Undeniable (Undeniable, #1)(14)

He narrowed his eyes. How long had it been since he last saw her, since he’d taken two bullets because he was a f*cking moron?

It hadn’t been five years, so he knew she wasn’t twenty-one.

“How old are you, darlin’?”

Her lips quirked. “My ID says I’m twenty-four.”

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “And what does your birth certificate say?”

She looked him dead in the eyes, and he felt himself leaning toward her.

“I’m eighteen,” she said quietly, and her eyes went soft. He knew that look. Fucked a lot of women in his life—knew the signs and knew them well. Eighteen-year-old Eva Fox was handing him her * on a silver platter.

And he was f*cking starving.

Fuck.

“Deuce?” She leaned into him, pressing her fat tits against his arm.

He stared down at her. “Yeah?”

Keeping her eyes locked with his, she wrapped her hand around as much of his bicep as her fingers could reach and started slowly sliding her hand down his inner arm. When she reached his palm, her fingers spread out and slid between his. Her hand folded closed. He closed his over hers.

“Let’s dance,” she whispered.

“OK,” he whispered back because, f*ck, he didn’t know which way was up at the moment.

Those unfathomably plump lips split into a smile, and his cock freaked the f*ck out. If she hadn’t started leading him out into the club, he would have thrown her up against the wall and slammed his way home.

She took him dead center of the dance floor. It was packed with bodies—sweaty, writhing bodies. He felt completely out of his element.

Then Eva began to move, and he forgot all about elements and skinny bitches and stupid red disco balls. All he could see was Eva. Nothing else existed but Eva and what she did to him.

With her back to his front, she lifted her arms over her head and hooked her hands around his neck. He grabbed her, harder than he meant to, and dug his fingers deep into her hipbones. As her juicy ass hit his cock, he groaned.

“All you have to do is move with me!” she shouted over the music.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He was far too busy trying to convince himself it would be a bad idea to take her right then and there on the dance floor.

Her ass was grinding into his rock-hard cock, her head fell back on his chest, and her hands…

She grabbed his hands, interlocked their fingers, and had him stroking across her bare stomach, her hips, the vee between her legs, and—f*ck him—her tits. When he couldn’t take much more, he slipped his hand down her pants and gave her what she was silently begging him for.

Her head on his chest, she looked up at him with unfocused gray eyes, her nostrils flaring with heavy breaths, and her wet lips parted.

He’d taken two bullets because of this bitch. If tonight ended the way he wanted it to, Preacher was going to bury him. He should care about that. His kids needed their father, and his MC needed their president. He had business that needed getting done, and he sure as f*ck wasn’t ready to kick it quite yet.

He should care about all that shit. But he didn’t. And because he didn’t—because he wanted her so f*cking bad, he could taste the need and feel it in his gut like a live wire—he brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her hard and fast, still thrusting his fingers in and out of her, swallowing her cries as bodies pressed up against them, shoving them back and forth to the rhythm of the bass pounding in his ears.

? ? ?

It was pouring out, we were soaking wet, and the alleyway smelled like a month’s worth of old garbage. Deuce was fumbling with his jeans, and I had completely lost my mind. I was frantic, crawling up his big, hard body like a sex-starved spider monkey in heat, and kissing him, giving as good as I was getting. Every kiss was full of hot, wet tongue—sometimes hit, sometimes miss. Teeth were clacking together, lips were bitten, and noses were getting in the way. I mauled him, not caring where his or my mouth was landing or what part of his face I was kissing, licking, or biting. His cheeks, his forehead, his chin, his neck—they were all fair game. His hands were full of my ass, my hands were full of his hair, and our mouths were full of each other. I had no idea where my clothing had gone. And I didn’t care.

I wanted this man inside of me—so far inside of me that he wouldn’t ever be able to leave.

“Gimme what I need, baby. Gimme that sweet * I been dreamin’ ’bout.”

Oh God.

I didn’t think it was possible to want him any more than I already did. But he’d just proven me wrong.

“Please, please, just f*cking take it,” I mumbled, desperate for more of him.

Staring into each other’s eyes—breathing heavily while rain sluiced down in sheets between us, over us, everywhere—he started pushing inside of me.

“Oh, f*ck yeah,” he breathed. “You’re so f*ckin’ wet. You f*ckin’ want this bad, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I whimpered.

“Yeah, you do,” he grunted and pushed harder. “Fuckin’ tight, baby, you’re so f*ckin’ tight.”

There was a reason for that. A reason he was going to find out in about two-point-five seconds.

“Give it up, Eva, f*ckin’ open for me.” Growing impatient, he gripped my backside and pulled me down as he slammed up into me. I cried out, and he froze. Just went statue still.