Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(78)
With that, she threw caution to the wind and took a step in his direction. Followed by another. And another…
***
Mon dieu, she was stalking him like a hungry lioness and if he didn’t do something quick, he was screwed. Metaphorically and literally.
And, oui, it was getting harder and harder to dissuade her—and himself—especially since the brainless wonder had swelled to let’s-get-it-on proportions the minute he saw her standing barefoot on the shop’s cold concrete in that lipstick-red T-shirt and those tight black yoga pants that were enough to give him an eye-gasm.
He held up a hand he was disgusted to see was shaking, but, thanks be to Jesus, the move stopped her mid-stride.
“I don’t want this, chere,” he insisted as she stood there looking at him, refuting him with the spark in her eye, the quirk of her brow, and the sexy tilt at the corner of her delicious, too goddamned delicious mouth.
Then she did something unbelievable and glanced, rather pointedly, at the bulge behind the fly of his Levi’s. “You’re lying,” she breathed in that sex-operator tone she’d donned upon first propositioning him.
And, oui, she was right about that. Because the truth of the matter was, he wanted it more than he remembered wanting anything in his whole sorry life. He wanted her more than he remembered wanting anything in his whole sorry life. But this wasn’t right. He was trained to figure out what people were hiding, to discover their true motivations, and though Vanessa talked of simply wanting him, in reality, she was operating under the harebrained impression that if she could get him to succumb to her physically, he’d succumb to her emotionally as well.
And that wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t happen. Because then she’d succumb emotionally—more than she already had, that is. And he’d be left knowing when he died—and chances were still pretty good that could happen sooner rather than later—she’d be left with nothing but heartbreak and loss. He couldn’t do that to her. He just couldn’t…
He tried shaking his head, but it was hard given he appeared to be paralyzed from the waist up.
“I know what you’re afraid of,” she said as she took another step toward him. It was followed by another and another until she was standing in front of him, close enough to touch. Close enough to grab and kiss. Close enough that her cherry-red toenails were almost touching the tips of his alligator cowboy boots. And after one craptastically tough day—oh, who was he kidding? It’d been a craptastically tough six months—she still somehow managed to smell good enough to eat. Clean and fresh, slightly minty and very womanly.
The brainless wonder in his pants certainly appreciated her nearness. The stupid bastard started pounding against his zipper like a convict pounding against the bars of his cell.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” he managed, even though someone, at some point, had shoved a giant fist down his throat.
“You’re lying again,” she whispered, reaching forward to run a finger—one soft, delicate finger—down the length of his arm. Goose bumps exploded in the wake of that finger. “I can hear it in your voice. You’re afraid that if you give yourself to me, if you let me give myself to you, then that brick wall you’ve built up around some of your…softer emotions will come crumbling down.”
“You’re dead wrong about that,” he growled, grabbing her hand to stop the motion of that maddening digit. “It’s not my softer emotions I’m worried about. It’s yours. The last thing I want to do is hurt you, chere.”
“That’s just an excuse. You’re hiding behind this oh-so-honorable notion that you have to protect me from myself, when the truth of the matter is you’re scared to death that I might be right and you might be wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“Prove it. Take off your clothes.” She said the words clearly, decisively. And, pig that he was, that authoritarian tone went all through him. In that instant, he could totally picture her in a leather catsuit, wearing six-inch heels, and slapping a satin-tipped whip against her palm while she stalked toward him—he’d be tied to her bed with fuzzy pink handcuffs, of course.
Mon dieu, I’m in some serious trouble here.
“Vanessa,” he warned, but she just cut him off.
“It’s time to put up or shut up, Rock. I want you. I know you want me. You’ve warned me away multiple times. And, yet, here I am. So…Take. Off. Your. Clothes.”
He opened his mouth, only instead of words coming out her tongue went in.
He hadn’t seen her move, hadn’t seen her take that last step toward him, but suddenly she was in his arms, up on her tiptoes, her cool palms on either side of his face, her lush lips planted over the top of his mouth, and her sweet, agile tongue trying like hell to memorize the exact dimensions of each and every one of his teeth.
And that’s when it happened.
That’s when the tenuous hold he’d had on his self-control, on his self-denial, broke. God help him, but he was going to take what she was offering. Because she was right. He’d done his best to dissuade her, but he was finished fighting his own wants and desires…He was finished fighting her.
Grabbing her amazing ass in both hands, he leaned back against Patriot’s seat and lifted her until they were aligned. Dieu. He could feel the heat of her through her yoga pants, surrounding him, hinting at the silky, sultry bliss he was sure to find between her legs.