Consumed (Devoured, #2)(18)

God, that man and those eyes.

He’s wearing destroyed jeans and an olive green T-shirt that show off the green flecks in his eyes. His muscular arms hang relaxed by his side, but when he comes close enough for me to breathe in the clean, airy scent of his cologne, I notice that he’s worrying something between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. I squint down at it as the toes of his Converse brush up against my ballet flats.

“Well f*ck, Sienna. Looks like you’re more interested in my hands than my face.” But he opens his palm, holding it six inches from my face. My throat constricts when I realize what he’s holding.

It’s a guitar pick.

Holy hell.

“You’re grinding your teeth.” The volume of his voice is barely above a whisper and yet so powerful. “The things I want to do to you for that.”

Dragging my gaze up to meet his amused expression, I cross my arms over my breasts and rock back on the balls of my feet. “I almost feel you’re holding that just so I’ll do it.” He gives me a noncommittal shrug, and I run my tongue over my teeth. “I thought you said a driver was—”

He interrupts me mid-sentence by jerking me to him. I gasp, and no surprise, he smirks. “Did you really think I’d send a driver to get you? Did you really think I’d forget the exact moment you were due to arrive, Sienna?” He moves the tip of his guitar pick along my back, tracing the outline of the lacy bra through my shirt. “I’ll deal with any type of airport bullshit just to get to you first.”

“Suck up,” I say, glaring up at him. He slides the guitar pick across my shoulder blades, a look of sheer satisfaction taking over his face when my body curves against the contours of his. “But, I’m glad you did, I wanted to strangle you when you sent that text.”

He responds by dipping the pick dangerously low, tracing it along the deep-V of my white and yellow peplum blouse. “Did you just squeal?”

He would try to screw with my head, with my body, right in the middle of the freaking LAX. “If you’re going to kiss me, you should probably do it now before you draw a crowd,” I say.

“Oh, I’m not going to kiss you.” He backs away from me, and when he notices the look of disappointment, and surprise, on my face, he brushes his thumb over my slightly parted lips. “When I kiss you, I’m going to be the only thing on your mind. Not what’s running through the mind of everyone walking past us, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Smart ass.” Grinning, he stuffs the guitar pick into the back pocket of his jeans and examines my luggage. “You packed light.” He grabs the handles of my bag and carry-on in either of his large hands. “I expected there to be at least one more of these.” He jiggles the larger bag, and I laugh.

“I left a bag of shoes at Gram’s. Don’t worry, it’s carry-on size.” Though judging from what he just told me, he doesn’t really care how many bags I bring along for this ride. He gestures his head to the left of us, and I fall in step beside of him toward short-term parking. I resist the urge to brush hair away from his face. “My brother’s going to send them as soon as I know where we’ll be stopping for our first . . . off-night.”

Lucas gives me a sideways glance. “Off-night?”

“Not a rocker,” I remind him.

I hold one of the double glass doors open for him. Unexpectedly, he stops for a moment to bend his head to mine. He keeps his word by not kissing me, but murmurs against my lips, “Go ahead and give him my address. If he gets it out today, you’ll have them before we take off Saturday morning. Or I’ll just buy you new ones.” When I press my lips together and shake my head, he laughs and adds, “And I’m glad you’re not a rocker. Trust me, I like you better doing clothes.”

No, you like me better without clothes, I think, but I don’t say that as I follow him out to the parking lot to a black Jeep. It’s one of the enormous Wranglers with all the options, including incredibly high suspension. Even though I’m freakishly tall, it takes some effort getting in. He comes around before I close the passenger door.

“So about that kiss?” For once, I could care less where my voice has gone.

“Patience is a beautiful thing,” says the man with absolutely none to speak of. He pulls my fingers to his mouth, pressing them flat against his full lips, kissing the pads of my fingers. Each tiny movement of his mouth is delicate, sensual, and need flames through my body. “Let’s go home.”

He keeps his eyes glued to the road as he speeds down streets that I’ve driven many times myself, and others—the wealthier parts of the city—that I’ve rarely been in. When we pass a luxury condo community that I vividly remember seeing the only other time he brought me to his place, I release a little sigh.

This gets his attention. He turns his head slightly toward me, his eyebrow raised.

“What ever happened to the Maserati?” I ask.

“What?”

“The blue car you picked me up in that one time in? That’s what it was, right?”

He refocuses his gaze on the road, and I slide closer to him to see that he’s wearing the tiniest smile. “I remember it, just surprised that you do. Sold it a year and a half ago. It . . . wasn’t for me.” He turns left onto a street that’s a half a mile from his gated community. “Anything else?”