so my almost bare core rubbed against his hard length. I moaned into his mouth. Calloused hands snagged against the silk of my dress, playing with my nipples as they hardened under his touch. I ground my body against his, desperate to feel closer. To meld myself against his rock hard body. I almost came from the friction of his jeans against the lace of my panties.
“You’re gonna have to stop doing that, beautiful, or I’m going to lose control and f*ck you right here,” Ian bit out.
I opened my eyes and gazed at him through my lashes, “I want you to f*ck me right here.”
Ian seemed to struggle for a moment and he let his forehead fall against mine.
“You’re too good to f*ck in the back of a car. I want you in a bed where I can take my time, taste every inch of your body, then f*ck you slow and watch your face when you come,” he hissed, palming my breast.
I grasped his hand and directed it into my soaking panties. His jaw clenched as his fingers brushed my clit. I barely restrained a scream.
“You’re testing my willpower, Amy,” he grunted, rubbing me in delightful circles.
My eyes glazed over as he brought me close to the edge, his other hand grasped my neck, pulling me to face him.
“I want to watch you come,” he declared, eyes bright.
I was about to treat him to the Abrams orgasm show when something broke the moment. “Sexy Bitch” blared from the flimsy material of my Gucci.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
I tried to scramble off him, the reminder of what I was doing like a bucket of ice water. Hands gripped my waist, keeping me in place. I frowned at them before reaching for my bag to answer my phone.
“Hey Gwennie.” I watched Ian stiffen slightly. Good, we both needed to calm this shit.
“Hey Abrams, where are you guys? I got home and I figured you would have ditched that snoozefest by now. Don’t tell me you’ve dragged Ian out clubbing, he hates that crap. Actually I could use a drink or ten. I can meet you?” Gwen greeted with her usual speech.
“Um, we’re actually on our way home.” I squirmed, uncomfortable having this conversation in Ian’s lap. I felt like I was betraying Gwen somehow.
“Okay, no worries. I’d rather put on sweats and get drunk off homemade cocktails. I’ll start making them now. See you soon, bitch!” She hung up before I could say another word.
I stared at the silent phone, willing someone, anyone to call to rescue me from this situation that turned awkward with the sound of one song. Even my mother or Craig, the stage five clinger who I was trying to shake. I’d welcome Craig right now. But alas, crazy stalkers never called when you wanted them to.
I was forced to face the music when Ian grasped my chin and gently directed my gaze to him.
“Gwen’s at home. Making cocktails as we speak,” I whispered.
He smirked. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
I paused. “She can’t know about this.” I gestured between us. “This can’t happen again.” It pained me to even say it; feeling in Ian’s arms felt so right. Ew, did I seriously just think that? I hated girls who said cheesy shit like that. I wanted to tit punch girls that said shit like that.